Last week was really terrible. My response to almost every situation was tears. I was miserable. One day, I went for a walk alone to the library and passed a house that had been decorated for Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras! The green, yellow, and purple decorations were festive and beautiful. Seeing it made me happy.
Over the weekend, things got better gradually. On Sunday night, I went out and bought supplies for Carnival masks. I thought to myself, that was it. I’m over (or through?) the pandemic wall. I’ve done enough grieving about not traveling this year. There’s no school this week. Things are going to be great. I’ll make a short to-do list and be kind to myself about it. I’ll be less stressed because I won’t be doing school with the kids in addition to feeding, supervising, and managing my household. Maybe I’ll want to craft again!
Did you read anything romantic for Valentine’s Day this year?
I don’t think much of Valentine’s Day as a holiday and didn’t plan anything at all – even our traditional candlelit dinner didn’t happen this year because pandemic apathy yawned and swallowed me whole. But last week, I read a few books that are appropriate for this time of year, and I want to share them with you.
I keep trying to find ways to introduce this book. All of them are depressing reflections on the ways my life has changed during the pandemic (no more quiet time, whether I like it or not). I have struggled to balance the emotional and physical drain of daily life with activities that energize, allow my brain and body to rest, and make me laugh.
This book book did all of those things.
I’ve been gently asked by the Universe to prod my feelings about fatness and fat people.
I’ve gradually added people on social media to make my feed more size inclusive. I’ve followed the movement in the sewing community to hold pattern makers accountable for providing inclusive sizing.
And I’ve been reading Lindy West.
I was in my early twenties and taking courses towards my nursing degree when I attended one Saturday Anatomy and Physiology class wearing a shirt that said “Chubs.” My professor asked me about it.
“Oh, it’s just an inside joke in my family,” I said carelessly. We’d been calling baby carrots “chubs,” and then it became something we called each other, with variations ad infinitum, including the plural “chubs and ubs,” and so on. We made shirts. We never thought too much about it.
The professor looked me in the eye. He said, “You can do that because you’re not fat.”
A while back, I said I planned to write more thoughtful posts and fewer sewing and book posts. That commitment might have happened on a Superwoman day, or sometime before the pandemic. It seems like it was too hard to manage, because despite my commitment, the blog hasn’t changed.
Now, I sit here with a collection of five books that from outward appearance have nearly nothing to do with one another, and I’m trying to figure out how to knit them together into one cohesive post.
By the time you read this, it will be February. Things might be better than they are now, or they might still be about the same.
Maybe you want to consume something other than news, to stretch yourself, or just escape into a good story, learn something new, or melt into a puddle… one of these books might just do it for you. I hope so.
