Burger Girl Eats a Salad

My sweetie and I started a diet a couple of weeks ago.

Meanwhile, I’d made plans to take a couple of younger family members to see a photography exhibit—at a local bakery. It was only going to be there for eight weeks, so we had limited time to see it.

Somehow, the two things did not connect in my head.

The diet was in the “health/eating” box inside my brain, and the photography exhibit expedition was in the “family/relationships/fun/schedule” box.

When I realized what I’d done, I wasn’t about to cancel my plans. I figured I’d just get coffee and let them pick out some yummy little treat.

Well, we ended up going around lunchtime. I had not eaten lunch ahead of time. Can you say, “disaster in the making”?

I looked at the yummies in the case, not daring to let my eyes linger too long on any of them. Then I looked at the menu.

Sandwiches . . . not on the diet. (Not at this point, anyway.)

Salads . . . hmmm . . . salads.

I read the descriptions of salads on the chalkboard. I read them again. There was one that sounded yummy and was (mostly) on my diet! I ordered it.

Twenty or so years earlier, I had sat at an outdoor table at a café in a suburb of Phoenix, having lunch with two of my colleagues from the bookstore. They both ordered salads and something noncaloric to drink like iced tea or diet soda. I ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a Dr. Pepper. I remember thinking, This is why they are both thin, and I’m fat. (Well, that plus the fact that they both worked out and I didn’t.) I didn’t want to be fat. But I did want the bacon cheeseburger. I wanted protein. Salt. Flavor. I was hungry! Stressed! I needed energy!

This paradox went on in my mind for years. I knew my choices were not taking me where I wanted to go. But I wasn’t ready to change. I always thought, I need to eat healthier. But today I want the burger.

Now here I was in a bakery at lunchtime, sitting at a table with two companions who were eating meat-laden sandwiches on crusty artisanal bread and a third companion who was industriously scraping the chocolate off her sugar cookie with her teeth. (Yes, she’s little and quite adorable, and no, that wasn’t the only thing she ate for lunch.)

I ate my beautiful, crunchy, green, tangy salad with chicken on it. I drank my latte. I did not feel deprived.

I did not feel deprived.

The earth tilted slightly on its axis. Hell may not have actually frozen over, but some of the minor demons did have to scrape frost off their windshields. Somewhere deep inside my brain, something shifted.

The diet is not going perfectly. I have stumbled a few times. There is a long way to go. But last Friday, this burger girl ate a salad for lunch. It was delicious. And it was enough.

Pencil Bird

I went for a little walk today and was rewarded with a rare sighting of the elusive pencil bird—sadly, seen here in a state of mangled roadkill, little more than a greasy spot in the road . . . 

Not Far

I went for a little walk today. It was cold out, so I didn't go far. The omens were not good. ;)

Color of Memory

Last spring, it seemed like every item of clothing that caught my eye was peach. I used to love wearing peach, back in the 80s, but it’s been mostly absent from my wardrobe for about twenty-five years. Suddenly, it was all I saw in the stores. (And if The Devil Wears Prada is to be believed, that’s the result of color choices made by elite fashion arbiters far, far away from my little town, and probably a few years ago.)

Anyway, I bought three blouses that feature peach, coral, apricot—warm, feminine colors. Two are floral patterns, and the third is a mosaic print. They’re lovely and almost dizzying for a girl whose wardrobe tends to be a bit somber. 

So I found myself shopping for a cardigan to go with these warm, riotous blouses. What color did I need? Brown? Tan? Olive green? Something warm-toned, surely. And so I trudged through store after store, driving all over town to find something that worked.

There were a lot of drab, tan sweaters on the racks.

Finally I found myself in a dressing room with a few new options, including flowing cardigans in rust and peach. When I put on the rust-colored sweater and looked in the mirror, it took my breath away.

It was one of my mother’s colors.

Now, I’m not sure why I think that. I have no specific memory of her ever wearing that exact color.

My parents divorced when I was quite small, and I grew up with my father. Aside from one stretch of about five years, I spent very little time with my mother. I never knew her well. She passed away several years ago, and I was startled to find her gone. Somehow, despite knowing better, I always thought there was time to spare to test the waters, to tentatively get to know each other again, to build a relationship anew. My wariness was formed in the whirlwind of my parents' postdivorce hostility—and I lived by it far too long. 

When I was a little girl, there was a rust-colored umbrella at my grandmother’s house—my dad’s mother’s house—that someone told me had belonged to my mother. I remember taking it outside and twirling around with it in the rain. Today I have a scarf of hers that swirls in a burst of looping flower petals of brown, rust, and champagne. Maybe those things are why the sweater made me think of her. I associate her with warm, rich tones as well as with sumptuous fabrics—velvet and satin—that I remember her wearing or having in her home.

So in the dressing room, I stood staring at that rust-colored sweater in the mirror for a long while.

It felt like a hug from my mother.

Eventually I blinked and looked at myself, at my own pale face. Next to that lustrous color, my light brown hair looked flat and colorless. The ruffles on the sweater added bulk in all the wrong places. My mother was a tall, graceful, long-limbed beauty, with dark eyes and hair. I’m fair and blue-eyed, and I’m carrying about 100 extra pounds right now. To the degree that God gave me any beauty, it’s of a very different sort from what He gave my mother. Reluctantly, I put the rust sweater back on the hanger.

I reached for the peach sweater. It skimmed my heavy figure without adding bulk. My complexion bloomed, my eyes were brighter, and even my hair looked more vivid next to the lighter, brighter color. Plus, it would go well with those blouses.

If I had an unlimited clothing budget, I’d have bought both sweaters and worn the rust one around the house, feeling snug and hugged. But I couldn’t afford both. I soaked up the reminder of my mother, and I bought the peach sweater.

It’s tricky sometimes to tease out from the tangle of family which strands of their legacy we want to embrace, and which ones we’re better off letting slip away—or even snipping out deliberately. 

There are ways to embrace my mother’s memory without wearing a sweater that doesn’t suit me. A few velvet and microsuede blouses have found their way into my closet. I sometimes wear perfume that reminds me of Hawaii, where she lived for many years. And from time to time, we’ve both been known to wear a vibrant, spring green. It's a color that suits us both.

Family Cat

I went for a walk today and met this fine fellow on my way home. His family had zipped by a couple minutes earlier (kids on bikes, mom jogging). When I’d seen him in the distance, trotting after them and falling behind, I thought he must be a little dog.

Nope.

Safe travels, little cat. 

Sincerity Like a Jewel

“Lois wore sincerity like a jewel,” said Jo. 

It was the loveliest and most original compliment I’d heard in a long time. Jo was her close friend and caretaker, and she was speaking at Lois’s memorial service. It was the first of two tributes to Lois that especially caught my ear.

I’d met Lois a few times but did not really know her. She was an anchor and a beloved matriarch to my friend Markell’s family, so I went to the service to support Markell.

During the celebration of her life, I learned that Lois had poured her energy into friendships, nieces and nephews, travel, teaching, and learning. She loved Jesus, loved her friends and family, and knew how to have fun. She was known for the twinkle in her eye and her laughter. Lois would call her friends, reaching out just to check on them and see how they were doing. She never stopped learning and growing, even in the last few years of her life.

Although Lois and the love of her life (Ed) were married for over fifty years, they were not able to have children. They were both teachers, and when they saw how much trouble other couples had adopting children, they decided to pour their energy into loners, their students, and other people in their lives.

As I’ve realized over the past several years that I won’t be having any children of my own, I’ve wondered what kind of influence I have. Don’t get me wrong – I love my two stepsons, and I happily claim them. (Not to mention that cutie-pie grandkid!) Still, Brandon and Wes were twenty-two and nearly seventeen, respectively, when Bill and I married. It’s not like I raised them. So when I see the pictures that my friends, cousins, and siblings post of their kiddos on Facebook, I sometimes wonder what effect my life has. A little voice in my head says, Who will miss me when I’m gone? Who will worry about me as I get old and feeble? Who will choose my nursing home, gosh darn it?!

Because no one has more impact on other people than a mother does on her children, I can be tempted to believe that because I’m not a mom, I have no influence, no effect, on other people, that what I do does not matter.

The celebration of Lois’s life reminded me that that’s not true. As I watched the slide show and video and listened to people speak, I thought, Look at all the lives Lois touched! Look at all she gave. . . .

In Luke 6:38, Jesus said, “Give, and it will be given to you. They will pour into your lap a good measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For by your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return.”

Lois gave a lot, and she was loved and appreciated in return.

The second tribute that stayed with me was from my friend Markell, Lois’s niece. Markell said, “She is gone, but she left my cup full.” 

Now that’s a good way to go.

Kitties Missed Us

I love going on trips, and I love coming home. I love coming home to my own home, my own bed, my own kitchen . . . and my cats. 

Our son Wes (who's 22) took good care of Millie and Mollie while we were gone, although you'd never know that to hear them tell it.

What?

Not enough lap time?

He didn't maintain your feeding schedule of smelly food at precisely 4:30 p.m. every day?

He set your tail on fire how many times? 

Oh, my . . . 

As far as Mollie was concerned, things did not improve once we arrived home. It was less than a week before Halloween. Because Mollie's been known to disappear for days at a time, we decided to keep both cats inside until after the festivities. 

*sigh*

You're never, ever going to let me go outside ever, ever again, are you?

I didn't think so.

Poor kitties. I don't think they understand the concept of later.

Our other cat, Millie, could hardly wait until I sat down and put my feet up so that she could sprawl along the full length of my legs.

Comfy there, Millie?

Gee, if only I could be certain that she's relaxed . . . contented . . . sleeping well . . . feeling loved and pampered . . . 

Little cat feet! 

Somehow that's not quite what I picture when I read Sandburg's poem.