Original Spinster

She rides a bicycle probably everywhere, year round (check), she has impeccable posture (check), she appreciates a smartly tailored outfit (check), she dons an appropriate hat (check), she wears a frown as tightly knit as her brow (check), she can’t wait to steal happiness, joy, love, and hope from anyone engaging in said activities around her, especially the young and innocent…Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Here’s where I disagree completely with the days of yore concept of a Spinster’s attitude. I believe very strongly in love. In fact, I’ll say it, I’ll proclaim it: I love love! I think it’s a powerful emotion to be enjoyed, respected, honored, and cherished. I have felt it deeply on many levels and am grateful for every moment, no matter the outcome. What music would I listen to and be moved to tears by if I didn’t adore amour? What movies would I watch repeatedly if I did not smile slightly to myself when the sad, lonely girl montage ends and we find the male lead running through inclement weather to say “I choose you!” 50% of my library would have to be burned leaving nothing but books of science to gaze longingly at the empty shelves wishing for the other 50% that made them feel so cozy.

If I compare myself to the famed Miss Gulch, I note that my constant frown is more from the genetic coding that created my features, the corners of my mouth turn down instead of up. That’s all. Not out of practiced anger. Anyone who knows me will tell you, I spend most of my days laughing. My brow is often furrowed because I’m usually thinking intently. I do not scowl at those couples so clearly on date three en route to one of their abode to consumate who stop hurriedly walking only to make out under a street lamp. When I see one half reach over and take the other’s hand out a restaurant, I usually catch myself grinning. I am like a thief stealing sights of  the small behaviors of couples in public; the door being held open, the hand on the small of the back, the thumb rub, the hair smooth, the wink, the held gaze, the deep sigh and the fanny pat. If I’m at a bar with you, you’ll lose my attention if a couple begins to make out. It’s rare I relish anything as much as watching people who are so overwhelmed by lust, love, and infatuation (ok and booze) that they drop inhibition and public ceremony to suck face. I may not ever be one to do it, but I will watch it like a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon, for hours.

And so, I call today’s Spinster out. I say do not feel jaded and cynical about love. Celebrate it. Get to know it. I know too many single people who loathe going to weddings without a date, or worse yet, finding a date they are not even interested in being in the same room with let alone at a formal reception. I fail to see how someone else’s nuptials have anything to do with my relationship status. Just as no one is paying attention to my dress when a gal all dressed in white lace is running the show. It’s not my party. It’s a party I have RSVP’d to, so I better show up. I have been invited to take part in a celebration and so that is just what I do at a wedding. I always take a picture of the groom when he first sees his bride in her dress and mail the couple a copy. I exclaim “Mazel tov!” as loud as your Nana Roz. I am the first to join the dance floor, always engaging the fathers of the bride and groom. I hug the mothers tightly giving a genuine congratulations. I cry during the ceremony, I cry during the father/daughter and mother/son dances, I laugh and cry during the speeches, I raise my glass high during the toasts. I do NOT, however, make out with groomsmen. I do not search the wedding party and guest list for single studs. I sit where I’m assigned, I make conversation with the whole table and I enjoy myself, because this day is not about me, this day is about my friends and their commitment to each other. They have decided that regardless of their mate’s annoying habits, despite their paralyzing fear, their own parent’s failed marriages, their own lineage of broken hearts and disappointments, they are choosing each other and saying yes to love. What is not to enjoy in that? Facing fear and defeat and saying not us, not this time. We will be different. Our love is unique. And it is because they made it so.

Now, I haven’t been to a wedding with someone I love in, well, now that I think of it, I’ve never gone to a wedding with someone I loved. I usually go by myself, even when given a plus one option. What’s the point of bringing some “I don’t dance” heal along, I know I’ll have a good time by myself. A solid Spinster knows this of herself. I encourage the Spinster of today to renegotiate her view of those in love surrounding her in life. If we look at big books of religion and philosophy a common theme is repeated in that jealousy will get you no where but your own personal place of penance and pestilence. I’ve heard my friends who’ve gone through program repeat to no end “compare and despair.” It applies here perfectly. I can’t stress enough, a proper Spinster knows herself and her place in the world and is happy with both. It is a robust situation and need not tolerate jaded, scornful comments on other’s joy no matter how unstable it looks. No matter if you know one of them is unfaithful, no matter if one of them just propositioned you on the way to the bathroom. No matter if one of them just cried to expressing their total panic about never knowing another partner. No matter if they are getting married after only knowing each other for a few weeks. No matter your own personal experience with an attempt at love. Just as we cannot always expect others to understand our own choices in retirement, hobby obsession, continuing education and the like, it’s simply not fair to make that judgement on a love having not put on those insensible heals and walked around in them in frilly lingerie in front of that man your Aunt Linda refers to as a “greasy bo-hunk.”

While living in NYC and working as an actor it was unacceptable to look anything but camera ready and early to mid 20′s so the wild colors left but the maintainance of greys remained.  I paid top doller to have my hair dyed to match my natural color so that I could continue to audition for the role of the sassy brown-haired best friend to the gorgeous blonde ingenue. After leaving NYC and leaving a life as an actor I wasn’t really ready to let go of looking as close to mid (ahem) 20′s as I could.  Lucky for me, hairdressers and L.M.T’s have long participated in the olde timey times tradition of bartering. So, for the first 2.5 years after leaving the 5boros I was able to maintain my natural brown hair color with limited expense which was glorious. Entering into step 2 of continuing education took me out of being a practicing L.M.T which meant suddenly (gasp!) I had to start paying for my hair care.  This equates into me having to make the Duane Reed aisle 2 decision of “does this match my hair color?” while I pull down my locks to the box and attempt to obtain the perfect match.  It’s always a bit off.  Shocking, right?  Like recently when I guessed way too dark and ended up with something akin to Superman’s blue/black coloring.  Not a good look for an olive-skinned person, I just look sickly. And while it’s possible to meet that guy, that partner who loves your spirally, sharp grey hairs, it’s not a commonality in the dating pool. True, I dated a gentleman who once told me “don’t dye your hair on my account, the more grey hairs the sexier.”  Shut up, right? Trust that I tried my best to nail his foot to the floor and hang my spinster shawl in the back of the closet, but the shawl always prevails. And while I don’t want to encourage any good Spinster to date, let alone fall in love, because I mean, come on, retirement does not really include job searching, I will say that having a love that is unattainable, a love that you feel got you, yet you can’t get, really ties off that last stitch.

Again, digression, back to grooming. Let me be clear, I’m not letting my eyebrows grow into an unruly Frida Kahlo primrose path, my chin hairs are not for the billy-goat gruff brigade. I keep a close watch. I shave my legs, my armpits, et al. I keep a well-groomed self for, um, well, myself. I feel at my best in those grooming parameters. And while I’m technically still on the fence of Grey Gardens, hemming and hawing over whether or not to commit fully to my Spinster locks because I wonder, if muumuus and large wooden jewelry will be inevitably next, I think it’s something I can embrace. It could almost be considered retro. Think of the scene in “It’s a Wonderful Life” when George goes to find Mary and she’s an old maid about to close up the library, her hair is spindly under her hat, tucked messily behind the stems of her glasses. We know just by looking at her as she furtively glances around for predators and clutches her purse certain that any man who would approach her must surely be a thief or criminal, that she is in fact one hell of a Spinster. I may not be there yet, inside the grey gardens, but it’s a goal of mine. Accept those greys. Today’s spinster is different from Mary Hatch (olde maide name), she is not afraid of the world, she is not afraid of herself. Today’s spinster is happy alone and digs on herself like a well made breakfast sandwich. She feels no need to cover the signs of her aging because upon true acceptance, it makes no difference how old and how single she is currently.  Or how old she looks to her community. Maybe in six weeks when it’s time for me to make this decision again, I will find myself inside the garden gate.

I think accepting a true retirement is paramount to Spinsterdom.  But don’t think it’s just something you can do on any given Sunday, this is no easy task.  I admit freely, retirement was something I said flippantly at first.  ”I’m retiring!”  I declared it cavalierly like some sort of swashbuckling hero ripping a knife into a ship’s sail and careening down it, gathering up the damsel (which incidentally is me).  See the Sloth saving Chunk scene in The Goonies movie for imagery.  But within a few days of declaring it I was invited out by my favorite group of lesbians and while I felt that was the safest choice for a newly retired Spinster, there was a straight male friend in their group who I suddenly was batting eyelashes at.  Not exactly the maneuvers of a retired player.  I remember waiting in line for the bathroom when I realized what I was doing and I promptly gathered my shawl around me and left.  In hindsight it was a clear indication that I was not ready to quit yet.  Honestly I think it’s like quitting smoking, I think maybe there has to be a few attempts, maybe multiple, but like quitting smoking, it can only happen when the person is truly ready.  I wasn’t ready that last time.  Like I said, I was swept off my feet and in a full court press swoon about a month after that attempt at retirement.  While completely worth it, not the path to Spinstertown.

Here’s the hardest part of Spinsterdom, let’s just name it.  It’s not the what will I do with my time factor.  You will never not be busy.  Ever.  Even if you spend the rest of your life only going through pinster, the fb and online stalking your big ex, you will never, ever not be busy.  Even with the amount of time you might normally spend doting on a companion, laughing with them, cooking with them, rolling in the hay, trust you will fill your alone hours with ease.  You could work out 3 hours a day on top of your own work, on top of making beautiful food, on top of sports, on top of crafts, but you still may not feel at peace.  And for this I say retire.  The sooner you can accept full retirement the sooner you will feel content.  And when I say accept I mean true, deep in your heart, not even when you blink, not even if Dave Grohl, George Clooney or that one ex came a-calling, not even at Rainer Rilke’s 3am wake up call acceptance.  Like, the way I accept that I hate cooked carrots.  It becomes a given.  I never need to try them again.  I know they will always leave me with a headache.  The way I feel about stringy onions.  I don’t need to add them to a different dish to know that they will make me gag.  It’s just that simple and just that complicated.  I can’t even count how many times have I tried both of those food items only to experience a headache and a full gag reflex.  This kind of commitment is not for the faint of heartstrings.  Retirement requires closing down profiles on online dating accounts.  It means when standing in line at the local coffee shop, at the grocery store, at the local movie theater, there’s no side long glance at the handsome gentleman behind you.  It means when out with friends, simply being out with friends.  It means if you go to a coffee shop to read you better be doing it because you like the atmosphere and the joe because if you get approached you have to know how to be gracious and how to turn someone down.  I’ve considered putting a ring on my left hand, to appear legally unavailable but I think that’s cheating.  Like I said, the liberation is in the full commitment.  Knowing fully and deeply that I never have to wonder if he’ll call or if it’s ok for me to call him first  has allowed my heart to soar wide open.  It’s like being a teenager playing sports, there is no concern or even contemplation of getting hurt.  Ever.  I can safely go about my day and not feel the anxiety of being unsure if he is the one, or if he was and I somehow screwed it up.  In retirement, there are no screw ups, there is no questioning of when will I meet the right guy for me.  In retirement a Spinster can truly be free from that and know, she won’t meet the right guy.  The pressure is off.  Her life can truly be about her, not about the search for love.  Never again will you have to cry alone in your kitchen wondering how long it will be before you are over him because in retirement, it doesn’t matter how long it takes.  Eventually you will get over him.  That’s a fact.  And as long as you stay true to your new commitment, you can be grateful that you will never feel the pain of a broken heart again.

When I left Nannytown and started my travels toward Spinsterville, I left my dowels, tongue depressors, paints and craft paper behind.  So for my own adult adventures into the specific, challenging, and Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder traits I chose food.  For me getting engrossed in making an elaborate meal from soup to nuts is a good fit.  I love process, I love research, I love challenge, I love eating.  This year I finally tackled Boeuf Bourguignon, but in the past I’ve made cassoulet, mole, steak au poivre, flourless chocolate cakes, I’ve done 7 course meals for 18 and enjoyed every morsel (groan).  I relish when a recipe is more than 5 pages.  I devour feeling intimidated at the start of the day when I’m about to really dig into the multiple steps of a menu.

I like food because like crafts, in theory if you follow the steps it will come out beautifully, but that is just not the case.  There is something innate in the process.  I think in my case, it has a lot to do with the fact that I just want to eat good food all the time.  I’ll always choose that experience when I’m looking for something to do, let’s cook, let’s go out to eat, let’s go try the weird place with the good fish fry or the fancy pants restaurant with the seasonal menu.  But the point is, food, or rather cooking and baking for me, are a way to focus my energies and attention that could be otherwise thwarting the way of the Spinster.  If I wasn’t already prepping a celebration cake, 2 sides for my family’s meal and assisting a friend as she works her way through her own family holiday meal I might otherwise be letting my thoughts RSVP yes to a pity party invitation that I am alone for the holidays or worse yet I might be considering dating.  And we know, no self-respecting Spinster dates and certainly no one needs not to be a Sad Sally about her chosen path.  Being a Spinster does not mean a life of boredom, unfulfilled dreams or  weeping willow nights alone. In fact it is about the opposite; revel in who you are, be glad you are among the few that can be good company to yourself and enjoy your life without the hassle of compromise!

I’d like to elaborate as I often do on some of the aspects of cooking that I super-duper enjoy.  For starters, I love the structure of a recipe but stepping away from it is invigorating.  Taking a recipe, repeating it enough that I know how I want to tweak it, to maybe make it just that much better or sometimes recognizing the recipe I’ve been using is the best choice.  Speaking of recipes, any Spinster worth her salt is a reader and there are some cookbooks that read better than the Barnes & Noble top 10 staff picks.  Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking reads like a nerdy and quirky Harlequin romance novel.  She doesn’t just love the food, she adores it and she wants you to enjoy yourself in the kitchen the way she does.  The manner in which she describes prepping eggs is downright tawdry:  ”With a large table fork, beat the eggs only enough to blend the whites and yolks thoroughly.  From 30-40 vigorous strokes should be sufficient” (Child, J., & Beck, S., 1970, p. 128).  One of my cooking heros had the omelette recipe read at her wedding and I have to say it was some of the greatest relationship advice I’ve ever heard.  ”Learning to make a good omelette is entirely a matter a practice.  Do one after another  for groups of people every chance you get for several days, and even be willing to throw some away.  You should soon develop the art, as well as your own personal omelette style” (Child et al., 1970, p. 127).  Pick it up and you won’t be putting it down anytime soon.

If scholarly writing is more your style, think research, actually think lab research notebook from your favorite scientist, then look to Cook’s Illustrated.  The writers of this 1000 plus page heavy weight take a recipe, repeat it, perfect it, find the variations, label them and are accompanied by hand drawn images of very fine detail.  Open any page and read aloud and some of my cooking buddies will be asleep in the amount of time it takes to poach an egg in the microwave (it doesn’t work) but I do love them for the thorough attention to detail “So we set out to deal with each vegetable individually, hoping to maximize texture and flavor while minimizing the amount of oil”  (Galvin, L., & Klee, A., 2004, p. 164).  This is where I do my research.  Say I have a recipe I want to make, or something I’ve made a million times just from tasting something at a restaurant or reading a recipe once and never looking back, I will go to the Cook’s Illustrated manuscript to find out where the recipe originates, why it’s made the way it is and what is the best method for best flavor.

If it’s story, soul and a deep understanding of food I look to the great Edna Lewis.  She is the Zora Neale Hurston of cookbook writers.  When I first read Edna Lewis’ The Taste of Country Cooking (1976), I would find myself getting weepy over her prose.

Freetown was a beehive of activity, with everyone caring for crops of new animals, poultry, and garden, gathering dandelions and setting them to wine.  People also helped each other by trading seed, setting hens, and exchanging ideas as well.  Although this was a hectic time and visiting was put off for a calmer time of year, the neighbors still found time for unforgettable pleasantries.  I remember when I was very little, our neighbor Mrs. Towles came over one bright afternoon and invited me for tea as she often did.  As I walked along the path behind her, we came upon a nest of colored candy Easter eggs.  I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my five years of life.  I asked her how did she think they had gotten there, and she replied causally, “I guess the Easter Rabbit must have left them there for you.”

Come on!  How gorgeous is that?  I can completely picture Edna at age 5, I know what sweet Mrs. Towles is wearing, how sweet the tea is, and what the air smells like.  I love settling in with Edna, the picture of her on the cover of that book, she’s smiling back at me, she knows how much comfort and joy she can spread throughout my house with her smothered chicken.  These ladies are your friends, they are your constant companions and they will remain.  They will remain deep in my heart and I always look forward to sharing these recipes with my friends and family.  A good Spinster does not keep her knowledge locked up like her romantic life.  She shares it easily, compassionately, understanding that the person you may share your favorite recipe with, the love of your life, someone may take that love and change it and that is ok.

References:

Child, J., & Beck, S., (1970).  Mastering the art of french cooking, volume one.  New York, NY:  Alfred A. Knopf.

Galvin, L., & Klee, A., (2004).  The new best recipe.  Brookline, Massachusetts:  America’s Test Kitchen.

Lewis, E., (1976).  The taste of country cooking.  New York, NY:  Alfred A. Knopf.

]]> http://prettydresswithmuddyhands.wordpress.com/2011/12/21/step-4-you-had-me-at-duck-fat/feed/ 0 lex http://prettydresswithmuddyhands.wordpress.com/2011/12/15/lub-dub/ http://prettydresswithmuddyhands.wordpress.com/2011/12/15/lub-dub/#comments Thu, 15 Dec 2011 20:26:23 +0000 Alexis Croucher http://prettydresswithmuddyhands.wordpress.com/?p=137 ]]> About a year and a half ago I was fortunate enough to weasel my way into a human dissection class.  Technically I wasn’t supposed to be allowed into the class as I didn’t have the proper pre-requisites fulfilled.  I did, however, have a New York State’s professional license.  Being an L.M.T was my golden ticket into an anatomical playground.  I called him Joe, my cadaver, he was in his early 70s when he died and had a number of co-morbidities.  Primarily he suffered from Congestive Heart Failure.  This disease process presents in a number of ways but one of the most remarkable to those of us in the lab was the chronic back up of blood due to the decreased pumping ability of his heart.  In short, his organs were enormous, in fact three times the size of someone who does not suffer CHF.  Most of our hearts are around the size of our fists.  His was the size of Andre the Giant’s fist, maybe bigger.  His liver was so blood rich and heavy I had to use both hands and a good ole fashioned heave ho to remove it from his body.  His spleen was the size of my two fists side by side.  Normally it’s this tiny little nugget tucked into a pocket behind your stomach.  His bulged.  It protruded into his stomach and carved out a permanent alcove.  His gallbladder was so full of green bile it turned the surrounding tissue of his liver green.  The doctor who instructed me and had been leading cadaver labs for over 20 years had never seen anything like Joe and his enlarged organs.  We all had to take a section of the body to do a more detailed dissection and present the function and form to the class.  I got the major organs I just wrote about including his lungs which were small and black from years as a smoker and being pushed aside by his other blood engorged organs.  When it came to his heart (which appeared to have literally exploded on the operating table as most of the right atrium was missing and the remnants shredded) I remember constantly thinking about how here is a case where having a big heart is not a good thing really at all.  I hear people remark constantly about how someone has a big heart and isn’t that a lovely thing indeed.  ”She has such a big heart, she feels things deeply, yes, but look how much she gives.”  It’s considered a compliment to have a big heart.  Unless you’re Joe and it is most likely what killed him.

So when I removed his heart from the peritoneal cavity, I noted its weight and size.  I’ve seen human hearts before, it’s funny to me how much they do and do not look like the classic heart shape we have all come to know.  Dissecting this organ I got a real understanding of  what the big deal is about the heart.  Not only does it supply the body with blood but it has its own circulatory system.  It works both as a muscle and also has en entire electrical system.  Cool right?  Electricity.  In your body.  This is why we respond to defibrillation.  We jolt the heart, stop it and it resets.  Like unplugging your modem but better.  It makes a sound that is accepted among the science and medical community.  Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.  To put it simply, the lub is the atrial valves closing when the blood goes into the ventricles and the dub is the aortic valve closing when the blood exits the heart to go to the lungs for oxygenation.  Patrick Swayze described it in “Dirty Dancing” as “ga-gong, ga-gong.”  That part of the movie always embarrassed me.

Now, Joe’s heart had been through a lot of surgery.  I counted 4 bypasses.  When I cut open the atria and ventricles I found collected blood pooled at the bottom.  When I stuck my finger in the inferior vena cava I removed a clot the size of my thumb.  The walls on the left ventricle and atrium were four times as thick as the right.  While thicker walls on the left side by two times is common in all of us, in those with CHF it was something I had to see to comprehend the difference.  One of my favorite structures of the heart are the chordae tendinae.  Heart strings.  They pull the flaps closed on the valves that separate the chambers of the heart.  But we have them and they look like strings.  I literally pulled on Joe’s heart-strings.  I wondered how many times he had felt that when he was alive.  I wondered who came up with that phrase.  Was it an anatomist?  Did they know we have heart-strings?  I looked it up, an unremarkable finding to say the least.  Point being, here is this incredible anatomical structure that has to work in order for us to be able to, well, do anything.  It has been given even more importance by being what most humans believe to be the center of our emotional lives.  We don’t really ever talk about the hippocampus, the amygdala or the entire limbic system of the brain that we actually know is in charge of our emotional lives.  We tally it all up to the heart.  And while I know where my emotions come from I am continually baffled that when I am sad from a loss of love, my heart actually aches.  I feel it in my chest.  Not in my brain.  Sometimes in my gut.  After studying Joe’s heart, after seeing how it can keep us alive and be what kills us, after falling in love and choosing to fall out of love, reading countless stories about getting the girl, watching numerous plays about the main character finding love, after listening to countless songs about heartache and love and everything in between that first kiss and the final goodbye here’s the best I have come up with:

I have studied the heart.  I understand its mechanism.  I can read a rhythm strip and tell you what is happening electrically.  I have taken one out of a human body, cut it open, identified all of it’s anatomy, stuck my fingers in all the wholes and pulled on the chordae tendineae (heart strings).  I can tell you how it perfuses blood to itself and the rest of the body.  I can trace a drop of blood all the way through its entire structure.  I understand its disease processes and dysfunction.  But for the life of me I cannot tell you I understand how a heart determines feelings or emotions and why it makes the choices it does.

Here’s some pictures.  I like a visual.

• Truly, you are improving yourself; increasing your intelligence, expanding your knowledge of the world and yourself.
• In an economy such as our current one, making yourself more viable within your career or stepping into a new field is a considered a wise decision by credible publications such as the magazine headlines I read in the checkout at grocery stores and drug stores.
• You will be surrounded by people 10 years and more your junior, excluding you from any dating pool.
• No one can reprimand you for being single when you are an adult going back to school, especially if you maintain any type of employment.  It’s just considered bad form.  Clearly your plate is full of integrity and self worth, why should they bother you with such petty questions as “Are you seeing anyone special?”

I’d like to extrapolate on some thoughts here, going back to school often means you are in your 30′s or 40′s, this is ideal for the spinster in training.  If you are fiscally frugal you may find yourself at a community college completing pre-requisites your prior degree did not demand.  A community college is nothing like that witty and odd television show Community with that handsome and charming gentleman from Talk Soup.  It is primarily filled with young adults aged 18-21 who could not get into a university or have fiscally frugal parents who are forcing them to do their pre-requisites at the local community college.  They will show up to class drunk and high, they are loud and brash and seem to only own sweat pants and pajama bottoms.  They will disregard you or roll their eyes at you when you sit in the front asking the professor questions.  Here, you do not have to worry about putting yourself into a situation that will require dating or even its threat.  Best case scenario you may meet some other soon to be spinsters or better halves of couples who you may befriend, create study groups with and after that really bad test, get drunk with.

When choosing the why to go back to school, I suggest you aim big.  Don’t go for some sort of certificate course that only occupies 6 months of your life, and don’t go for an associate degree.  Get another bachelor’s, get a master’s, get your Ph.D.  You want to ensure that all of your free time will be spent hunched over a computer writing papers and if you’re lucky, establishing that Dowager’s hump early!  The bigger the degree, the longer you can commit yourself to this path avoiding dating with the dignity of a scholar, ensuring more spinster shawl wearing for sure.  Personally I’m considering moving forward from the accelerated nursing program obtaining my second bachelor’s to a doctorate program at the urging of a few of my professors.

While I personally am a proponent of excessive exercise as a form of sublimation, I mean, processing and stress relief, don’t do it in a local gym where people your own age convene to work out, restrict yourself to the University’s gym where only undergrad’s go.  You will think you stick out like a sore thumb, no one will notice you’re even there.

Finally, embrace a new, highly elevated stress level as being your baseline.  That way, even if for some reason you do in fact start spending time with someone special, you will be so high-strung and filled with anxiety about your new educational path (was this the right choice, always being broke, will there be a job after school, will there be this relationship after school, is spinsterhood real or a myth, why are there so many papers and why are they so hard to write, why do the younger students seem to “get it” so easily, etc., ad nauseum)  on a 24/7 basis that you’ll be sure to drive that special someone away before the relationship gets stable enough to weather the bad times.

And remember, as I said before, no one can judge you for being single if you are involved in an intense academic program, this will help as sometimes the question “you’re so wonderful, why are you still single?”  can stump even the wittiest and quickest of thinkers.  And saying “school is just so all-consuming” sounds so much more valiant than “I have no freaking idea, like none.”

How do you stay in a relationship for 50 years?  I’m seriously asking?  A 50 year union sounds about as easy as climbing Mt. Everest.  I imagine it would require the same things, patience, a steady pace, keeping a present and forward focus with the occasional turn around to see just see what’s been accomplished, more patience, acclimation to each new level, some more patience, and I believe it probably starts exactly the same, some guy has a wacky idea that this is something he HAS to do and he convinces someone else to do it with him.  The big difference would be there’s no sherpa in marriage.  There’s no short man with kind eyes in colorful wool clothing who’s made this journey before, ready to carry your baggage and cook your meals and give you guidance along the way.  It would seem that part you have to do for each other.   I imagine it starts with saying I do love you and continues by saying I will, always.

When I ask my parents about how they did it, there’s always a lot of laughs about how at various years there was the quote “for our such and such anniversary, I’m getting you a divorce.”  I mean, come on, let’s be honest, a relationship is about finding someone whose annoying traits you will put up w/ because of the benefits received.  Finding someone who will put up with your BS in exchange for whatever it is you offer, friendship, trust, love, good food, fine cuddling, humor, a quality grilled cheese, that feeling in your heart that it’s just right.  And really that’s all it is.  For my parents it would seem the benefits always outweighed and the answer was always about coming back home.  Home had become each other.  And the family they created, but at 50 years we can’t say they stayed together for the kids.  They stayed together because of each other.  It makes sense.  The benefits. Growing up I remember an awful lot of laughter in my family.  Of course there were headlocks, bread knives, total freak outs over spilled milk and what not but really, I just remember us giggling and guffawing our way through the years.  Loudly.  That is a big thing in our family.  We laugh, and we keep each other close.  Physically.  I’ve never known any other way so you can imagine my surprise when I stepped outside the 315 and found that not everyone expresses love and commitment by making jokes, bear hugs and face slaps.  We learned it from my mom and dad and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

In 50 years there will be change.  People will find new interests, new hobbies, they will retire, change careers, retire, change careers, the thing is, my mom and dad have been able to continue to know each other no matter the changes.  To know that their core has not changed.  Interests change, but character maintains.  And my parent’s character maintained strong and devoted.  And they always came home.  That is something they taught us and every single one of their children has done just that.  They told us, you always come home.  You trust in the family, you trust in the union and you always come home, to your family.

By choosing each other, every day.  By saying I do every day.  They not only chose to be there for each other, but they chose to be there for us.  My parents daily choice made it possible for us to go on family vacations, to partner dance, to go to school, to change careers, to create families of our own, to celebrate birthdays off schedule and spend Sundays eating spaghetti, all the while laughing. If my parents didn’t say I do to each other 50 years ago and then again, every day since I would not be the person I am who believes so fiercely in love and knows that at the end of the day, family is not only everything, it is the only thing.  Thank you for creating this family.  Thank you for maintaining this family, for being the beacon of love and stability in a life that throws curveballs.  You are a model for commitment, to yourselves, to each other, to your family and to the life you’ve created.  I will continue to learn from you with my every waking breath.  Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad.

Having a father in law enforcement is priceless.  Some might say a preacher father is the way to go, but I say different.  I think the daughter of the preacher man is getting on the fast track to becoming the mayor of Sluttown.  I think if you are truly serious about a life devoted to yarn, animals, gardening, baking, continuing education and all the glory that being a spinster will allow, you’re best bet is to go with the law enforcer for a father.  They will most likely not even allow you to date until a much later age then the rest of your cohorts which will help tremendously in stunting your emotional growth as well as learning about personal boundaries.  Once you do convince them to let you start dating, the rules will be so strident that few will pass the initial criteria.  If a boy calls on you and does not remove his baseball hat upon entering the home, you can cross him off the list.  If he does not have a strong (enough) handshake, delete.  If he uses any colloquialism of the time, nix.  If he has shifty eyes, bye bye.  If anyone in his extended family has ever been jailed, arrested or pulled over for any traffic violation including jay walking, syanora.  If he for any reason is deemed someone who “pisses in the gutter”  or  ”wouldn’t know his ass from his armpit” then he shall not be welcomed in the home.  This is great, because this is going to eliminate most young lads from any possibility of becoming a future suitor, let alone a long term boyfriend.

As you move forward from this, you’ll find that most possible gentlemen callers will find out quickly through locker room talk and the like that you are unattainable and not in that she’s-so-gorgeous-and mature-she-only-dates-college-guys way but more of a her-dad-will-totally-arrest-you-if-you-go-near-her-and-you-just-got-your-permit kind of way.  I cannot stress enough how important this kind of early isolation and separation is to a bourgeoning spinster.  If any do make it through the first round of dates and are admitted into the house again for a second date, be sure that your law enforcement father not only collects and displays a Utah Mormon’s amount of firearms but also takes them out, handles them and cleans them at the kitchen table on date night.  And that, that will ensure major emotional stunting if for no other reason, because it will be normal to you, and you won’t realize the aggressive threat it sends out.  You will have no clue that you are welcoming a possible love into your home only to scare the bejeezus out of him.  If he quakes even the slightest you will think him odd, perhaps wimpy or  you will assume he’s a homosexual (if true, you will make him your best friend) and you will end it before he can turn and run.

I moved to Rochester on December 31st.  I joined the Roc City Roller Derby team on January 20th.  I went to my first practice February 4th.  I solidified my name on February 19th.  The Sinister Serb Natasha Musquashya #718 (I represent Queens).  The first few weeks of practice I learned how to fall.  Single leg falls, rockstars, supermans.  I started to make some friends and found an apartment/house with a backyard through my teammate Tippi Heathen who would later become my derby wife.

Let me back up here, I went to my first adult open skate at Horizons on February 3rd.  The only thing I can say about it was that it was absolutely fantastic.  I went by myself as I do most things now as you know, when you move to a new city and don’t have that many friends, you like, go out, by yourself.  A lot.  Ok, so I get there and it was everything I could ever hope for from an adult open skate.  It was like being in Central Park in front of the bandshell on the first really nice day, when all the skaters come out to show their wares.  There were the older guys, grey haired men who had sweet old cases for their skates.  Their skates had bells on the laces, they wore light colored polo shirts tucked into bell bottom khakis.  They danced like Gene Kelly in Xanadu.  There were young boys with wet looking gelled hair, gold chains and nylon track suits who wore rollerblades and did jumping tricks in front of the girls.  Then there were the dancers.  They made it for me.  They could do moves on skates that most people can’t do on solid non moving feet.  And then the derby girls arrived.

You can tell them for a few reasons.  A) they all have clothes and stickers that say RCRD on everything.  B) they all actually wear elbow and knee pads and wrist guards and C) they are all badass looking.

I had already skated around a bunch and found I could skate by the time the derby girls got there, and when I saw them with all the protective gear on, I thought to myself hmmm, I’m a massage therapist now, I should maybe go put my wrist guards on so I don’t break my wrists or hands.  So I put them on, got back out on the rink and Coach Awesome skates up to me and says, “hey, so, do you like to wear your wrist guards like that?”  I had never put on a wrist guard, I had never worn any protective sports gear besides shin guards and spanky pants.  Apparently I had them on backwards.

I went over to the side and Coach Awesome and his girlfriend who started the entire Roc City Roller Derby league Resident Eva came over and showed me how to adjust my skates so I could be faster and how to wear my gear appropriately.  I was so happy the whole way home I couldn’t stop grinning.  Did I mention that the music at an open skate is every song you ever wanted to hear?  Freakazoid, Let me clear my throat, The choice is yours, Push it…

So at practices, I was often in newby end, learning how to fall, do crossovers, whip and hit.  Soon I started to join the beginning drills before Connect Four and Scrimmaging started.  After a few weeks of opening drills, Coach Awesome was running a non hitting scrimmage drill and I was watching on the side to learn more and Lightin Lainey looks over at me, smiles and says “HEY!  NATASHA!!  It’s time girl.”  And in I went.

I didn’t like derby from that point forward, I frickity frackity LOVED it.  Like, more than any other sport I’d ever tried.  More than running, biking, cheerleading, dancing, volleyball.  Like anything.  I loved it more than making out and I totally love making out.  I loved the hitting, I loved the strategy, I loved the speed.  I adjusted my skates every practice so I could go faster.  I tried every position; Pivot, Back blocker, Outside blocker, Inside blocker and eventually Jammer.  I talked about derby as much as anyone would let me.  I trained on my days off to strengthen my legs so I could get faster.  Lightin Lainey told me to do squats when I did the dishes and brushed my teeth.  I did.  Coach Awesome pulled me, Asa Clubs and Jessikaboom aside one night and told us that he thought we were excelling fast and that the biggest thing we had to be aware of was the possibility of injury.  He suggested more strength training and strategy planning.  On all the websites about derby I had read, every single one of them had said the same thing, it’s not about whether or not you’re going to get hurt, it’s about when.

I put that to the back of my brain and played smart and played hard and got better and better every time.  Our first interleague bout was coming up and I was picked for Hater Tot’s team.  I told her I was willing to Jam in the bout.  I emailed all my friends and told them to buy their tickets.  They started talking about making signs and tee shirts with 718 on them.  I know you can tell where this is going.  The practice before the meet and greet, 2 weeks before the bout, the last scrimmage of the night I jumped in again to jam.

That entire practice girls were falling and dropping like flies around an electric buzzer thingy on a hot august night.  During one jam every girl but 2 fell.  At one point I watched Harriet Beecher Ass hurdle over Bomb Voyage and VenJence VonSlay both of whom fell right in front of her.  The floor was slippery that night and I had just loosened my trucks and wheels, again.

So, last jam, me and Synthetic Delusion are jamming, whistle blows the pack leaves, double whistle we take off.  I sprint hard and get low and look for pockets.  I make it through, am lead jammer and take off in a dead sprint again to get to that pack again.  I am flying faster than I think I’ve ever gone and I am headed straight into the pack, I get pushed to the outside and I straighten up and miss a hit.  We are coming around a curve and I see the straight away of the rink and I am sure I can skate fast enough to get ahead of the pack.  Eva sees me and gets right next to me and starts pushing me out of bounds.  Then something happened.  I’m not sure what, but she went down and I think maybe I jumped over her and I definitely went straight into a concrete wall.

As the wall got close I said in my head “DON’T USE YOUR HANDS!”  My body simply did not listen, up my hands went and I heard the crunch and saw my pinky and ring finger get bent in 2 different directions.  I was on the ground cursing a blue truckdriver worthy streak.  I knew what I had done.  I had just screwed the pooch.  I had shat the bed.  I had just broken my money maker when I had finally gotten to the point where I was making money.  In the short time I had started my private practice as a Massage Therapist here in Rochester I was halfway to a full client list.  I was entering the pay off school section and in one stupid move I was back to zero.

One of the refs came over and asked if I thought I broke my hand, I think it was Iron Ref but it could have been Vas Reference I don’t remember at that point.  My response was thrusting my already swelling and completely mangled hand in his face and barking “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK???”  I was mad.  Resident Eva and Asa Clubs said they were going to the hospital with me, Muffy Stepheles said I could reschedule my appointmentf for the next morning I had with her.  Steel Candi took off my skates.  Coach Wheelie and Coach Awesome took off my gear.  Someone kept asking me who they should call in case of emergency.  I didn’t have anyone really, except my oldest brother, and he lives in Oswego about an hour and a half away.  They asked what about my husband, nope.  What about your boyfriend, nuh uh.  Just me.  And why is that so important?  Will it unbreak my hand if I’m betrothed to someone?  Stop asking me that!  When Coach Awesome took off my wrist guard and accidentally bumped my broken fingers, without thinking I immediately hauled off and punched him in the kidney with my left hand.  Yeah, I was angry.

Tippi Heathen drove me as fast as she could while being safe to the ER, we got in and I was dipping pretty deeply into shock.  Laughing and sounding pretty drunk I staggered up to the front desk and said I needed a doctor.  Tippi and I both started snapping photos with our phones.  I made a call to my friend George to see if he could come get me after this was all over, or if he knew where our friend Kurt was, he lived closer.  George told me I sounded like I’d been boozing it up hard, I was slurring my words and taking a lot of time to answer simple questions.  I wasn’t feeling any pain, I was shivering and I felt drunk.  Asa and Eva showed up and all the security guards and front desk guys could no longer conceal smiles or questions.

“So, ladies, may we ask, why you are all dressed like that?” I think Asa, Eva and Tippi explained I got called to the back.  Hours passed and every 15 minutes someone came in and asked me who they should call to come get me.  ”Where’s your husband?  Then your boyfriend?  You don’t have any family here?  No one?”  Kurt called me back when I was giving more info to a very patient nurse who was asking me to please describe my pain scale.  It had been only about a 5 or 6, then while on the phone shock left me and pain showed up totally ready to party and I escalated to an 8 and then to a fantasmigastic 9.  I started sweating and kind of choking it hurt so bad, told Kurt I’d call him when I was done and gripped a chair.

Eva, Tippi and Asa rotated so I was never alone, they kept me talking and told me about breaks and soft tissue damage they had experienced thus far.  For some reason the pain subsided and first round of x-rays I was all smiles and jokes, telling everyone about derby.  Then everyone left and I was alone in the xray room.   That’s when it hit me again, what I had just done, and tears spurted out of my eyes.  The xray tech came back in the room and I wiped my eyes and she said, “honey, you’re gonna be fine and there’s no use crying now, it’s already happened.”  Well, she was right.

Over the next couple of hours, they shot my hand full of lidocaine and straightened out my broken and dislocated digits and re-xrayed them, re-xrayed them again after that and splinted them.  While the doctor was splinting my hand, someone came in and asked if my husband was coming to pick me up.  Again, no, I’m not married, your boyfriend then?  ”It’s ok, I have a friend who’s coming.”  The doctor looked at me, looked at the other derby girls who had not left my side, winked and said,” you don’t need a man do you? ”   I laughed and said nothing.  I was pretty surprised that the fact that I was a massage therapist with a broken hand was nothing to these people compared to the utter despair they felt over the fact that I was 35 and single.

My friend Kurt picked me up and already had the seat warmers on high in his car.   We giggled and looked at all the gnarly pictures I got of my busted up hand.  We started to drive and I shivered as he brought me to the 24 hour CVS on Monroe to get my script for painkillers and that’s when I lost it for the 3rd time.  Total waterworks.  He asked me to tell him all the reasons I was crying.

1)I just broke my hand

2)I just moved here to be massage therapist

3)I wouldn’t be able to play in the first home bout

4) and apparently the fact that I’m single in this city is really upsetting a lot of people

We got to the CVS and we placed my script order for Vicadin and I started to realize I hadn’t eaten since about noon and it was now 1a.m.  We scanned the snack aisle and I fought back more tears, I could no longer make decisions.  He asked me what I wanted I said I don’t care.  I said the last decision I made broke my hand, I’m off decisions, you decide what I should eat, you know what I like, we go out to eat at least once a week.  ”NOT IN AISLE 9 AT THE CVS!” was his response.  To which we both promptly started laughing hysterically.  He chose some stuff for me and we went to pay the kindly Transgender cashier Desiree at the front.  She said, “oh honey, is it broke bad?”  I said, “I’m not sure, but I bet I heal fast.”  She said, “well, I hope that heals up before summer, cuz baby, casts do NOT match with a bikini, OK?”

When we walked away Kurt asked if  I thought Desiree was at one point a man, I looked at him and said “did you see the size of that 6’5″ woman’s adam’s apple?  Yeah I’m pretty sure. Yeah.”  Again, we giggled.

Kurt drove me home, got me in the house and we started making a list of things that are impossible with one hand, I wasn’t even sure I could brush my teeth at that point.  Did I mention it was my dominant hand I broke?  Yeah.  So after going into the bathroom to see if I could get undressed, bra and all, I came out bathrobed and asked him to put up my hair so I could shower.  In the mean time, Kurt had made me a list.

When you break your fingers, three things are true:

1) It is a pain in the ass!

2) it is 100% workable!

3)IT IS TEMPORARY

And, as an added bonus:  when you are as cool as Alexis Croucher,

4) Your friends totally help you out!!

I cried a little more after I read his list and he hugged me and left and I stood in the middle of my tiny house thinking what in good god’s name was I going to do?  So I took a shower.

The next day, after telling my mother, ahem, telling my brothers, ahem ahem, telling my bosses, ahem, hem, uhhhh  ahem, ahem, telling my friends, ahhh, huh, hem, ahem, hack, hehehe, and telling the bank teller, I found that even when you up and order a huge plate of pooh for dinner, Rochester gives you a lovely aperitif, a dessert tray, a cheese plate even.

I was in the bank and the teller had asked me what happened, I was telling her and from behind me comes this very excited voice.  ”Do you know Millhouse of Pain?”  I turn and see a short man, sitting on a railing by a desk, I say yes, I just bought my elbow pads from her, I’m Natasha, Natasha Musquashya.  ”Yeah” he says, “she’s a physical therapist with us, whadjya do?  I mean, I can see you broke your hand but what’s going on with it?” ” Well,” I say, “I got the pictures of the xrays right here, do you want to see them?”  And I show this man the x-rays of my broken hand without knowing who he is or what he does and he takes one look and says, “Yeah, you’re gonna need surgery.”  NO NO NO, I’ll be fine, I’ll be out of the splint in a week and I’ll be playing in the fist bout.  He looks again and sees my crushed bones and says “Trust me, it’s what I do, you’re gonna need wires, Belsy procedure, surgery Natasha.”

I didn’t want to believe him.  At all.  But he was so smiley and so confident and I did need to make a follow up with an orthopedic surgeon so, I took his card.  His office manager and secretary were with him, they booked me an appointment at that moment, in the lobby of the bank, they confirmed that they accepted my insurance and as he was about to walk out he looked back and said, “listen Natasha, Carl Jung said ‘Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events which are casually unrelated occurring in a meaningful manner’ or something like that, basically there’s no such thing as coincidence, I’ll see you next week.”

I stood there for a minute smiling to myself in the lobby of the bank on Park Ave., and I looked around for someone to share the moment with.  The bank teller was watching and she smiled at me.  I picked up my broken paw and waved at her and said “I love this city!”