Dear Jane,
I went to a tea held in honor of your birthday yesterday.
I wore the same gown as I did last year, which you would appreciate. You would also probably identify with the sensation I had after last year’s tea, when I realized that I had cut the gown’s hem too short and therefore had worn in public the 1790’s equivalent of what my generation would have called high waters (this is a term that came into use in the 1850’s, apparently, but it feels biblical, so I hope you will have a sense of what I mean).
My first post here was in December, back in 2017. It’s become a habit to come back to this space each Christmas season to reflect on how we’re observing the traditions of this time of year.
Forever ago, I wrote about having a uniform. It’s changed some over the years. One thing has stayed the same: A wool neckwarmer for fall, winter, and spring, so I don’t catch my death of cold.
The site where I buy these merino wool tubes releases new colors from time to time, usually a few a year, and if the colors match with my aesthetic, I’ll treat myself to one (and by treat, I mean buy a two or three in a spasm of stress spending).
Since I’ve been wearing them for so long, I have every color they make that I like. I found one of my favorites on clearance ages ago. It’s since been discontinued. I’ve worn it so much that it’s beginning to develop holes. For a Same Same person like me who for comfort will wear the same thing every day, eat the same thing, do the same thing, listen to the same thing, just to keep my world spinning at the right angle, the idea of one of my favorite articles of clothing falling apart and not having a replacement was … upsetting.
I went to my first protest since before leaving for Tobago. We returned from our trip July 25, and I fully planned to jump right into my pre-vacation schedule of protests, zoom calls, and writing to powerful people’s minions hoping for someone to listen (a.k.a. emailing my representatives).
I didn’t take into consideration that three weeks of international travel (including that giant hill that I joyfully marched up and down multiple times a day, every day), followed by three nights of camping the next weekend, was going to crank up my body’s inflammation level to an 11/10.
I’m still flaring, but I’ve been able to divert a few spoons away from my joints being on fire all the time back to activism.
We’re back in the U.S. after three weeks in Tobago, our first trip there since covid.
It was tough going to the same places over four years later, and seeing how big the kids had gotten. They were no longer aging an hour or a day at a time, but four years all at once. Our oldest wasn’t able to join us for the first time. Our youngest doesn’t remember our other trips. Two kids are now young adults. Two more are about to be. More than that, *I* felt older.
We’d completed a colossal temporal leap forward in between this trip and our last, and all the things that had happened in between were on my mind, which meant I cried kind of a lot.
