Not long after the Ex and I moved into the house, almost 6 years ago, we bought a ridiculously expensive mattress. It wasn’t exactly the one I wanted, but compromise is required in life and he liked a softer mattress than I do. I think he wanted an even softer one and likely compromised as well. I don’t know for sure. Whatever, my body was never really thrilled with it. Lately, it seemed to be getting worse and worse.

Now, I’m 60 pushing 61, so some of this may just be my old body. I mean, as you get older, things generally hurt more. But I’m very active and flexible and the discomfort seems excessive, even with the age. And I can take discomfort; the lack of sleep, though, not so much.

I knew years ago that my body didn’t like the mattress, but mostly I thought that was about my body, not the mattress. For example, I could not sleep on it leading up to and just after I had my gnarly butt surgery¹². I had to sleep on the sofa–the bed hurt way too much. But after I healed up I was able to move back onto the bed.

The mattress seemed to have it out for me; there was something about trying to get the fitted sheet on it that was always extra. The mattress was heavy and deep–trying to pick up the corner was way more difficult than it should have been. I could never change the sheets, even with the Ex helping, without frustration and usually swearing. Sometimes broken nails, even. It was like the damn thing hated me.

When the Ex’ trauma made his sleep/bedroom needs more complicated³, I moved into the other bedroom in an attempt to help things–first on a sofa in there and then we bought a daybed to replace the sofa. I slept much better on those than I had on our bed. I thought much of that was the emotional stuff⁴ but, in hindsight, maybe not as much as I thought.

When he moved out and left the bed and its mattress, ironically complaining about the mattress near the end, too, I moved back into the bedroom. I cleaned everything and saged the room, the latter just to be on the safe side. I bought new sheets. I moved things on the shelves and made it more like me. And I tried to sleep on the now-my-side of the bed.

It was definitely wonky. What had been his side⁵ had become more compressed and definitely sloped⁶. I tried spinning the mattress 180º which was better, but still not great. Then I did a temporary fix with a plywood board from the garage/studio that fit perfectly. That did help for a while, but it wasn’t long before I recognized that I was doing that thing where I have to essentially lift my body up entirely with my arms, as if I am trying to levitate, just in order to roll over. No bueno.

So, eight months later, I finally bit the bullet last weekend and purchased a new mattress. A cheap(ish) Ikea one…and firm. In fact, I read several posts from people who said it was too hard, which encouraged the purchase. As I can sleep on a hardwood floor (and like it), it seemed like a good option. To be safe, I went to the store and tried it out, and others…it felt great. I placed the order and awaited the delivery.

It arrived yesterday, late afternoon, “vacuum” packed into a plastic wrap tube. The delivery guy kindly brought it into the living room for me and it stayed there overnight. It was too late to do the hard work of moving the old mattress off the platform bed and into the other bedroom⁷; plus the new mattress needed time to expand once on the bed. So there it sat.

Ikea brilliantly put two thick velcro straps on the tube, with handles, so I could pick up the 58+ pound thing pretty easily and move it from there into the dining room temporarily (it was blocking my morning yoga spot where it was). And later move it onto the bed.

After my morning exercise and first espresso today, it was time to do the swap. First, I had to move the old mattress. The bedroom is small so there isn’t a ton of room to maneuver but I got the thing up and on its side, at the foot of the bed. Then I had to push/drag it down the very short hall and into the other bedroom. A bit of a trick without knocking all the art off the walls.

It weighs a lot more than the new one (it’s over 80 pounds) but, as long as I was on the hardwood floors, I could slide it easily. Whenever I hit a rug, though, some lifting was required. Still, I managed to get it all the way and lean it against the daybed in the other room, without a serious problem. I’m very glad I’ve been doing strength work in my workouts. I suspect I’ll feel it tomorrow, still.

After, I went back into the bedroom and looked at the bed, sans mattress. It is a platform with slats only in the center (you can kind of see that from the discoloration on the underside of the old mattress in the photo above) and drawers covered by solid wood on both sides. In the open space under the slats was a ton of dog fur. And between the head of the bed and the wall? Even more. I was shocked because I had cleaned after Ex left and found a ton of hair then! These spaces, though, they were unreachable with a mattress on the bed. So, I got the vacuum out, and a microfiber cloth, and a long-handled duster, and started cleaning.

Then, I carried in the new mattress, put it on the now very clean bed, and gingerly sliced open the plastic to release the roll. It flopped open and looked tiny. Thin, I mean. Of course, this was partially because it was so flat from its packing, but even when expanded it will be much thinner than the old one. At first, though, it looked really sad.

Anyway, since I had to lower them to match the new bed height, I gave the wall-mounted “tables” on either side of the bed and the basket/drawers under them a good cleaning, too. They weren’t so bad (they do get cleaned regularly). I lowered them, a lot, put the lamps and everything back on them, and then I left the bed unmade to off-gas and get flatter… and fatter.

This afternoon, it looked much better–still thinner than the old one of course, but not teeny like it had been. So, I made the bed. It was… easy! I whipped on that fitted sheet like it was nothing. Wow. And, when the bed was made I stepped back and looked. With everything lower, the room looks much larger. Much. It feels airier. Lighter. Less burdened somehow. I’d post a photo but it just doesn’t show in 2D.

I’m hopeful. I’ve lain on the bed a couple of times and it feels better. I’m looking forward to sleeping on it tonight. Honestly, that’s a big change: I’ve been kind of dreading going to bed the past couple of weeks. We’ll see what Ruthie thinks, too, especially as the lower height should make her 4:30a pawing at the window blind more difficult. Hopefully.

I had considered swapping bedrooms entirely with this change, a clean break if you will, but I don’t think I will. The rooms are the same size but the orientation is 90º different and, with an additional door, fitting things in the other bedroom would probably look and feel more closed in. Perhaps the change of the mattress will do the trick of not only of reducing my physical discomfort, please oh please, but of making the room more me.

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1. I had a nasty fistula with complications and had to have pretty extensive butt surgery. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone but a nazi. Luckily, my doc was great and I’m fine now. ↩︎
2. That is, I couldn’t sleep on it before the surgery or after the operative pain meds (i.e., fentanyl) wore off. When I got home post-op, I crashed hard on the bed and could not feel anything for a while. I was not so much sleeping as unconscious. I have no idea why anyone would ever want to use fentanyl recreationally; it was scary. Anyway, once I woke up and the effects faded, I had to decamp to the sofa. ↩︎
3. Our needs didn’t match up well then, e.g., I go to bed early and need quiet and darkness, he needed to stay up late, have the curtains open, and use his devices. ↩︎
4. Without going into detail, watching someone you love suffer the effects of profound trauma is horrible; trying to sleep next to someone with those issues is difficult. ↩︎
5. He slept on the same side of the bed as I did, pre-relationship, so I let him keep it when we got together–once he was gone, I moved back over. ↩︎
6. I think the Ex spent a lot of time sitting on the side of the bed, legs over the side I mean, which wore it down. I would see him in that position often, as I passed the room. ↩︎
7. Just in case the new mattress sucks and needs to be returned, I’m keeping the old one for a bit. ↩︎

Being single again means, if I choose, dating again. I’m about a 9.5 out of 10 on the hetero scale¹ so that means dating men. At first I was loathe to get back out there because I was just too wounded by the breakup of my last relationship. But, as I’m healing, I’ve started dipping my toe into the online/app dating world. Unfortunately, I have come to recognize that my chances of finding an equal partner, at least on those tools, are virtually nil. The patriarchy is strong out there.

Dating has always been difficult for me…well, when I am fully me that is. It’s not that I’m repulsive or anything. I’m actually relatively attractive physically, even as I age. No, the “problem” is that I’m really smart, very (very) educated, and self-sufficient. That is an unwanted combo. Men feel threatened; I have been told that I am “intimidating.” My most recent ex, who was arguably the least misogynistic of all the men I have ever been in a relationship with, said more than once things like that he resented me fixing stuff myself (note: I really enjoy fixing things), like somehow that hurt him. Me being me just seems to be a problem for, well, them.

I have, thus, far too often softened myself and made other trade-offs. These start innocently enough, trying to be nice or less threatening at least. But really I was just playing the patriarchy’s game: don’t make the man feel anything that might be threatening to his manhood. I bought into the idea that it was me–I was the problem.

In the words of Monty Python: I got better.

And now, hope springs eternal, as they say, and so I have put myself out there on a couple of the apps. But I have done so with intention and clearly stating that I am a feminist. If I get into anything again it will be as me, not the patriarchy-friendly version.

Many men on these apps check the box for a “deep, meaningful, longterm relationship” but the way they present themselves, well, it doesn’t match up. They seem mostly to be interested in finding a world travel companion and/or someone who does the same physical activity things they do like ski, golf, or (gods forbid) play pickleball. The profiles are shockingly full of [fill in the sport] photos, or, worse their cars or (yikes) grandkids². The words are often sparse, vague, and shockingly often misspelled.

Some at least have the honesty to say they want someone to take care of them. These are men over 60 and they are still looking for a mommy. They need therapy, not a partner, and at least it’s damn easy to hit block on those. A few others say they want to take care of their partner which sounds okay, until you get to the possessive pronoun in their statement (i.e., “I take care of my woman”)³. Sigh…no thanks. And there are always just one or two who, frankly, I respect the most because they say that are not looking for anything serious and just want to hookup. Thanks for the honesty, my dudes.

What I don’t see in virtually everyone is evidence of much inner work. These guys aren’t talking about what touches them, what they really yearn for, what they are afraid of, what they offer emotionally. At best, some men use probably AI-generated text and throw out generically attractive terms like “values vulnerability” or “is emotionally intelligent.” Sadly, almost always, there will then be something that completely belies even that, like a picture of the man looking lecherous with bodacious (younger!) women or flashing bogus gang signs next to his Corvette. Again, they are over 60 and doing that shit. Peter Pan is on Viagra.

I will say that, so far, I have never seen a man display any form of the word patriarchy in his profile, like “I believe in dismantling the patriarchy,” but I’m sure it’s coming and it will almost as surely be disingenuous. Like the men who write that they “have learned from experience” don’t seem to mean “about myself and what I needed to work on” so much as “what I want in you and if you don’t match my imaginary list perfectly I’m out.” Or the politically conservative Buddhists (I’ve seen at least 2 of those and all I can think is how the fuck is that even possible?).

The hypocrisy on these apps is often off the scales: men demand a woman be in great shape while they can’t see their penis except in a mirror; they plea for “no baggage!” as if they haven’t ever had shit in their own lives; or they insist you bring “no drama” because, you know, it’s only okay for them to ever show anger.

Sigh.

Obviously, it’s been a struggle for me to even match up with anyone. While I’m not looking for perfect, of course, I know myself well enough to know that I have to be careful not to over compromise. When there aren’t a lot of fish in the sea, that’s an extra danger. Still, I have matched with a few and even had a couple of meet-dates. But that’s it. Nothing worth putting on makeup a second time.

It’s not that I didn’t get the feeling of fireworks or butterflies so I said “no” to a real date. Nope. What happened was that I felt like these men had no actual interest in who I was or what I thought. At these meetings they would talk, often quite a lot, but about themselves. It was quite rare for me to get a question about me⁴. I can’t tell you how many times, with all of these men, I offered a question that could easily have turned into an exchange of info (“What’s your favorite….?”) yet the follow-up (“And what’s yours?”) never came. I even had one man respond to almost all my direct questions with some form of “Guess!” like I’d ask “Where did you go to college?” and he’d say “You tell me…” with a smile as if he thought it fun or, worse, charming. Ugh. Awful.

I would love to find someone who wants to just be with me. Someone who will be himself and accept me for me; that is, someone who will love me for who I am, not what I do and, especially, not what I do for him. Someone who can be still with me; and breathe.

But I’m in no rush. I am most definitely not desperate, even with few fish in the sea.

Somehow, not being desperate seems to be another negative. Men, it seems, want women to be needy (but not too needy). They don’t recognize that is just another way of making the woman less than. If you think your partner must need you, then it’s not a partnership, it’s a control thing.

As a feminist in the hetero dating world, that is the biggest red flag of all.

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1. Sadly true, and I do mean sadly. I would love to be sexually attracted to humans other than men, but it just isn’t there. I personally see this as anecdotal evidence that sexuality is not a choice. ↩︎
2. Why anyone would put their grandchildren’s photos in a dating app, I have no idea. Of course I know many/most will be parents and probably grandparents, but why expose your progeny like that? I’m certainly never going to choose to reach out to a man because he has a photo of him hugging a kid–if anything, it gives me the ick. ↩︎
3. These same men also usually have the word “chivalrous” somewhere in their profile and are openly Christian. Yikes. ↩︎
4. Usually, when I did get some comment about me it wasn’t a question but was something like “I see you painted your toenails.” I have shown grace in not responding “Yeah, I paint my toenails for me; don’t get excited there, Sparky.” ↩︎

I love the 1939 film, The Women. I watched it again the other day and every time I do I see… more. It’s just one of those films.

It’s an amazing piece of history: the entire cast was female (not the crew and the animals, as is sometimes reported, though). And it’s surprisingly profound while, at the same time, hits every negative stereotype of women you can imagine: vanity, cattiness, money hunting, etc. Most of the characters in the film are society women, as they were called. In other words: rich broads either through marriage or inheritance (or both).

The fundamental point of the film is, however and perhaps surprisingly, that love requires superseding your ego. One might argue that a bit of unintended Buddhist philosophy sneaks in, exactly where you’d never expect to find it.

The basic plot is that the main character’s husband strays. She (Mary, played by Norma Shearer) finds out through the social grapevine and everyone’s favorite manicurist. The other woman, who works the perfume counter of a Sax-like department store, is a real siren (Crystal, played by Joan Crawford in full lower-class-hustler-trying-to-get-ahead-however-she-can form) looking for a sugar daddy. She (we learn) targeted Mary’s husband when he went to buy his wife some perfume for her birthday, and that he never stood a chance. Regardless of the circumstances, when Mary learns of the betrayal, she believes that the violation is so complete that the relationship must end.

However, before Mary actually ends her marriage, her mother learns from the same manicurist about the affair and gently confronts Mary. Mary tells Mom that she believed in her marriage and that its love was pure; now it is tainted, so it’s over. Most of all, she must end it because, as she says, “I have my pride.” There we see the ego, in opposition to love.

Mom has a fabulous scene here. She says that virtually all men cheat at some point and, when they do, it’s not because they don’t love their wives but rather because they lose themselves. Men, she asserts, don’t have the good sense to change their office or hair as women do. Instead, men look to see themselves as fresh and new in the eyes of someone new and younger. It isn’t love and it isn’t about the wife–it is the man’s ego (in opposition to love, again).

Mom even casually admits her (now dead) husband, Mary’s father, had an affair back in the day, shocking Mary. Mom points out that it isn’t love and that it will end, and likely soon. Mom also cautions that Mary needs to think about more than herself and her hurt pride, she has a daughter with her husband, and that must be considered. Mary opines that her daughter will appreciate her choice in time. Mom scoffs at that.

Mom closes her argument with a doozy: she says that ignoring the cheating is the only real sacrifice they, as super privileged women, have to make in life. Ooof! But accurate. Overall, she’s telling her daughter to feel hurt but, more importantly, to be compassionate to everyone involved (her kid and her husband, the latter in his own weakness) and to be grateful for the good things even with the bad things. To be less hooked by either. Middle path, for the win. Strong Buddhist vibes, Bodhisattva-Mom.

Mom ends her visit by asking Mary if she’s told her friends. Mary says that she is pretty sure they know anyway and Mom says that if she hasn’t told them that she knows, “Don’t. Don’t confide in your friends.” Mom points out that if Mary does, then her friends will, with best intentions usually, make sure that the marriage ends. She finishes with the great line, “I’m an old woman, I know my sex.” Then Mom manufactures a need for a trip to Bermuda for her health and gets Mary to go with.

Of course, Mom’s right. Mary should take the time to sit in the discomfort and decide more rationally how to respond rather than just react; to look at the situation from a more dispassionate perspective, not to be rash. To not stab herself with the second arrow[1]. And Mary does try this. She tries to go on as if nothing is wrong, to let the flirtation/cheating run its course and wait for the husband to stop (as it appears he is).

However, as her mother warned, it is listening to her friends that makes moving on impossible. First, they plant the seed by calling her on her trip to nudge her insecurities. Mary comes home early. However, things seem better with the husband after her return and Mary appears to be moving on.

Shortly, however, after the fashion show (oddly, a scene done in color in a rather surrealist manner), Sylvia (Mary’s friend and cousin) points out that Crystal is in the next dressing room. When Mary reacts just a little, the friends learn she does know about the affair and they (especially Sylvia) pounce, pushing her to action. Playing on her ego (pride) and her maternal instincts (telling her that her daughter and husband were seen with Crystal in the park while she was gone), they essentially force a confrontation with Crystal.

Mary can’t let herself lose face. She tells Crystal to back off; Crystal digs in. And, the genie cannot be put back in the bottle–the papers get a hold of the relatively minor incident and make it a much bigger deal. Mary’s pride takes another hit. Of course, she confronts her husband and it all goes south, according to the housemaid who reports on the fight to the cook. The marriage is over.

After settling things with her husband via his robotically efficient secretary (trope of the sexless working woman), and finally telling her daughter of the split (just as she is preparing to leave for the train station–perhaps as a sign she was hoping for a last second reprieve), she is off on a train to Reno to get her divorce.

One of Mary’s friends (played by Joan Fontaine, who is, in my opinion, the most annoying of the actresses in the film) suddenly leaves her husband and joins her on the train. He won’t let her spend her own (obviously inherited) money as it apparently emasculates him and, well, as she puts it she too has her pride. This woman, however, when in Reno, discovers she’s first-time pregnant. That changes everything. Of course, her husband wasn’t cheating on her so, in a way, it was easier for her to get over her pride and go back to him, which she does in a tearful phone call, meekly getting his permission at the end to reverse the long distance charges. Screw pride–she’s having a baby and loves her husband (whether he deserves it or not). She’s annoying, but she does show Mary that she can have the love she wants… if she lets go of her ego.

This all happens on the morning Mary’s divorce comes through. Another woman from the train to and the ranch in Reno, Miriam (fabulously played by Paulette Goddard), is a chorus girl (thus of a lower class) who is divorcing her “bum” of a husband to marry a wealthy man (Sylvia’s husband!). Miriam tells Mary she obviously is still in love with her husband and needs to tell him so. Miriam counsels Mary to call her man and say she’ll tear up the decree. She says Mary let her pride get in the way and she should have fought more for him, for them. Just as Mary realizes that Miriam is right, the phone rings and it is Mary’s now-ex-husband. Mary, smiling, responds to his unheard question about whether the decree was granted with a “Yes, but…” when he seemingly interrupts her. In the silence, Mary’s face becomes awash with sadness.

Of course, in the few hours since the divorce is granted, Mary’s now-ex has married Crystal (his own ego wouldn’t permit him to just shag her). Mary holds it together to congratulate him, then ends the call. Miriam can see what happened. Mary says, before collapsing into tears, “At least I have my pride.”

Time passes and the husband (Stephen) is miserable (his own doing for having married Crystal), Mary is brave-facing it through life; Sylvia has backed Crystal, feeling betrayed by Mary who made friends with Miriam before she knew about the husband; Crystal is cheating on Stephen, with another Reno-divorcee’s husband….basically, there is a shitton of second-arrow hell going on. But, of course, things work out in the end. Mary learns that Stephen is miserable, that Crystal is cheating, and she decided to enact a plan to win him back. Spoiler: she does.

The last line of the film seals the Buddhist-reading deal. Sylvia, Mary’s friend who has played on her ego the hardest throughout, tries to prevent the reconciliation between Mary and her ex. Sylvia reminds Mary about her pride as Mary is literally turning to go back to him. Mary, rejecting the intervention, responds that pride is something “a woman in love can’t afford.”

And there we have the deeper truth: true love requires a loss of pride, well, of ego. If you’re worried about how loving makes you look, to others, you aren’t really loving with your whole heart. If you are judging your partner, you are not really loving. If you are judging yourself, you are not really loving. Moreover, there is a difference between pride and self-respect. It takes the journey of the film to teach Mary that. If she had known that self-respect and pride aren’t synonymous, there would have been no story to tell here.

Mary’s story is a very Buddhist journey. It is all external at first, then she learns how to be quiet and observe. She learns about herself, good and bad, and her friends (same), and to accept all as they are, including her flawed husband and her flawed self. To be true to herself is to admit that she loves her husband, even as she hates what he did. She learns that she owes it to herself to honor that by reconciling, if she can. She even essentially jiu-jitsus Crystal and Sylvia into exposing Crystal’s infidelity and freeing Stephen to reconcile. Finally, she chooses, actively, to love–imperfectly but wholly.

I would argue that in so doing, she becomes a stronger human, and a more peaceful one. There is no more striving for the perfect marriage, not more seeing her husband or herself as ideals. They are simply humans with flaws (note: he is never portrayed as at all abusive, which is important in this context) who choose to love each other and do the work, together. A Buddhist love story.

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[1] The Buddha taught that life happens and painful things happen in that life, things out of our control–the first arrow. We get sick or someone is mean to us…first arrow stuff. If we react (“I’m an idiot for getting sick!” or “He’s an asshole for being mean to me!”) we usually make ourselves suffer more–like stabbing ourselves with a second arrow. We can control our responses to the first arrow stuff and not stab ourselves with the second.

Growing up as the only daughter/sister and being significantly younger than my brothers put me on my proverbial back foot. Having a shockingly sexist, primary parent, mother didn’t help (she made it clear my job was to cook and clean for the males, and then to take care of her when she got sick). I remember Mom saying to a friend of hers, “[Son 1] will be a great writer. [Son2] will be a great artist. Leslie will end up dancing on a table someplace.” Yeah. I was born, and definitely raised, for therapy.

The “artist” has been an insufferable know-it-all forever. I really have no idea how his wife has put up with that behavior, especially since he is often flat-out wrong. He will never admit it. He will simply pull a face that is shockingly similar to Hegseth’s sneer. Yikes. Regardless, he isn’t a total idiot and made it on Jeopardy! before I did.

When I made the show, I had one primary goal: to do better than he did. I mean, winning would be nice, but beating him was what I had to do. For me. He had humiliated me and been emotionally abusive to me since birth. If I did worse, he would wield it like a sabre. He was a cruel bully and to this day has never been held to account for his behavior, except by me (I have not been supported by my family in this). Back when I was going to go on Jeopardy!, though, I knew that doing better than he did would hurt his ego and, yeah, I wanted that.

I did do better than him. Substantially so. Actually, I did really well (18 right including one Daily Double, missed one; 94.7%) and would have won but for a poorly worded Final Jeopardy question. I even got invited back because of that bad FJ clue and did money-total-wise better the second time (16 right with 1 DD, 1 wrong; 94.1%) but I still came in 2nd to a machine of a player–she was, at the time, called the female Ken Jennings.

How did he do? He got 10 right and 6 wrong (62.5%) and did not even make it to Final Jeopardy.

The “great writer” never quite finished his BA. The “great artist” got his BFA but was not accepted to grad school (at Ohio State). Me? I was asked to apply to grad school (at Ohio State) and given a scholarship and TA-ship. I did my MA and all my PhD coursework (I got me too’ed and did not take my exams or write a dissertation). I was told I’d had the highest results of my class on the MA exams. Years later (after Jeopardy! actually), I got a full scholarship to law school.

After being convinced my whole life that I was the least smart of “the kids,” it has taken me until shockingly recently to realize I am, rather, not only the most educated, but also the smartest (and, not for nothing, the most physically active). Even writing any of that now is uncomfortable, but I believe it is true.

That said, I also have struggled the most both personally and professionally.

These things are not disconnected. Women are constantly downgraded in their own families and by society. In hetero relationships, when they are “good” relationships, we do more. Just one general example: our most loving partners regularly dump the mental load of life on us then don’t understand why were exhausted (and bitchy for it). In our careers, we don’t get respected or paid enough. We have to do much more than our male (especially white cis-het) counterparts to be seen as even close to being “equal.” It’s exhausting and infuriating.

I remember working for a small, struggling creative firm, and, as a part of my studio manager job (which, of course, also required me to answer the phones–I know, right?!), I figured out how to restructure it to be more profitable and run more smoothly. I reported my findings and plan to the owner who, like a day later, called an all-hands meeting and read the bullet points off, verbatim, except for one where he gave one of the male employees the strategic planning position I should have received. The owner never acknowledged that the plan was my work and then gave the undeserving male employee a big promotion and raise (that guy was already making much more than I did–I knew this because I also did the payroll). I was flabbergasted. When I asked after the meeting why he did that, the owner acted like he had thought up most of the plan and said “[Male employee] would have left if he didn’t get the position.” I replied that, after getting screwed like that, I was leaving, and I walked out right there and then. But I did so crying, shaking with tears–feeling undervalued and asking myself if I was being too…demanding?

In personal relationships, I’ve done back flips to help the men in my life achieve their goals, supported them in their struggles, and far too often paid more than my share just to make sure the men didn’t feel like I was taking advantage of them. I have not asked to have my needs met because when I did, I have been called “demanding,” or “dramatic,” etc. I have been physically and sexually assaulted, by partners and others. I have worked on relationships, alone in trying to make it better, more often that I like to admit (that is, the guys didn’t work to change their behavior to make things better, but I did).

And I am not at all unusual, as a woman, in any of that.

I was raised to devalue myself. To see myself as less than, simply because of my gender. To feel that I must be wrong if I think I am as smart as (forget about smarter!) than my brothers or co-workers; or that I was equally deserving of respect and support; or that I was upset that people in my family would not take sides, my side, when I told them of the abuse(s) I suffered. I accepted it all as the cost of being a part of whatever the tribe was (family, work, partnership).

It took me a lot of therapy to do better in my own head about all of that. I was lucky I could do that–so many women can’t access that kind of help. And all my Buddhist studies also helped. But I still have days where I struggle. De-programming is a lifetime of work. Fighting the patriarchy is an added burden. But I am… better.

I cannot stand being called “Les.” And I choose to pronounce my name with a voiced z-sound (lez-lee). I always have and never could explain why. Very recently I recognized that it may have been a subconscious way of saying something important:
I am not less.
And certainly not less than.

I was taking a pee when the white wainscoting in the bathroom bugged me, as it has before when I’ve been in that position. While mostly clean (I do keep a mostly clean house), the grooves that met the baseboard were holding onto just enough dirt to set my teeth on edge. As usual. However, also usually, by the time I’ve zipped up my jeans, I will have forgotten it. Not so today.

I went out to the studio and got a bucket, came in and dumped the last of my Pine Sol and warm water in it, grabbed one silicone scrubby glove (left hand because I am ambidextrous and scrub better leftie) and a microfiber cloth, and moved into the small bathroom, determined to get those grooves clean.

On my knees, I worked, and it looked better quickly. Still, I was not achieving the results I wanted. Then, I remembered an old toothbrush head I saved for scrubbing around faucets. I attacked again–toothbrush, scrubby glove, microfiber. That did the trick.

However, I had made a Clean Spot. Uh-oh.

A Clean Spot is dangerous–it’s a gateway drug for the perfectionist in me. It makes everything else look, well, maybe not dirty but certainly less clean. And I had the tools at the ready so I would just quickly wipe that one bit over there…after all, I was on my lunch break and had the time.

And, I was off. The wainscoting led to the decorative trim atop it. And the shelves, then the switch plates. That led to the door, and the jamb, which led to the floor, which led to the baseboards in the hallway just outside the bathroom. That led to the baseboards in the bedroom, which led to the window sills, which led to the wall switches, which led to every baseboard in the front of the house I could wipe down. Without being totally obsessive and moving all the furniture.

On my way out to the studio to dump the bucket, I gave the kitchen trashcan a good wipe. And the baseboards by the back door. It was as if I would not be deterred until the house smelled of Pine Sol throughout. But I got out the door, dumped the water in the industrial sink in the studio, and took off the glove as I walked back inside.

And immediately noticed I’d missed a spot.

Sunday, at sangha, we were discussing the word “present” in the Heart Sutra. The discussion evolved into people talking about how for them being present meant having gratitude for their past suffering or how hard it was to be present when there are so many demands on our time. Present was an oddly complex word. It surprised me, the range of personal definitions.

For me, present means not holding on to anything–fully letting go in the moment–with the knowledge that every moment is the present and everything is impermanent and these two concepts exist at the same time. Being present is recognizing the stream of everything and letting it flow over. When I was a kid, we used to make flicker pads–pads of paper with drawings that were a hair different from the one before and after, such that when you flipped the pages, the images became animation. Being present is seeing each still as it is AND the animation.

This learning has helped me so very much. It has made me better at life. I mean, it has reduced suffering in my life. I’ll try to explain…

Life arises. Joy arises. Fear arises. Pain arises (physical or emotional, doesn’t matter). Knowing that I have no real control over what arises* and that whatever arises will move on is liberating. It also reduces anxiety which reduces pain and suffering, including physical pain.

(*I do have control over how I respond to what arises–I control my behavior–but what feeling or emotion arises is out of my, or anyone’s, control)

When I had gnarly butt surgery a couple of years ago, learning that it was necessary should have scared the hell out of me. The fear of possible surgery had kept me from getting the consultation, in fact, until I grew enough to accept that I had to face it. Whatever was happening, either it could be fixed/improved, or not. Better to find out.

In some ways, after getting the word that surgery was (very) necessary, I was indeed scared. But not catatonically so, which is how I would have been in my past. Mostly, I felt the relief of knowing something was going to be done and the years of pain I had been experiencing would likely end, or at least change and, probably, get better. There was something about choosing to trust my doc that permitted me to let go of a lot of the fear. The surgery was, literally, out of my control (I would be unconscious–he and his team would be slicing and dicing) so there was no use in worrying about it. Thus, I was scared and hopeful. At the same time. I could hold both. And I knew that, whatever the experience, it would be temporary.

After the surgery and as a part of the recovery, I had to undergo several in-office procedures that were quite painful. I approached them with meditative breathing and the knowledge that whatever pain there was would be short-lived–acute then fading–and that each was a step to healing. I let myself feel the pain (albeit usually with some pain killers on board) and told myself, “yup, that’s pain!” I didn’t try to hide from it but neither did I call it “my pain.” It was pain arising, and I knew that it would change, moment to moment. I got curious about the nature of the pain (“it’s sharp and radiates…” or “that feels like I’m clenching the muscle or something…”) and, I think, that curiosity enabled me to feel the shift to its lessening sooner.

My doctor said he thought I had incredible pain tolerance and that I dealt with it all super well. I’m not sure if it was tolerance so much as acceptance. I accepted that it was going to hurt, and hurt a lot (in fact, the first office procedure was done without meds so, um, boy howdy), but knew it would stop hurting, eventually if not sooner. I didn’t fight the pain and I didn’t make it mine. It was just pain arising and pain leaving. I attribute how well I handled the whole thing to that practice: observing and being curious.

This has happened with emotional pain as well. I remember when, a week before my first law school finals, I discovered my then-husband was cheating. The one thing I would have bet he would never do he was not only doing, he was doing in a particularly gross and personally (for me) demeaning way. I was floored and furious and hurt and…. and I had a choice to make: how to respond to all that was arising. I chose to let myself have a good cry (feel my feelings) and then chose to put aside responding, that is, dealing with my marriage, until after my exams. So, I told the hubs that I knew about it and we would have a conversation, later. I chose to focus on my studies.

It wasn’t like I didn’t feel hurt and angry, etc., but I didn’t live in that. I didn’t feed the monster. When the feelings would arise, and they did, I would ride the waves with compassion and the understanding that they would abate. Arise > have a cry/whatever > abatement > back to the books….rinse and repeat. It was a mix of Finding Nemo‘s Dory (“Just keep swimming”) and Scarlet O’Hara (“I can’t think about that now…I’ll think about that tomorrow”). And, of course, I got through it. All of it.

Before I started meditating and studying Buddhism, little things would completely flip me out. When you have trauma in your background, this is a pretty typical thing. Car problems? Illness? Getting cut off on the freeway? End of the world kind of emotional reactions. Now, when shit happens, and shit will always happen, it’s just not as big of a deal. In the shitshow that is life in Trumpistan (v 2.0), I’m extra thrilled I did the work to get here.

Of course, I still have (strong) feelings. But now I can observe them and not let them own me. I choose and, very importantly, I recognize that I have the ability (power, some might say) to choose how I respond to what arises. I can see things from a very different perspective now and even laugh in the darkest shit, particularly when I catch myself forgetting my ability and reacting instead of responding. I laugh at my own monkey brain. Then, I get back on the path and choose to do something wiser.

I am by no means enlightened. Or perfect. Or fixed. But I am better. I highly recommend it.

After months of eating keto to drop some fat, I am back to eating carbs. I’m trying not to go crazy and to keep my intake of calories something reasonable, but, yeah, carbs baby.

I don’t eat a lot of sweet stuff, so I’m lucky there. No cokes/sodas or big desserts. Dark chocolate–like a square from the Trader Joe’s Pound Plus bar will usually do the trick. On special occasions, cheesecake made with less sugar and more lemon, on a not cookie crust; or dark chocolate pot de crème.

Ice cream, though… now there is a weakness and one which I inherited from my father. Dad had ice cream every night, usually french vanilla, with a Peppridge Farm chocolate chip cookie. I skip the cookie but, damn, I can eat some ice cream. I got myself some today, on my way home after sangha. Rather than wait for after dinner, I politely but immediately weighed out a serving of the mint chocolate goodness. I ate it slowly, mindfully, and it was lovely.

When I decided to eat carbs again, the first thing I thought of was my sourdough bread. I took care of that with a bake on Friday. The second thing I thought of was, surprisingly, not ice cream but rather pizza. Homemade pizza. The ice cream I bought was an impulse. The pizza, a plan.

I bought mozzarella the last time I went to the grocery. When I was with the ex, I would get provolone too, but I didn’t want to have any of the cheese go to waste so I stuck with the Mozz and skipped the other.

I had everything else in house: 00 flour and yeast, tomato paste in the freezer, mushrooms and prosciutto from the last Costco trip, a can of artichoke hearts from Trader Joe’s from who knows how long ago in my cupboard, and arugula, a staple I always have.

I made the dough this morning. It spent the day doing its second proof in the fridge. In the early evening, as I took the rolling rack out of my insanely expensive and pretentious Wolf oven to pre-heat the stone on the lowest rack, it hit me: this is the first post-Ex pizza.

I keep finding firsts. I’m not sure I like them.

I would never have the Wolf if it weren’t for the Ex. The Viking that was in the house when we bought it was dying and when we replaced it he pushed for the high-end. And the griddle. And the pizza stone that came with a peel. All upgrades he decided we had to have. So, pizza makes me think of him.

Being a Type 1 diabetic, regular pizza was verbotten, but he loved it. I found a good replacement flour (King Arthur keto flour) and made a passable crust for him. So, the pizza stone (etc.) was for him. So was the whole very expensive stove and oven. But I certainly appreciated all of it.

I insisted on paying for half the cost. We got a Bosch fridge at the same time. The total was more than I made as a graduate student.. for a whole year. I was arguably ill spending that much money when we easily could have gotten away with spending 30% of that…or less. It was huge for me. But I couldn’t not share the cost. That is who I am.

To be clear: I love the stove. I’m glad he pushed for it. I never would have done it.

Anyway, today, I made the pizza and used the stone and the peel and, damn, the result was fabulous. Worth every carb.

One of the leftovers from the breakup is The Sofa.
I use caps because it is a thing.
A particular thing.
A thorn-in-my-side thing.

This is The Sofa, in situ.

I have never liked The Sofa. From the first time I went to the Ex’ condo, I didn’t like it. He had good taste in many things; but not The Sofa.

The Sofa is large, deep, conventional in design, and beige.

I am not a fan of beige.
Or conventional design.
Especially when it involves metal studs on beige upholstery.

The Sofa’s seat cushions are shockingly heavy, as if filled with very dense foam and buckshot. Worse, though, the back pillows are attached. Unremoveable. A spectacularly bad idea. How can anyone get them fluffed/shaped right that way? Answer: they can’t. I’ve used fists, a bat, everything I could think of and never could get them right.
The Sofa mocked my attempts.

The Sofa has surprisingly low feet. As Douglas Adams might have said, they are precisely of the height to have everything that falls bounce out of reach under The Sofa, but far too low to be able to get a broom or mop there to fetch the items lost.

The Sofa is, also, surprisingly uncomfortable. Sure, it seems cushy and supportive, but that is just to lull you in. In reality, it causes physical pain. The depth of the seating makes it impossible to sit on like a normal sofa, with your back on the back and your feet on the ground. You must stack pillows behind your back to get close. Whatever you try, your back will let you know how wrong your posture is in no time.

When we bought the house, we moved The Sofa from the condo, with us. It always felt too large for the house’s space. I mean, it fit (see above), but overwhelmed the living room with its beigeness and bulk. And improperly fluffed pillows.

The Ex and I looked for replacement sofas a few times. We could never agree on any. Cost, design, whatever… we just never could settle on one. I think he was insulted I didn’t like The Sofa and held it as a bit of a grudge. Even though he admitted the problems with The Sofa, he defended his purchase as though it was a personal attack to dislike the object: he spent a lot of money on The Sofa; it was made by a reputable company; the attached cushions were a good idea at the time…
Whatever, our inability to replace it was a thing and, arguably, a sign.

When the Ex left, surprisingly to me, he left The Sofa. He had his stated reasons. I think there were others, unsaid. I like to tell myself none of them were about me but, really, only he knows. I only know I wanted him to take the damn thing. He didn’t.

Of course, as in any cohabitational breakup, the divvying up of stuff meant I had to buy a lot of things to replace those that went with him. Some things were more urgently needed, not just wanted; replacing The Sofa was back-burnered to economize. I told myself I could live with it. Better a bad Sofa than none.

I have rued that choice. In fact, since he left just over six months ago, every time I have plopped down to watch TV I have been reminded how uncomfortable The Sofa is. And of him. My back has ached, as did my heart. I groaned every time I stood up from sitting on it and which pain caused that, I’m not so sure. It was a far greater symbol of him and the us that no longer was than I knew, or wanted to admit.

This morning, it has come to an end. Our lovely neighborhood junk hauler man, his wife, and I hefted that thing out of the house and down the front stairs to his truck. It weighed a ton, even without being a sleeper; but I squat-lifted one end like someone much younger than my 60.5 years. I owe thanks to the Canadian whose workouts I have been doing; but I think my strength was mostly fueled by the deep desire to get the thing out.

Now, it is gone.
I paid the hauler more than he asked to remove it; it meant that much to get it out.

I have since swept and mopped the floor, and wiped down the baseboards and wall, in large part to purge the space.

I may even burn some sage, just to be on the safe side, especially since I kept The Sofa’s two beige throw pillows. They were the only thing that didn’t suck about The Sofa, except for their color, which does suck.

But I will re-cover them in a brighter color (blue!) and use them on my new, smaller, simpler orange sofa, delivered later today.

———-
Update: delivery delayed. Oh well.

For the third time in this second Trump administration, the nation protested. I attended the downtown San Diego protest, as I have the other 2. The first one I was still with my Ex and we went together; the last two, I have gone solo.

Last time, my first solo, brought me to tears. It took place shortly after he (finally) moved out and I was still fresh in the heartbreak. By turns, I was also more than a little furious that he had left me alone in this shitshow of a Trump-run USA. Even when things were difficult, just knowing I wasn’t alone made a difference; now, I was alone. At No Kings 2, I saw so many couples, leaning on each other emotionally. I was surrounded by people, and yet so very alone. I ached, in that sea of people. Luckily, dark sunglasses hide tears and yelling chants hides breaks in the voice. I don’t think I spoke directly to anyone. Somehow, I couldn’t.

Yesterday, again, I was solo. However, over the months since NK2, I had done a lot of healing so I wasn’t thinking about him… well, not much. Instead, I was happily looking at people and their signs, giving out compliments and small talk. Just being glad I could participate. I was proud of my fellow San Diegans.

Shortly after arriving at the start location, on the side of the county building that had been dedicated by FDR, and in a sea of people, I ran into a neighbor! She and her partner (wife?) were there with friends (mostly, recently retired science teachers) and they encouraged me to join them. I did for a while, until the sun got to be too much for me (I need to be in the shade more), but while with them I so appreciated being with a group of opinionated and smart women.

Both before and after that, I talked to strangers. I laughed with others waiting at crosswalks, walking to the location from where I parked my Triumph. I shared standing spots and laughs with a couple of old queer punks and a different, mixed-race group of slightly younger gay men (we all had the sense to wait in the shade). We were all of the same tribe, no matter how different our lives may be.

It was a very different experience than the last. When I did think of the Ex, it was to wonder if he had bothered to go to a march, wherever he was. My money is on probably not, but it’s close because he did care about what was happening in the USA. But he was also in a very dark place when he left, so maybe he just couldn’t join the protests. So, I sent him good thoughts then got on with my own participation, being present with the crowd around me.

Later, as I made my way back to my motorcycle for the ride home, it hit me: while once again I was solo, I was so not alone.

I wanted to become a lawyer for years before I could make it happen. In fact, I took the LSATs three times–not because my scores were bad but because they expire after 5 years and I couldn’t afford law school, until I could. I finally got a full scholarship, including books, and had some savings and the financial backing of my then-husband to go. After the marriage blew up at the end of my first semester, I negotiated to have the financial ability to not work at all my first year (a requirement of the scholarship and the school) and very little after that, until I took the bar.

I also had to be very near the top of my class to keep the scholarship. Grades in law school are competitive–the infamous bell curve–so this meant doing the academic work. After my first semester, it seemed unlikely I would be able to keep the scholarship as I had only done okay grade-wise (did I mention the marriage blew up…yeah, a week before my first final); but, somehow, I did the virtually impossible in my second semester and saved it.

Anyway, I loved law school. Apparently that is unusual. But, for me, it was heaven. Hard work, sure, but fascinating and the kind of work that I truly enjoy. Even with all the hiccups I just mentioned, I was happy…more than. I felt like I had found my place in the world. And I looked forward to becoming a licensed attorney.

Before I graduated, my ex-husband lost his mind and sued to overturn our financial arrangement. Of course, I couldn’t afford to hire an attorney so I represented myself…and won (FWIW, the ex’ attorney was an idiot whom he should have sued for malpractice). The judge was kind in her ruling, complimenting my work and wishing me well on my bar exam.

I passed the then 3-day California Bar on my first try (thank the gods, because it was not fun at all) and, after taking it, was more than completely broke. Actually, I had amassed a bit of credit card debt, to survive. But I had work as a paralegal so I chugged along as I waited for my results (and paid my debt). When I passed and took that oath, I felt the words in my bones. It was an honor and the culmination of literally decades of work and dreams.

I didn’t seek a high paying gig; rather I launched right in, representing artists and essentially working for myself in collaboration with other copyright attorneys. It was tight for a while and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, financially; but before too long I got to a comfortable enough income. Importantly, I never sold out. I never even took a case working to defend an infringer, even though that could easily have made me a lot more bank.

So, when I hear about these fuckers helping Trump by perverting the law, I get furious. How dare they! How can they! I mean, how can you throw away the learning, the idea of justice, the faith in the system, and all your ethics. How?!? And just for money/power? Infuriating!

I suspect for many of these lawyers, they didn’t have to struggle to go to law school. They came from money, in other words. Many didn’t really have to work for their degrees much less the jobs that followed, so they didn’t/don’t value it. For others, they sold out early to pay off their loans and make as much bank as possible. That shows a particular willingness to do whatever it takes to “win” and, again, certainly is not valuing the Law.

It simply maddens me. There are many lawyers like me–those who want to help people. Lots of us don’t do it for the money–we just want to make a living and do good. But a whole swath of the worst of the worst are now in power and supporting/enabling the downfall of our whole legal system. Everything we worked for. All for greed and power.

In the end, they will eat themselves. Until we get there, though, it’s hard to watch and live through.