Jesus take the wheel

After they closed the Eisenhower tunnel on I-70 back to Denver, here are some things that, had I known them, would have spurred me to lean in the direction of getting a hotel room in Frisco for the night, rather than power through in a major snowstorm - at night - because I just wanted to get home:

• The alternate Breckenridge-to-Denver-via-Fairplay route is a high-elevation route along the Continental Divide that takes you over two mountain passes via a narrow two-lane road, with many switchbacks and steep grades.

• One of the mountain passes is Hoosier Pass, which rises to 11,542 feet and is one of the highest mountain passes in Colorado. Wikipedia informs me that it is "the highest point on the TransAmerica Trail, a transcontinental bicycle route that stretches from Yorktown, Virginia to Astoria, Oregon." Awesome.

• The other mountain pass is Kenosha Pass, which tops out at 10,000 feet (still very high). Fun fact: it goes near the town of South Park and has been featured in the show a few times!

• The entire route feels like a looooong, extended version of driving over Loveland Pass (albeit at slightly lower elevation), which I would never ever attempt in a snowstorm, at night, because I would be terrified of dying, and rightly so.

But alas, I didn't know any of these things. After living here for almost 9 years, it's kind of pathetic how little I know about Colorado, outside the confines of Denver and it's surrounding areas, plus the part of the mountains where I go to ski in the winter. I really need to broaden my horizons.

So that's how I ended up making my way back to Denver with my brother Sam and his wife Camille and their little dog, Walter, white-knuckling it for hours in the dark over snowy, icy, slippery roads, whose edges were barely visible to me so I couldn't see where I was coming from or where I was going. There were numerous points when I was scared of sliding off the side of the mountain because of the road conditions and steep grade. There were numerous points when the snow and wind were swirling so powerfully that I could not see anything beyond the car, so I simply had to stop in the road and wait for the visibility to improve because it felt like going backwards or forwards would surely end in our deaths.

Mercifully, Sam took over for the last two hours of the drive. He preserved my sanity.

By the time I got home, we had driven that day for over 9 hours in a snowstorm, over a total of five high mountain passes (before the really bad part of the drive, I had already driven over Vail Pass three times - long story, don't ask).  

After dropping Sam and his crew at their hotel, I was so fried and emotionally exhausted and worn out that I climbed into my bed, cried for 30 minutes, went to sleep, and basically didn't get out of bed until I picked them up at their hotel the next night so we could go out for dinner (which was lovely and delicious).  

When I closed my eyes, I had visions of sheets of snow blasted by the wind, illuminated only by the car's headlights. My body and my brain felt weighted down with a tiredness that overwhelmed me. 

I did not take this picture. I found it online. But this is what it looked like.

I was telling Kristin and Lisa about it the next day and Kristin asked how I got through it. The truth is, I don't really know. I just did. 

One thing that I am good at is pushing through pain, be it physical or emotional. I block out as much as I can so I can just focus on getting from one minute to the next. It's how I got through running a marathon with a herniated disc, Zeke's birth, climbing fourteeners, long plane rides with a crying baby when we were both sick. You just keep moving forward because there isn't another option. You can fall apart when you're done, but not before.

Sam and I distracted each other by playing music and harmonizing to songs we love - the Indigo Girls provide a nice challenge, with their vocal lines that swoop and swirl, trading off the melody and harmony. We did Bob Marley with Sam taking the bass line and me harmonizing on top of it. We told stories and tried to make each other laugh. 

Whoever wasn't driving would hold two phones, one with an altimeter and one with a map of our route, so we could call out the parts of the drive we couldn't quite see -- "the road is going to curve gently to the left coming up" "there is a series of switchbacks up ahead" "you've got a straight shot for a little while." 

I don't know what purpose the altimeter served, except to make me realize how crazy it was for us to be out in that weather with the bulk of the drive over 9500 feet. When we finally started to descend near Denver, there was something gratifying about seeing the altitude numbers drop.  Below 6000 feet, I joked, "we're practically at sea level!"

It's taken me a few days to recover from the experience, and I don't know that I'm fully over it. My chest still tightens when I think about it. 

I'm heading back up the mountains to take a ski lesson on Saturday, and the thought of the drive makes me nervous, which is not me at all. Plus the forecast is clear and the roads should be absolutely fine.

In any event, if something bad happens, I will deal with it. But here's hoping it doesn't come to that.

12 years ago today

I was scrolling through Facebook tonight and saw a friend's post referencing how warm it was for December 9th.

I thought to myself, "what is it about this date that rings a bell?" It seemed so familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

Then I remembered it was my anniversary.

Even thought it's not a day I celebrate anymore, I was stunned that it had completely slipped my mind. I'm very calendar- and date-oriented. My sense of time is very visual - I see my days and weeks laid out on a grid. I keep a calendar with everything written down, but I also can see it in my head.

I can remember things like the date I first met an ex-boyfriend I dated years ago, or when I went to a particular football game a long time. I remember other peoples' birthdays and anniversaries. The dates others died.

And yet my own anniversary - a date that was obviously extremely significant in my life, as much as I look back on the event itself as a mistake - wasn't on my radar at all.

Sometimes the way my brain compartmentalizes amazes me. I look back on being married and I can barely remember what it was like.

Today I was taking Josie and Zeke and Josie's friend Annie to a jumping/parkour/gymnastics/ropes course place. It's seriously badass.

In the car on the way there, Annie said, "Wendy, are you ever going to get married again?"

She is not, shall we say, a shy girl.

"Probably not," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't imagine why I would. I don't want to be married."

"But why?"

"I don't know. I don't like people in my face all the time. I don't want someone living in my house and spending my money and bothering me all the time. I like to see who I want to see when I want to see them, and then they can go home."

"Do you want a boyfriend?"

"I don't know. I guess. It's nice to date someone."

Josie said, "she dates lots of guys!"

I laughed. I wanted to clarify that I've been on lots of dates, but I doubt she would have cared about the distinction.

My kids are very encouraging in this regard.

A few weeks ago Josie said, "Mommy, I want a step-father."

"You're going to be waiting a while," I said. "Don't hold your breath."

I do know this, though - if I do meet someone and it turns into something, I will remember, years later, the date and day of the week we met.

Until my brain decides that it's better for me never to think of the entire episode altogether, and if I do think of it, it seems like it happened to someone else.

At least I've never celebrated "pumpkin spice" season...

I think about recent conversations I've had, and just what I've been thinking about generally, and I'm incredibly bored by it.

There are certain conversational themes that I abhor, because they strike me as demonstrating such a lack of imagination. People who lament that it's Monday, or who when you greet them on a Wednesday and say, "how are you," respond, "well, only two days to Friday!" Women who repost memes about drinking, like those e-cards with a woman on it and the text is something like, "the most expensive part of having kids is all the wine you have to drink."

So boring. So basic.

And I feel like I have become one of *those* people, constantly whining about how tired and busy and frazzled I am.

I got a new job in September. And it's an amazing job, doing the work that I do best, for a cause I believe in, and I try to do it in a way that I believe is true to both my ethical and professional obligation to zealously represent my client, and to my personal drive to do the right thing morally.

But I've also never worked as hard in my life. As I've written before, I commute a long way, and during the workday I am so buried in emails and meetings and briefs and requests for guidance that I frequently don't eat because I lose all track of time and then I'm starving and exhausted and lightheaded. When I'm not at work, I have my phone and I get work-related texts and emails until 10 at night.

And all of this is in addition to trying to have quality time with my children, and trying to spend time with friends, and trying to read more and write more, and trying to have some semblance of a social life.

Somewhere in all of this I try to exercise.

Today one of the women in the office greeted me and asked how I was. I really, really like her - she's one of those people who you occasionally meet in your life and you immediately have a good feeling, like "I could really be good friends with this person." And I said, "I'm doing well. And I hate people who say stuff like this because it's so fucking unoriginal, but damn, I'm so glad it's Friday."

And then I drove home to get the kids, and while I was in the car one of Josie's friends asked if she could sleep over, so I set that up, and then I had to chase Zeke down at a friend's house down the street, and then he wanted to have a friend sleep over. So I organized all of this while also taking the kids to their board-breaking and belt-testing ceremony at the taekwondo studio, which took an hour and a half but felt like four hours, so everyone was fidgety and hungry.  It was great to see the kids break their boards and get their yellow belts, though.

Josie

Zeke

When we finally got out, I dropped Josie at her friend's, stopped by Zeke's friend's house so he could pick his stuff up, and then went home so we could scarf down some pizza.

I answered one final email and decided the work phone is going to be put away for the weekend. And I'm going to chill out and not constantly have a running list in my mind of all the things I need to take care of.

I'm going to contemplate things as they come. Just observe what's going.

Like, after we dropped off Josie, the boys and I were in the car and they were giggling.

"Mom?"

"What's up, son?"

"What's the 'c' word?"

"There's no reason you need to know the answer to that question."

"Is it 'crap'?"

"Sure."

I love 10-year-old boys.

We were all joking around while we ate pizza.  This is a friend that Zeke hasn't had over before. I'll call him Joe. He's a nice kid. But it turns out one of the reasons he and Zeke get along so well is that they have a tendency to get in trouble in school.

I asked, "what are the things that you tend to get in trouble for?"

"One time me and Zeke were throwing a football and were trying to get it in the trash. Plus I get in trouble a lot just for talking."

Being an energetic boy in school is a bitch.

"Can I give you some advice?" I asked. "Don't even worry about being good because it's the right thing to do. Just figure out what it is that pisses your teacher off and try to avoid it. The bottom line is, being in trouble sucks. And doing stupid stuff in class never ends well. Just try to fly under the radar."

"It's hard," Joe said.

"I know," I agreed.

"How late can we stay up?" he asked.

"As late as you want. I don't care. Just don't destroy the house."

"Ok, cool."

So now they're upstairs in the playroom, playing Star Wars Battlefront or some other game on the PS4. I'm sure they're using the worst swear words they can think of.

And I'm downstairs in my house. When I look around at my house and my rugs and my artwork, I think, "my house is really pretty." I feel good in my surroundings.

From time to time they "drop in" from the upstairs Echo, using the system like an intercom. "Hi, Mom!"  "Hi, guys!"

I'm listening to a Spotify radio playlist that the boys put on. I like to keep up with what the kids are listening to.

I'm probably betraying myself as a traitor to all of my indie-loving friends, but Nick Jonas's "Jealous" is really catchy.

I know there are shows on Netflix or Amazon Prime for me to get caught up in.

And I am breaking my rule by saying this, but I'm enjoying a glass of wine. Which, for me, is actually really unusual. I never ever drink at home, by myself.

Maybe it'll help me be more interesting.

Anyway, that's my night.

And all those things I didn't say, wrecking balls inside my brain

This is what I should have said, when he started yelling at me ten minutes into our first date, when I had the audacity to (respectfully) express a different psychological or temperamental approach to dating than the one he had expressed.

I don't think I'm interested in talking to you anymore. I'd say, 'have a nice life,' but the odds of that are pretty much non-existent, so I'll just say 'good-bye.'

I was accused of trying to "mother" him, of telling him how to live his life, of lecturing him that his statistical approach to love - of believing that he'd have to go out on 30 dates before he would find anyone worthwhile, and that having only gone on 5 this year, he was doomed - was wrong.* He became louder and more irate as he talked, jabbing his finger at me and punctuating his diatribe with, "why are you doing that, counselor?" 

His voice was filled with contempt and he called me "counselor" as if it were an epithet.

I'm actually proud of being a lawyer, so it seemed like a misplaced insult to me. But unlike when I'm arguing in court and I can be prepared and dispassionate, my ability to come up with quick, logical, cutting zingers escaped me.

Instead, I was stunned and I gaped at him in disbelief. I have never in my life been spoken to that way by a date, and my eyes started to tear. I blinked them away before he could see them.

Rather than gathering my coat and my purse and telling him to go fuck himself as I scooted out of the booth, I asked, "why are you yelling at me? I didn't say any of those things."

Part of my reaction was because our exchanges before meeting had been lovely and encouraging. We texted, we talked on the phone, we even FaceTimed, and he could not have been sweeter. He's good looking and ridiculously smart and was interesting to talk to. It seemed so promising.

So to be attacked and berated right out of the gate was shocking. Surreal. Incomprehensible. I didn't know how to process it. I hadn't walked into the restaurant armed for battle, so I was exposed and vulnerable.

"I was just trying to talk to you. I don't know anything about you, so I'm trying to get to know you."

He threw his head around as if my efforts to make normal first-date conversation were too outrageous to be borne. His agitation was palpable.

"Jesus, I don't want to do this! I just want to talk and have fun! I don't want to feel like I'm being interviewed!"

"What are you talking about? I was talking about the sports teams we liked. And instead of comparing stories about who we liked growing up, you launched into a statistical analysis and talked about demographics and economic trends. You never even answered my question!"

"It was a malthusian analysis!"

I didn't know how to respond to that.

He continued, "I don't want to sit and do all the talking. You talk!"

Rather than gathering my coat and my purse and telling him to go fuck himself as I scooted out of the booth, I tried to talk. I don't even remember what I was talking about. I just remember him being fidgety and looking around like he'd rather be anywhere else.

I stopped talking and sighed and shook my head.

The waitress was walking by. He stopped her and said, "check, please."

We had been there for 15 minutes. We hadn't even ordered anything to eat.

Rather than gathering my coat and my purse and telling him to go fuck himself as I scooted out of the booth, I sat there throughout the process of waiting for the check and then waiting while she ran his credit card and brought the slip back.

While we waited, he started talking about politics. He is vehemently anti-Trump, anti-establishment, anti-anything run by old white men, and without any prompting from me - by this point, I was scared to say much of anything - he started this unbelievable rant in which his voice got louder and louder and he was irate and every other word was "fuck." Finally the hostess came over to the table and asked him to tone it down because there were children at the next table.

It was mortifying.

The check came back. He signed it.

I gathered my coat and my purse and scooted out of the booth. I did not tell him to go fuck himself. I said, "I'm going."

He stood up and his demeanor became almost sheepish.

"Can I give you a hug goodbye?"

Are you kidding me? I though to myself.

My nerve didn't fail me this time.

"No."

I didn't fall apart until I got home. I pulled into my driveway, still shell-shocked. And then I burst into tears. I cried as I walked into the house. I cried as I realized I needed to put the garbage and recycling bins in the alley. I cried in the alley as a guy passed me, walking his dogs.

I pulled out my phone and texted a guy I know, a guy who is always sweet to me. Our schedules never match up so we barely ever see each other, but we manage to hang out together once a month or so.

He was sympathetic and kind and supportive and outraged on my behalf. He talked me off the ledge. It was what I needed to hear.

But I slept horribly that night. I woke up feeling psychologically bruised. I still do, a little bit. I am generally one to say, "next!" in the face of a bad date, but I've never had a date like that. I think I'm done for a while.

All because I couldn't say from the beginning, go fuck yourself, dude.


_________________________
*For the record, I did none of these things. I simply stated that I had different thoughts about it.

Keep on keepin' on

"Do you think I should go to therapy?"

I was seeing my shrink for my biannual pharmacological check-in. Generally we just check in by email, but it had been long enough that he wanted me to come in and lay eyes on me.

"OF COURSE you should go to therapy!" he exclaimed.

I laughed. He's a nice guy who's from Michigan and looks like my dad when he was in his 30s - dark hair, glasses, jew-y. We have a nice rapport.

"Why? I feel fine, generally. The medication seems to be working."

"In the five minutes we've been talking, you've told me that you just started a new job with a lot of responsibility and long commute, you've talked about issues your kids are having in school and in dealing with the divorce, you're working on a major case for work while also planning a trip abroad ... you've got a lot of shit going on!"

"Yeah," I sighed.

"Yeah!" he said, giving me a look that said, "mmm hmmm."

"And you've said yourself that even though you don't feel anxious during the day, you're having anxiety dreams and still dealing with the middle insomnia that's plagued you forever."

"Yeah," I sighed again.

"Even if you're not in overt distress, it always helps to talk things out with someone. It's the best way to deal with anxiety. You know this," he said.

"Yeah. I know. It's just hard, thought. I'm working long hours, I'm busy, I've got the kids, and you're out here in the middle of nowhere. It's a schlep. I feel like I don't have time to do anything."

" I hear you. Anyway, here's the number of someone that I think you would like. She's like you - very smart and straightforward. Give it a try."

"Yeah."

I haven't called her. I haven't had time.

But I need something.

Medicine helps some. I have a prescription for an antidepressant and a non-Ambien sleep aid that doesn't work as well as I'd like.

I absolutely adore my job. But it exhausts me, both physically and emotionally. The commute is tiring, thinking and writing all day is tiring, and I'm finding that being in caretaker mode in my job as well as with my kids leaves me with an empty tank. I love working with teachers and making sure they feel supported in their work. I love fighting their battles for them, and being the lighting rod with cranky opposing counsel or irate parents - let them attack me rather than the teachers.  But always taking care of everyone else means I don't take care of myself.

There are days at the office when I'll sit down, start working, and suddenly it's 3:30 in the afternoon and I haven't put anything in my belly all day except coffee. I'll go sleep at night not having had the energy to make myself much dinner, so I'll lie in bed feeling hungry but too tired to get up and do anything about it.  Sometimes when I don't have the kids and I get home from work at 6:30 or 7 and I'm so exhausted that I'll drink a protein shake and go straight to bed.

When I went for my every-eight-weeks blood donation, the nurse who took my vitals beforehand remarked that my hemoglobin levels were so low that I barely made the cutoff for being able to give blood. I don't eat enough, I don't sleep enough, I work too hard, I'm worn out.

So I ate a lot of steak for a week and started taking a multivitamin with iron.

I feel the effects psychologically as well. It can feel lonely. But even if I had the inclination to really try to date, I wouldn't have time for anything but a booty call or a fuck-buddy. Which can be fun, but ultimately not satisfying long term.

So I exercise. And I read and listen to audiobooks. And when we get some decent snow, I'll ski. I try to stay in touch with friends, going to concerts or dinner when I can.

I want to write more. It helps even a little bit.

I can try therapy, if I ever find the time.

So that's where I am.

Yeah.