If you invite me to a fireside chat and there is no fire, I will light one myself :)

Most people who know me well know how often I used to catch viruses. Like if someone whispered the word ‘virus’ within a 10km radius of me, I’d wake up sick three days later. But! I’m pleased to report that it’s been different lately. I don’t have Jesse/God-level immunity, but I’m not getting sick nearly as often as I used to. (Is it iron supplementation? Muscle mass? Maybelline? Misandry? Mayhaps all of the above?)

Anyway. I’m on day 3 of the first proper virus I’ve had since March, which is a pretty impressive run for me – especially because it’s winter, and I’ve been sharing air with large numbers of other humans in confined spaces more often than I have since before la pandémie, hon hon hon.

So I’ve been ✨resting✨ a lot which also means I’m ✨restless✨ (mentally). I’m reading, I’m scrolling (shut up!), I’ve spent hours trying to find a new bra online (kill me), I bought two new handbags (I’ll probably return one or both), and yesterday I watched a movie so excruciatingly pointless that I refuse to even say its name.

Today was fucking gorgeous – 15ºC and sunny – so I dragged my ass out and went with Jesse and Rigby for a walk. It was great. But now the last thing I want to do is stare at my little screen again, so I wrote a journal entry in my physical notebook, remembered that this blog exists, and now I’m staring at my medium screen and typing out this virus-addled bullshit.

Time to dig into Google Keep and rifle through my short-form notes for some BLOG CONTENT!

Here’s what we’ve got:

“Influx of red wattlebirds”

Uhhh, pretty sure I’ve already written about this in a previous post? I guess there are so many that I wrote it down again. And yes, at the time of writing this post, they’re still here.

“I’ve never been to a single fucking fireside chat that actually took place anywhere near a fucking fireplace so can we please use a different term for “people talking” thanks”

Oh… oh. This one was going to be its own entire post. The title was going to be “If you invite me to a fireside chat and there is no fire, I will light one myself” but I’m too tired to write it and I’m not funny or smart enough to pull it off anyway. So this is all you get.

“Fruit salad on a day warm enough to eat it outside”

Ha, this must have been before the real winter cold hit… I can’t even fathom experiencing this right now.

“Black tea weather, finally”

Aaaaand there we go. This must have been when the cold finally locked in.

“2019 Temperanillo”

Great note, Erica. So informative, so evocative. I guess I must have had a good wine at some point? I should probably add more detail next time I drink something nice. Um, I discovered martinis this year. Dirty ones are good. Four Pillars Olive gin is REALLY good. Yum yum yum.

“Drag artists/men singing ‘Poor Unfortunate Souls’ from The Little Mermaid”

Ok, I’ve never been a big fan of The Little Mermaid (I’m a Lion King and Aladdin gal) but the song ‘Poor Unfortunate Souls’ objectively rips. Watch Drew Sarich, Tituss Burgess, and/or Ginger Minj belt this classic, and thank me later.

“All the times we made eye contact will never be enough”

I love Jesse so much that I will pull out my phone and use up precious battery power to tippy tap out sentences this objectively ridiculous. However, since I’ve decided to fully embrace being earnest and open (and therefore, cringe), you get to suffer through reading it.

Sorry! Love is gross! May everyone feel like this about someone else at least once in their lives! It’s pretty good!!!!! But it also makes you think/say/write shit like this!!

“One of life’s greatest pleasures: someone sneezing so loudly in a car with open windows as they drive past you, that not only do you hear it clearly, but you also experience a mild Doppler effect”

This was from today. A man sneezed really loudly in the distance (not in a car), and it reminded me of the 2-3 times that the above has happened to me, and how awe-inspiring I find this extremely niche auditory experience.

“Cuddling a 14 year old dog on the last day of her life in the sun”

Also from today: On our walk, we stumbled across a woman with her three kids and their Staffordshire Terrier. We leashed Rigby, because the woman warned us that the dog was old and on a lot of very strong painkillers – so, despite normally being dog-friendly, she wasn’t sure how she’d react in that moment.

With permission, I knelt a few feet away to see if she’d approach me. She was all over me in seconds. The drugs were working – despite her limp, she was happy, wagging, keen for a cuddle. I took in her beautiful eyes, her sweet Staffy smile, the white fur around her muzzle, just like Rigby’s.

The woman said that they wanted to give her a “perfect last day in the sun”. Something was very wrong with one of her legs, and because of her advanced age, the tests and surgeries likely required to diagnose and treat it would have been too hard on her old body.

“She’s had a really good life”, the mom said.

“I bet she has”, I replied.

Still kneeling in the wet grass, I looked into the dog’s eyes, told her she was a good girl, and meant it.

Ten minutes later, I watched Rigby bounding off-leash at full speed, mouth open wide, blissful. Jesse and I have both noticed for years now that he enjoys walks with either of us, but when the three of us are all together, he’s different. Happier, more content.

He’s 12 now, and he has arthritis in one of his shoulders. These days, we pick up and lower him out of the car to reduce impact on the affected joint. When he’s on NSAIDs, he’s totally normal, and still easily capable of 5-6km hikes. We don’t push him too hard (long gone are the days of his Pacific Northwest 20km hikes), but we’re still trying to keep him moving as much as we can.

Senior dogs radiate poignant energy. At all stages of life, dogs are a forcing function to drop us into the present moment; that (and unconditional love) are their gifts to us. When they’re older, the nature of that mindfulness shifts, slows. Lying in the sun, gazing into the trees, savoring their food, not immediately chasing after every moving thing they see… they’re models of patience, resilience, and quiet, slow pleasure.

We’ve had 12 years with Rigby, and we can see it, feel it, in his eyes. We know him, and he knows us. We’ve still got plenty of time with him to go, but watching his fur go white and his pace wind down invites a totally new kind of love and reflection.

“Get it right or be expressive???”

For the last 5-6 weeks, once or twice a week after work, I’ve been traveling ~40 minutes each way to do adult ballet classes. Sometimes I stick around and do two back-to-back classes – 3 hours straight of dancing. I didn’t realize how much I needed it, or how much I would love it.

I credit so, so much of my current health to lifting – and I won’t ever stop doing it. But I now have another movement practice in my routine. One that works my body and my brain equally, while allowing me to express myself emotionally, musically.

A few weeks ago I had to hold back tears while watching the other half of my class do adagio in the center. The music was moving, and I suddenly realized where I was, and what I was doing: I was standing in a ballet studio, in my ballet shoes, tights, leotard, and skirt. Sweaty. Marking the combination with my hands. I felt like I’d come home.

Above all, I wasn’t in pain, or struggling the way I struggled when I did casual ballet classes almost a decade ago in San Francisco. My health has changed so dramatically in the last 5 years that this time, I’m having fun and seeing measurable progress every week.

But every class I fight the same battle in my head: get it right and push for perfect technique, or let go and just express myself. I know the sweet spot lies somewhere in the middle, but the rigor of my past training and my history of teaching means that once I’m in front of a mirror, I’m constantly self-correcting; sometimes at the expense of artistic expression.

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve decided to lean in to that battle, but to pick and choose my moments. In some classes I’ll stare myself down in the mirror during barre, trying to nail technique, then I’ll play around in the center, just dancing. In other classes I’ll do the reverse: hide from my reflection during barre, overextend my arms, pretend I’m Vaganova-trained instead of RAD-trained… then stand front and center for the rest of class, watching myself, pushing for improvement in every moment.

It’s been the best kind of hard. The time commitment means that I’ve dropped some of my other hobbies, but I’m fine with that. I feel so grateful to be 41, injury-free, and able to do classes that I’m going to do it for as long as I possibly can.

(I ain’t touching pointe shoes ever again, though. Fuck that noise.)

I’ve been very slack with photos lately. I have a roll of film to be developed from a while back, so I’m sure there will be an influx once that happens.

Until then:

ok love you bye