How are you dear readers? Survived the holidays? Gosh, I’m glad. Taken down the tree yet? Me either. I’m in no hurry. The glow of lights on these short days of winter warm my insides like a sip of whiskey.
Hopefully I’ve caught you before you’ve gilded your New Year’s resolutions in gold leaf, snagged you at the drafting stage. I have insights that might clarify the fuzzy parts. Here’s the gist if you don’t have time for a longer read. 2022 resolution—do whatever the eff you want.
That’s it. The subtext is (of course) is do no harm to others, consult your soul and act accordingly. If you can look a decision square in the eyes and know it comes from a place of love, then, I repeat, do whatever the eff you want.
This advice is the direct result of my Christmas epiphany.
Christmas dinner our crab and sourdough bread was served with a bowl of metaphorical sweet and sour sauce. Put simply, my emotions were all over the place. I felt moments of peace, joy, happiness, gratitude, missing-my-dad-tears, and regret. It’s the regret I need to lay bare here so that you avoid my missteps.
Regret causes sour effervescence in the pit of the belly that, if left untreated, wears a hole through the stomach lining. I don’t want you to suffer that fate.
Regret isn’t something I’ve experienced much as an adult. Why? For those that don’t know me in real-life, I attempt to live without filters, do frequent bullshit tests to ensure I am spending time doing, being, achieving in ways that are true to my spirit. I tell the people I love how I feel often. I don’t hold back compliments. I speak up about the crap that hurts in real-time. Even more so, after I turned fifty, I lost my talent for fake-happy. I’d never go back to those artificially-coated days of yore. But, because of all this, some folks find me to be, umm, too-much. I don’t know how to grin through awkward moments. I point it out as it’s happening. I say the unsaid. I’m uncouth, the equivalent of a public burp in human form.
That said, a little over a year ago, via our morning and evening texts, I planned a trip south to see my father and mother. It’s how I wanted to celebrate my fifty-first birthday. It’s the only gift I wanted. Dad and I planned the weekend, the meals we’d cook, the food we’d order in, the movies we’d watch, and then, as I readied to purchase my plane ticket and rental car, Dad texted that because of Covid, I couldn’t come. It was too risky.
I told him I wouldn’t even have to come inside the house; I could visit them from the porch. I could sleep in my rental car. I could make this work if he’d let me. I had been in a bubble for months, only left it once in order to move my college grad out of Irvine the past July. I was smart, conscientious, took vitamins, abided by all the latest health guidance. I offered to quarantine for a week once I was in town. He said, as much as it hurt to tell me, I might bring disease to their small town. He was right. I didn’t want to be Typhoid Mary. I love Fort Bragg. I backed out of the Alaska Airlines website and sobbed.
Three months later my father was dead. I’d had the honor of being there as he passed, yes, and I am ever grateful we got him back home from the hospital to die exactly as he wanted, but fuck, fuck, fuck!
Back to the present. Christmas Eve 2021, I wore Dad’s ugly Christmas sweater and went with my family to see Spider-man No Way Home. I ate half a tub of popcorn that I enjoyed for both of us, Dad and me. He knew we were headed to the movie. You see, while the rest of the house slept in that morning, I’d told Dad our plans. I glanced at the flocked tree and the upmost ornament spun around and around. It was Dad responding. No other ornaments, branches, or lights budged. I smiled, savoring this secret moment between us. His wink from the beyond fortified me.
The movie was terrific. The company, my youngest kid and husband, was perfect. Then, once home, we prepped the crab, made salad, warmed the sourdough bread, and the texts from my family to the south came in. A ball of something hot and uncomfortable formed in my chest. Was I having a heart attack? I thumbed through sweet images of my niece and nephew playing, the voices of my loving, wonderful family in the background. My cheeks flushed with love for them, but my chest burned.
Not a heart attack, this was rage. Rage? Where was this rage coming from? I tamped it down, like a cigarette butt on asphalt (ass-fault/I’m an ass, it’s no one’s fault), and continued with dinner. We ate. I channeled my anger into scrubbing pots and pans. I thought I’d off-gassed some of the pressure, but as my spouse played tug with Cooper, the dog slipped, his fragile hips splayed, and I barked.
“Don’t play rough with Cooper. I can’t deal with a hurt dog!”
The room cleared. I found my way upstairs and did what I’d wanted since the rage took hold, I changed into pajamas and pressed, ‘Play’ on The Ref, my father’s favorite Christmas movie. I sat, comforter pulled up to my eyes, and watched, wishing Gary Riley was in the room to make his funny side-comments. As the credits rolled, I turned on A Christmas Carol. It’s the BBC version they play on FX which is absolutely incredible, if you haven’t seen it yet. Find it on HULU. Anyhow, as the ghost of Christmas past arrives, my heart thawed. I apologized to my husband. Texted an apology to my kid. Went back into my cocoon and watched more of the movie, then fell asleep.
It wasn’t until Christmas Day was half-over that I unearthed the source of my rage. Christmas 2020. A year ago. Texts from family that’d been allowed to travel to Dad and Mom’s place to celebrate, only three weeks after my ill-fated birthday trip. I’d been so incredibly angry. And hurt. And, at the center of the sore spot, pissed at myself for not doing what I’d wanted, hell, what I’d needed.
There are two times in my life I should not have asked permission to do what I knew needed to be done. The first was when I wanted to change my degree from Communications to Fine Arts in college. The second was when I wanted to spend my birthday with my parents.
I’ve come to terms with both now. I am responsible for my decisions and my residual anger and bitterness. It has absolutely nothing to do with Dad or Mom or siblings or neighbors. It is my tattoo to wear in perpetuity. After texting with Dad, I considered flying to Santa Rosa. Driving to Fort Bragg. Knocking on the front door. Saying hello and visiting from the back porch. I’d return to Seattle content. I could have done that; should have.
Covid. Fucking Covid.
It’s put all of us in a perpetual cycle of fear. It’s time to stop the merry-go-round.
When it emerged, we didn’t know much, and because of that, we were terrified. We did the best we could at the time. We still are, but we’re learning how inept the people in charge have been/are. In fact, most glaringly, they’ve been living their lives while we dutifully paused. If that isn’t motivation enough to break the cycle of fear, then think of me and my non-choice-choice, the one that meant no birthday with Dad; instead seeing him one last time on his deathbed.
My advice; do not wait to make plans. See people. Hug them. Shake their hand. Lift your mask and smile at the baby across the street. We’ve sacrificed enough never-going-to-have-the-chance-tos. Let’s agree to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop asking permission from any expert, doctor, politician, relative, friend, anonymous stranger, to do anything you want. Just stop. Be kind, be safe, be courteous and, for God’s sake, be bold.
It will feel like too much at first. If you have residual anger from your non-choice-choices over the last two years, channel that emotion into action! Let anger be your mighty shield! Step into the moment and look down to find you are okay; actually, better than okay. You’ll see that your fear is a shrunken thing in the corner of your psyche. Go ahead and hide it behind a potted fern if you like but move on. Live life. It’s the best course of action for 2022. Do whatever the eff you want.
As always, sending you and yours love and the hope for peace on Earth in the coming year. <3 Jennifer