That Awkward Age

I Spent Eight Years and $25K for an MFA and All I Got Was This Stupid Blog

It’s been a year since I graduated with my master’s degree in writing. To get this degree, I spent a lot of money I didn’t have, gave up every spare moment I wasn’t working at my job, drove through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel at peak traffic hour, and sat through weekly workshops where would-be writers ripped out their hearts and served them up to each other to be stomped on.

In the nicest possible way, of course. And all for the sake of the art.

I’m still on the department email list, and periodically I get updates about the accomplishments of students and alumni. This one’s got a new novel coming out. That one’s just won a big award.

I’m very happy for them.

Except I want to rip out their hearts and stomp on them. I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course.

I’m feeling a bit John McCain-ish. I’m much older than most of them, and I’ve wanted to be a published writer all my life, and here these young whipper-snappers are, making it to the White House – I mean Random House – before it’s their turn.

They’re annoying in the same way that those drivers behind me in the merge lane pull out and go around me rather than waiting their turn. If there’s not a law, there should be.

Now that I’ve got the degree, I’m spending most of my time trying to figure out how to pay off the credit card on which I charged my tuition and books, rather than writing the Great American Novel. By the time that is paid off, I should be well into dementia.

So here I am with my blog, giving it away for free. But there are intangible rewards.

Just the other day, my husband was getting testy, and all I had to do was warn him: “Don’t make me blog about you.”

That’s power worth a National Book Award. Almost.

Photo: dbdbrobot

 

Big Thighs Give Me a Leg Up on a Long Life

When they were passing out body parts, they ran short on boobs, so I was given extra helpings of thighs and feet.

Thunder thighs--and big feet--run in the family.

Even when I was momentarily a size 8, I still sported a couple of well-packed duffle bags in the pants. I was in college before I realized that most women didn’t regularly get a rash on the inside of their thighs from friction caused by walking. You’re supposed to have a space between your thighs. Who knew?

So today when I read that large thighs may protect your heart, I was gleeful. According to the results of a 10-year study published in the British Medical Journal, men and women with thighs over 60cm (23.6 inches) in circumference have a lower risk of heart disease and early death.

The advantage remains, even when body fat, smoking and cholesterol levels are taken into account. Researchers theorize that the risk of narrow thighs could be associated with too little muscle mass, leading to the body not responding to insulin properly. This increases the risk of diabetes, and eventually, to heart disease. 

But--and get this--the good news is that you Twiggy people can fix this problem so you won’t die from skinny legs. You just need to go to the gym three times weekly and lift weights with your legs, and in three months, you’ll increase your thigh size by 6 to 10 percent.
 
You won’t find me at the gym. For once, I’ve got the perfect body part without exercise or plastic surgery. Besides, I’ll be at home putting baby powder on my rash.

* Photo by Fiona Henderson. 

I'm stuck in Folsom Prison ... and time keeps draggin' on.

I spent five-and-a-half hours in time out last Sunday. No, I hadn’t been naughty. Well, maybe I had, but that wasn’t why I was in time out.

I accidentally locked myself in my brother’s back porch. Without a computer, cell phone or book. Not even a pencil.

When I visit my mother in my hometown in North Carolina, I no longer get to sleep in my old room decorated with the bad paintings and macramé hangings I gave her back in the ‘70s. Because of her advancing Parkinson’s disease (yes, both my mother and my husband have P.D.), she moved to an assisted living facility a couple of years ago, and the old home place has been emptied out and put on the market. Now when I visit, I stay with my brother and sister-in-law, who live nearby.

Alvin and Debbie left for church Sunday before I got up, and I thought it would be lovely to enjoy my coffee and muffin on their screened-in porch before I dressed and headed over to spend the day with Mom. Still in my jammies, I propped my feet on the wicker furniture and gazed out at their beautifully manicured yard and an expanse of thick woods behind the house. A fountain installed directly under the porch, about 15 feet below, burbled peacefully like a mountain brook.

Ah. Five minutes communing with God and nature, and I was ready for the day.

But nothing messes with your Zen-like state more than finding yourself on the wrong side of a locked door. Make that three locked doors and a window, all locked from the wrong side.

My brother, the most talented and hard-working person I know, built their custom dream house himself, so extra details, such as being able to enter the porch through the kitchen, family room or master bedroom, were not spared. But since the porch is so high off the ground, there’s no outside exit.

I felt like the fiddler crab we brought home from the beach in a cage when the kids were little.

I pried the screen off the window with the end of the spoon I’d used to eat my yogurt. Not only was the window locked, but there was a storm window, just as there was on each of the windows in the doors. Breaking in meant shattering a double-sized storm window in addition to a smaller window pane, if I could have even managed that without some small heavy object to lob at the window. Since I was barefooted, there was a good chance I’d cut myself trying to tiptoe through broken glass. I scratched that plan.

There was nothing left to do but relax.

It was hell.

With the burbling brook making the only sound, within five minutes I had to pee. I started looking around for something to use and realized the only containers were the shallow plastic shell the muffins came in and the coffee cup. I really hated to use one of Debbie’s good dishes, so I decided to practice mind control while exercising bladder control.

I thought about exercising, but I wasn’t wearing a bra or shoes. The porch floor surface was covered with the rock-and-epoxy covering that my brother’s business puts down on driveways and around pools. It was just rough enough to make an uncomfortable surface for exercising with bare feet.

I decided to meditate and spend the time really paying attention to God’s showcase outside by concentrating on the display of nature visible from the porch. After an hour of staring at the trees, I finally saw one squirrel run out on a limb. Except for two Monarch butterflies that fluttered by hours later, it was the only sign of life I saw. Nature can be very boring.

Rattan furniture looks nice, but it isn’t constructed for long-term sitting. After a half hour, it makes little hash marks on your legs and cuts off the circulation to your feet. So I took all the cushions off the furniture and laid them on the floor end-to-end to make a sort-of bed where I could stretch out.

I eventually was able to take a nap, but skinned my knee on the rock floor when the phone rang in the kitchen, startling me and causing my leg to slide off the cushion. I heard my mother’s voice on the phone, leaving a message on the answering machine, though I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I knew she was calling to find out where I was.

I turned over on the cushions to relieve my chronic hip pain, repositioned the cushions so that most of my major bones were padded and found myself facing the space under the rattan love seat. To my glee I saw a spider web with some dirt caught in it –- the first spec of dust I’ve ever seen in my sister-in-law’s otherwise spotless house. It made getting locked out worth it. Almost.

After sleeping all I could on every side, I got up and spent the rest of the time on the love seat (that's when I saw the butterflies). The phone rang several more times, and each time I heard my mother’s voice. Sorry Mom. It’s not personal.

Typically I’m pretty good at estimating time, and I figured it was around 1:30, which would mean Alvin and Debbie had gone out to eat lunch after church. Finally I heard them come in through the garage, and I pounded on the door to get their attention.

“You do know that this is funny,” Alvin said, cracking up.

“I’m sure it will be –- tomorrow,” I said, running for the bathroom.

I glanced at the clock -- it was 2:30. I couldn't believe I was off by a whole hour. If I'd known it was that late, I would have used their coffee cup.