Table Seven

Odd blessings

Two years ago today, I experienced one of the most surreal moments.  And I feel so blessed.  Oddly.  The moment when someone goes from being part of this world and breathing and making eye contact and hearing you to just closing their eyes and taking in one last breath and then, they are gone. 

Hospice had come over the night of September 29th.  A nice lady had come and told us that although the breathing was moving towards 'death rattle' there was still time.  And then there was Nurse Vickie. God bless her, she made a face at hospice and looked at me, "It's close, girl. Just a day or so. Prepare yourself."

And there is no preparing, at least for us.  She was 94 and had asked my brother to give her a picture of us the day or so before, she wanted to hold it and 'take it home with her.'  My brother tried to explain that she wasn't going home, she lived with mom & dad now - with Vickie.  This was her home.  But she meant a different home.  She knew it.  She was ready.  And as much as we were ready - I mean ninety four years is a long long time and she had a wonderful, full life, selfishly none of us were really ready.  

94. And she lived all those ninety-four years to their fullest.  Through wars, marriages, abuse, true love, children, heart ache, laughter, tears, planes, trains and automobiles, language barriers, prejudice, hard work, grandchildren, poverty and then later, monetary comfort, but still the fear of poverty.  Her strength was something for the record books.

Her heart was huge and heavy.  Her smile was rare and comforting.  Her guilt daunting.  Her strength awe-inspiring, especially when you knew her heart ache.  Her ability to make everything okay, amazing and comical.  

Truthfully, the woman did not really age until my grandfather died.  He died at 97, when she was 89 and his primary and only caretaker.  That man died and she aged.  Not even overnight, she aged hours later.  Until his death, she was scheduling rides to the doctor, rides to church, to visit friends, scheduling people to come to her, dinners - at restaurants.  And then,  he died.  And all the sudden she got old.  She went from old in number, young in activity and wife of patriarch to old in number, old in actions and matriarch.  

In those six years prior to her death, she continued to live on her own, continued to invite people over for coffee, continued to arrange rides to church and events, but now it was from a different angle.  The angle of old widow who sometimes questioned her reason for still being on this earth.  And there were scares, hospital stays and reminders that the end could be anytime. 

And on a Saturday in April of 2007, I went to her house with my mother and my aunt to explain to my grandmother that my cousin Kelli had cancer.  24 years old and Lymphoma.  And she had to start chemo and she was coming home from law school.  And there we sat, around her round kitchen table where we had sat for so many other moments over so many years.  Everyone in tears and having such a hard time finding words.  And finally explaining that lymphoma was cancer of the blood and that the beans that carry the blood are sick - it was the best I could do in Greek and my mother and aunt understandably couldn't find the words.  And just like that, through her tears the woman that had become old within hours of Papou's passing was young and strong and like a 50 yr-old machine.  Kelli's cancer in a weird way made Yiayia live longer.   She went from old to 'well, what do we do now...'  And I saw it with my own eyes.

And to Kelli's graduation in Austin, we all trekked.  All the students of Kelli's graduating class were wearing yellow Livestrong bracelets to show support for their classmate who had just started her chemotherapy and had missed the last few weeks of school.  Each of us, the family members, had been given a bracelet ahead of time and we had been informed that they were going to announce the reason for the bracelets (not that knowing ahead of time made the announcement any easier).  There was yiayia, (in a wheelchair much to her chagrin, we forced the wheelchair on her rather than having to worry about walking campus and stairs and stadiums and getting tired), navy suit, perfectly coiffed hair and a yellow bracelet.  Which she wore every day thereafter.  

The telephone was her lifeline.  She kept it in her robe pocket.  Arranging her rides, talking to her girlfriends - there was a list of them that were on rotation to recap and discuss the day everynight, calling the monastery - or really monasteries, from around the US to in the motherland, calling her grandchildren, touching base with her regulars in Greece, organizing errand runners, grocery shoppers - milk, eggs, bread and jiffy cornbread (always!?), rides to the cemetery to visit Papou.

And then in October of that same year, chemo completed and stage 4 cancer was gone.  In remission.  A blessing that so many people had prayed ever so diligently.  Remission.  Remission in a weird sort of way meant that Yiayia could go now.  Everyone was healthy.  Settled to certain extents.  Kelli was well and engaged.  Yan and I were in good solid places with life and Melanie was heading off to college soon.  Her children were all healthy and living good lives.  She could start to let go.  Two months later she moved in with my parents.

Demanding and difficult.  Still with the telephone and now with a nurse.  Refusing to eat and instead slipping it under the table to the dog. Everyday was the last. Cussing in Greek to her nurse and then smiling and speaking to her in English.  Telling the physical therapists to go ahead and leave because she wasn't really feeling like exercise today.  Story-telling.  Answering questions.  Loving and laughing and still feisty.  Very aware of her bank accounts, worldly possessions that she no longer needed, and letting us all know that she lived a very full life, but her time had come.

I woke up the morning of the 30th, without an alarm, early even for me, and I knew. And I called the house.  My mother answered in a complete tizzy.  She said 2 words, maybe and hung up on me.  I remember driving the maybe 10 minutes to their house not sure if she was gone, if she was hurt which is stupid, can't fall out of a hospital bed with railing when you are 94 and haven't sat up in days.

I arrived and it should be known that there is no worse sound in the entire world than that of a death ratttle.  Even the name is terrible.  Whoever came up with the term lacked compassion for what it actually is.  She was making eye contact and aware of us.  My mother kept telling Yiayia that my Thea Eleni was on her way and just to hold on til she arrived.  The oddest part of this terrible death rattle breathing is that in all it's awfulness, right before they close their eyes and go, it's calm. My Thea Eleni arrived and there we were all around her bed - Nurse Vickie said that we should tell her that it is ok to let go - and not 5 minutes later after Eleni arrived,  Calm breathing.  Like she was about to go to sleep.  And then right in front of you, they drift, they are suddenly asleep and gone. 

The night before, after Vickie told me to prepare, I had gone in and whispered all kinds of things to her.  I am the oldest grandchild, not the favorite (we all knew that was Yan), but she and I had a special gig going.  Regular chats.  We would run errands.  Within my DNA, I was definitely passed the Andronis Travel Gene so we talked about exotic places and old trips.  I would show her photos that I had taken.  I swear she made up stories about things I did as a child, half truths, but they were entertaining.  She spent a weekend in Dallas with me when I lived there shortly after Papou died, stayed in my duplex.  And she would talk about my Papou like he was the greatest man that ever lived.  In her eyes, he was. I would read to her from his travel journals.  She would remind me to save money and never to worry.  That it is never that bad.  She would tell me secrets, which really were not secrets, but she would speak softly and pull me to a corner.  She would guilt me (us) into things.  She was appreciative.  I once overheard her thanking someone for something with the words "much appreciate." - which I love.  She was a lady.  With her perfect bun and poof, her clothes, her language, her grace, her burdens.  She wasn't a very good child grandmother - she was too social.  She was a perfect adult grandmother, with stories and time and guilt and love. I whispered thanks and that I loved her and that I would never forget her.

Just like that.  It was peaceful and surreal and so hard to believe that - that was it.  What is weird is that I feel so very blessed that I was there.  You read 'surrounded by family' but it's pretty awesome. I am blessed that my hand was on her, petting in a way, while she went.  It is like that scene in Steel Magnolias where Sally Fields starts saying how blessed she is that she was there when Shelby came into the this world and when she left it.  Well, obviously I missed the entrance Yiayia made in 1914, but I feel so lucky that I sat there, touching her arm and telling her I loved her at her exit. 

Not too long ago, she called me in a dream.  Fitting that she found a telephone in heaven.  Which, truth be known, I didn't believe could happen.  But the dream was so real, her voice - that voice so clear, that when I suddenly awoke, I actually went and checked my phone to see if she called.  She said she was sorry she missed my birthday, wanted to know where mom and dad were going for spring break, how everyone was and told me that it was a big panigiri where she was and that Papou was with her.  A panigiri is a giant festival or carnival.  And I believe that.  I have no doubt it is a party and that she is in the middle of it.

I miss her.  More than I thought I would.  May her memory be eternal.  

L'Shana Tova

I went to the emergency clinic yesterday.  The EMERGENCY clinic.  For chest pains.  Seriously?

Although I do have some soft bits, I am actually quite the vision of health.  My blood pressure is always applauded.  My cholesterol is within the normal range.  I work out regularly.  And with the exception of an occasional cheeseburger and Mexican food, I eat pretty decently.  So when this strange pressure in my chest came about and when I wasn't totally feeling well, I kinda ignored it.  On day 2 of weird pressure, I mentioned it to my father.  

'Dad, I know I am not having a heart attack, but I have had this sporadic, strange pressure in my chest for 2 days now.  I don't know what it is.  I do not think it is anything major, I mean,  I would bet you a hondo, it isn't a heart attack, but it will not go away. What do you think?'

'You are not having a heart attack.  It doesn't run anywhere on either side of our family.  I don't know.  Watch it.  And if you see a doctor I would mention it and see what they say. Watch it, but don't worry.'

I adore my father.  'If you see a doctor...' As in, in passing, if I see a doctor or run into a friend who is one. Fast forward to that evening a group of us went out to dinner post festival meeting and the pressure is still sporadic, but it is back and it's making a statement.  {It is basically pressure between the middle of my chest (just above the center of my breasts) to the bottom of my sternum} Since I happened to be sitting next to my father while we were eating, I reach over and touch him mid chest and I say 'right here, its like a stack of books, just sitting right here'  Even with his concerned face, neither of us really thought much of it.  And, no, there were no doctors at the table. 

I finished my meal, not outrageous, some chicken, a cocktail, some green beans. I went to bed and tossed and turned all throughout the beginning of my attempt to sleep.  And then I wake up - 1:37am.  Literally shoot out of bed, the pain is severe.  And I have a hard time catching my breath.  And I am nauseous, I am still not sure if he nausea is because I am scared, or related to the pain or bad chicken.  I drink some water, talk myself off the ledge, and lie back down, actually lie back upright.  Up and again at about 3:30, 5 and finally at 6:45.  Now I am scared. Not only is it chest pressure, it is chest pressure, panic and fright.  If there is a thought about what this could be, I have had it. 

My first call was to my doctor.  I started calling and then stalking.  I call about every 10 minutes, at the least, and finally they answer.  And goodness, I know that the nurse is going to hear chest pressure and it is a first class ticket to the ER, but I try to explain, I know this is NOT a heart attack, but then the pressure would come while I was trying to explain it to her and I would lose my breath and I would explain this to her and tears would start and well, ER it is.  

I called to let my parents know that I was heading to the clinic and I drive myself.  Oh do not worry that I not only drove myself to the clinic but that I was there alone.  This poor quiet emergency clinic becomes a parade of Kantalis family members. (I'm blessed, albeit entertaining, to say the least)

In case you did not know, you mention chest pressure or pain and point to where it hurts and wow, those nurses and doctors and assistants scramble.  Do not pass go, don't bother collecting shit, you are in the back and in a hospital gown in seconds flat.  But I knew this was not a heart attack.  I knew it down to the coil of my being.  

So 5 hours, 4 family members (even Kiki made a cameo), 2 doctor, 3 nurses, 1 blood test, 1 urine sample, 1 EKG, 1 chest x-ray and guess what - I am indeed a vision of health. It isn't even indigestion.  It is maybe, maybe esophagitis.  Which I am still not sure, even after plenty of reading on the internet, what esophagitis actually is.   On a side note, I cannot even imagine what my insurance company is going to charge me.  Ridiculous. 

They recommend that you follow up with your doctor.  I call Dr. Groff's cell phone.  I should have totally done this at 730am.  At this point, I am hurting, no longer scared and embarrassed. Real embarrassed. I am like that old guy on some random television show or movie that thinks he is having a heart attack and actually just ate bad chili.  

I get to the dr's office, first stop they weigh me - assholes - I have chest pressure, don't you people know to just take me straight back.  Anyway, I wait.  And my mother insisted upon going along for the ride.  She wanted to hear exactly what he had to say - to help me with the blow.  Whatever that blow is going to be... I show him the disc with my x-rays, I show him the x-rays, the EKG results, the urine and blood results, and the 3, yes, three perscriptions the ER dr gave me.  

He starts pushing around my chest to see if it is tender.  He barely hits one spot on my sternum and I shoot up.  And I cried.  I cried because it hurt, bad.  I cried because I had spent the greater part of 48 hours convinced I had a rare heart disease and I was never going to bear children. Cried because I was embarrassed. Cried because I thought I was over-reacting and I hate over-reacting. Cried because it was honestly a pain and pressure that I had never experienced and it hurt - it took my breath away. Cried because I am 33 years old and my mother was sitting in the doctor's office with me.  Cried because I had so much work to do that had barely been touched all day.  Cried because Dr Groff laughed at the stack of crap that I brought him to investigate. 

Turns out I probably pulled a muscle in my pectoral area and it was probably causing the pressure and perhaps there was stress involved - and the stress was effecting the pain.  Stress?  Seriously? Stress! I suppose it is amazing what the body will do when under certain circumstances.  

And even though I am not Jewish, I am making a new year's resolution - to genuinely not stress over nothing.  It isn't worth convincing myself (yourself) that I don't do enough, or I am not working enough during working hours, or that I am not enough or that I am not going to live to make it to 3 dates with a cute boy.  I will calm down.  I must.  

So many issues, so little time. 

**for the record, the pains are getting better.  They are less sporadic and I have been able to sleep and only wake up once during the night.  Progress.

Funky Town

The funny thing about being in a funk is that at least you know where you are...  and we should note that by "funny" I probably more likely mean "ironic" 

I believe that everyone goes through periods of unknowing.  Not everyone likes to admit they hit these brief points of melancholy, disappointment, or gloom, but it happens.  And it happens to the best of us. It is a relative funk - I mean, I am not talking about sitting in a dark room eating a bag of chips, sad - more like just frustrated and cannot quite get it together, sad. 

I found the hardest part is the melancholy.  The not wanting to do much or see people or not returning the phone calls because I don't want to have to play catch up when there is not all that much to catch up on or having to explain flying under the radar, or the anxiety of people reacting to your honesty.  Ok, so there are several hard parts... My point is, it happens.  And it happened to me.  And I am figuring out that the greatest part (I know, the *greatest* as if there is a good part in all this) is that knowing where you are, regardless of how deep or blue or frustrated helps get you on your way.  

If you know where you - truly admit where you are - chances are there is a map somewhere that can help you find your way out.  

Resolutions

I always get anxious just before new years and that anxiety usually lasts til about my birthday.  I spend time replaying the year in my head.  The highpoints and the low, the missed hopes and the surprises, the travel, the woulda, coula, shouldas, the loves, the losses, where I went wrong and where I went right.  The new year, being the new beginning everyone thinks they need to jump start themselves.  Let me be the first to openly admit that the betterment of Dana is an ongoing process which needs so very much constant petting and attention, but just before (and by just before, I mean at about 4 in the afternoon) new years, I start the mental slide show.  It's a form of personal torture, I'm not gonna lie.  It's brutal.  

But it is also one of the most cleansing things that I put myself through. It helps me to figure out the goals and hopes for the next year.  It helps me to remember what all went down throughout the year.  It reminds me of all the trips I took and photos along the way.  It reminds me of what I need to organize and what I need remember.  

And now that it's almost my birthday, I have to make decisions and move forward, holidays are gone, Christmas is put away and hiding, the binge has thankfully come to a close and it is a time to buck up and take the new year as a new time to get better and start things that I have 'wanted' to do

Stress less and workout more.  Laugh more and worry only about things that are worth worrying about (Ha!).  Cut back on the drinking, eat better and get more sleep.  Less television and more books.  Only shop when I *need* something.  Be more considerate, do random acts of kindness, share with people less fortunate.  Do laundry once a week not once a month.  Shoot more pictures. Keep things in their spot. Write more. Breathe. Relax.  Don't get worked up over things that don't matter.  Work towards a flatter stomach.  Smile to strangers.  Make eye contact.  Be more social.   See more movies.  Make time for me.  Save more.  Spend less.  

Cheers to you, 2010, my thirty third year.   Here's to giving you my all.

Unnecessary guilt

Not long enough ago, I was overserved and under-water-hydrated (& maybe drank aggressively) at a party (an adult party), had to have my car driven home (responsible, yes)  by a friend's mother (shoot me) and didn't quite remember all the details of arriving to my dojo. 

Upon waking the next morning, still partially dressed with last night's make up and top part of my outfit, but without contacts, jewelry and headband, and popping out of bed still inebriated my mind started to run, run faster than my body, and then it started to hurt (don't ever drink that much wine again in one sitting).  Sure I didn't go home with a stranger (I almost wished I had), didn't drive myself home and put myself or innocent bystandards in danger (only positive in this story), and I didn't pass out under a table in a club (long story from a long time ago) but I did act like a freshman in college 14 years later than socially acceptable. 

Once I felt fine enough to stand and move about the cabin and try to piece it all together, I started to die inside.  Truth is that the very worst person I can spend too much quality time with is me.  I am not completely sure why others want to spend time with me, if this is what me is really like. I called whoever I had the courage to call (one person) to help piece it all together and merinated on my own irresponsibilty.  The merinating is not a fun part of this process.

No matter how many times I heard that it wasn't a big deal, it didn't matter.  My imagination of what the end of the night entailed was perhaps the worst trip on the 'what if choo choo train'.  What if...  What if... What if... What if... and in my mind, none of them were pretty.   I ate myself up with ridiculousness.  Woke up several times in the middle of the night, a couple nights in a row and was frustrating myself on what might have happened not what actually happened. 

Which was absolutely nothing.   After recently apologizing in person to the kind mother that drove my car home, she jokingly replayed the evenings events.  And my imagination deserves an Oscar.  A huge, heavy, 14K gold Oscar.  And my guilt is unbelievable.  Weird and screwed up and unbelievable. I may be figuring out that guilt is the worst trait one can grow up with and not learn to let go of - an early resolution for 2010, I should probably start working on it from now.  Not worth the feeling, especially when no one else gives a damn. 

The hardest to learn was the least complicated.

I recently found this in a journal from a few years ago and I can't believe I had actually forgotten about it...

I don’t ever want to forget how shitty this feeling is.  My knees went crumbly and weak and not in a Bobby Brady & Millicent fireworks good kind of way… I saw it out of the corner of my eye.  And I was so dumbfounded that I couldn’t even double take to make sure that my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.  HE was the one that wanted to know what I was doing.  HE was the one that told me to come.  HE was the one that not only told me where he was, he gave directions.  He told me he was with friends - I didn't think too much of it and I should have.

When I walked in and it was crowded and everyone was younger and I couldn't find him and I just had a feeling it was a bad idea all around.  I never expected that once I found him and after he introduced me to his friends and bought me a drink that he would then start sucking face with one of his 'friends' right there in the middle of the bar, right in front of me.  It was such a blatant way of giving me the finger.  Favorite Jew has said that everyone has hate in the heart, it’s just a matter of when they are going to show it and I have always fought against the theory.  What a pollyanna I am. What sucks is that I witnessed his hatred or uncaring or just all around assholishness first hand.  I always gave him the benefit of the doubt.  And the words I write here,  can't truly even really describe how awful it was to watch.  I didn’t know anyone could hate me so much.  Why would you ever ask me to meet you when you wanted to or had the opportunity to hook up with whoever you were already out with!?  On the off chance it might not happen and I might be there?!

Thing is, I reacted as per usual and I slid right past it.   I didn’t make it an issue.  I didn’t even acknowledge it.  Mostly because I honestly didn't know how to react, so I ignored it.  I think I was more afraid that I was going to have tears and I was not going to have tears in this crapshoot of a bar with people who didn't deserve my emotion.  I simply swallowed the last of my scotch, gave a wave goodbye and started to walk out…

“I forgot what you’re drinking – I’ll go get you another one,” he says. Please do, I can't wait to see what scene two is going to offer?  No, the two of us are not dating, nor did I think that by going out it would spark the romance, nor, for that matter, did I want to spark anything that night.  And truth be known, we have never ‘dated’ - we just go out sometimes.   And he makes me laugh and smile and I thought it was be easy and fun.  Regardless if we have hooked up in the past,  I was crazy busy with work, tired, and I just wanted him to make me smile and I honestly just thought I was meeting him out for a drink or two and it wouldn't be that big of a deal. 

‘Come meet me…’ and ‘Let’s go play…’ and  ‘I don’t want to hear about your boyfriends…’ and ‘Don’t bring a boy here when I am around…’ and pouting and ‘Pay attention to me…’ and, seriously, ‘When we get married…’ Shit like that is what I have been hearing for years.  Say it and mean it or just keep your mouth shut.

I don’t like him, but I do.  I shouldn't like him, obviously he doesn't give a crap about me.  And he has every right to kiss anyone he wants, as do I – I just didn’t expect to have to witness it.  I shouldn't have to see it.  Do you pretend to like me but actually hate me so much that you want to hurt me?  Did I do something that you needed to get back at me for?  He knows my personality, he knew it would make me crumble.  Without a doubt, he knew this would make me ache inside.  In guilt, I suppose, he walked me to the door of the bar.  He asked where I parked and honestly I answered, 'in the alley.'  'You aren't walking to the alley alone.  Where did you park?'  So I responded with 'under the spot light, but in the alley.'  He smirked and told me to “be careful and don’t be mad…” in the most condescending voice ever.

Are you kidding me?  I am not sure where I found my angry voice and not my I'm-about-to-totally-start-crying-voice -- “I’m not mad, I came to see you and hang out, I didn’t come out to watch you make-out with some girl.  You wouldn’t want to watch me kiss some guy, in a bar!? and I definitely don’t want to watch you hook up with some girl” He pulls me in by my hips, “Don’t be mad, I told you I was out with friends...”

'Then you shouldn’t have invited me to be a tag along' Ass.

Stolen Moment

I went to the hospital to visit a dear friend's mother during what turned out to be her last days.  It's a weird, for lack of a better word, place to be.  Going to visit knowing that it may be your last time to talk to them.  Forever. 

I loved every minute, which wasn't surprising.  I was lucky enough to catch her in at a 'good' time.  Funny, a 'good' moment being defined as one where you simply know what is going on and can carry on some semblance of a conversation... if only that was how we all looked at every day.  We briefly talked about what I was up to, which was babble more than anything else.  How do you find the words to tell someone thanks for taking me to my first high school football game when I was in kindergarten, or I sure am glad you decided to have a fourth child 8 years after your first three - she turned out to be one of my dearest.  You just talk, you dont really have to say what they already know.  They saw it on your face that football game and they've watched you grow up with their daughter.  They know.  At least I knew she knew, so I didn't say anything.   

I leaned in, kissed her hand and told her I would check on her later.  As I turned to gather my things and leave and see what I could do to help everyone while they go through the motions of an unfathomable time, other people had arrived there to say good-bye in their own words. 

My friends mother in law had come and sit down on the edge of the hospital bed.  She began with a 'you look beautiful...' and once she realized what a 'good' moment she caught, she leaned in...
mother-in-law - 'As a mother, I cannot thank you for always treating my son with such kindness and love.'
mother - 'Don't.  Just please do the same for my daughter once I am gone...'

Wishing

I was listening to a friend’s story over a late dinner when I felt the vibration of the phone in my pocket. I couldn’t answer, or even acknowledge I was ringing at that moment. But in my thoughts, and in my heart, I wished it were you. I wished you were calling to talk and listen and share and learn. Of my latests; of yours. I wanted – I needed, with everything I had, to hear your voice.

It wasn’t you. And you won’t call. Communication was always the issue. I talked. You listened. I wanted so desperately to hear you. You smiled that sweet smile and provided minimal speech, sometimes nothing. I yearned for stories and whispers and to discover all that you had to offer. You have so much to offer. Only you don’t like to offer. Or you aren’t sure how, or you couldn’t share with me, or you simply preferred to listen.

In the beginning we would walk. And I would talk. And you would listen. Perhaps it was because of my constant gab that you knew me so very well and that I longed to learn more about you. I tried to gather your past, brazen prying. Maybe you did offer me all that you could? Maybe I needed more. Maybe you needed more. Maybe we were just too opposite to jump this hurdle.

How absurd to want, to need, to hear you say you don’t want to talk anymore. You asked me out and I asked everything after that. My constant questions were really my way of trying to get you to share. To learn about you - to know you as you knew me. Those queries were met with such resistance, such joking by pass that it still pains. And it wasn’t an easy time - riddled with both expected and unexpected change along the way. I, without doubt, know I didn’t do everything right. Or most things right, for that matter. It wasn’t a perfect relationship. I said it, my relationship that isn’t a relationship, really was, and at times more than that. And as much as I hurt, and want to talk about it, I know you hurt, silently.

Looking back, I remember small clues you handed out, so carefully, I am sure I missed most of them. You sensed when I desperately needed your thoughts. Sadly, I needed more than clues and hesitant verbage, I needed words. Blatant speech. Ironically, you handed comments and observations to everyone else; your verbal wall high when it came to me. Mine guarded from a different light. I hesitated to say those words because I needed you to say it first. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t expose that part of my being, too. Although, I did - eventually. It wasn’t the right time, or romantic, but it was necessary. I needed you to know. And I did; I do.

I know that feeling of wishing you are on the other end of the line will take time to go away. Will it ever simply disappear? Is it wanting what you can’t have, or not being able to have what you want? I continue to wish you love, laughter and contentment, from afar.

Just because it wasn’t right, doesn’t mean I didn’t want it to be.

Mystic Tanning is not for me

Last night, I come home from work and I decide I need to be tan. It has been on my brain for a few weeks now and although tanning in a tanning bed is MUCH easier, my want for a small army of children has prevented me from lying down in a tanning bed, I read some article that it burns your ovaries, not to mention causes wrinkles and since I am against plastic surgery, I decided to take a different approach…. mystic tanning. Everyone says its great not to mention so easy a monkey could do it… I am obviously, sadly, dumber than a monkey.

So I get home and I begin my research. I take out the yellow pages and begin calling nearby tanning salons. No one in my neighborhood has mystic tanning chambers as of yet. They are all going to get them in the next few months… but everyone that I speak to is pushing me towards one particular tanning salon. They have mystic tan, they are the best. I call, I talk to Laura. She re-itterates that it is so simple, everyone loves it, it looks great, it is $20, I tuned out after that. I was sold.

What is $20 for a golden brown hue that is so simple to achieve. I am ready. I have changed clothes I have it in my head that this is an excellent idea. I will be golden brown and beautimous. I will glow in the midst of winter. I am full of crap.

Walking into a tanning salon, I have come to the conclusion, is probably quite similar to what it must be like to go to an adult XXX video store. Not that I am for certain, just a hunch. There is that nervousness that someone you know may either see you entering the said establishment or worse you may see someone once inside, who will probably be just as embarrassed as you. There is that heinous scent that takes over your entire nasal cavity, not to mention the terrible scent jumps into the fibers of your clothing and onto your skin and sticks to you, and its grasps on for dear life - its not going anywhere and its so disgusting. And it lingers as a cruel reminder of what you have done. Finally there is that dirty feeling. There is that question if they really are as sanitary as they make themselves out to be and if you really allow yourself to ponder the thought - it makes you want to soak in peroxide. Naked. For several hours.

I park and as I am walking in i notice that its empty. Lucky for me, no one will see me and I will have the workers undivided attention, as I am new to the experience, and I think will need all the help I can get… I was so mistaken. Yes, I walked in alone, but within seconds there are 15 people behind me. Standing at the counter what appears to be a 12 yr old boy, who is desperately trying to grow facial hair, smiles and says, ‘last name?’ dk: Oh? I am not a regular. I am here for mystic tanning. I called earlier and spoke with a Laura. 12 y-o boy: Ok, well have you done mystic tanning before? dk: No. This is my maiden voyage. boy: Oh! you will love it! It’s so easy and looks great. Fill out this sheet and I will be back with you in a sec. dk: thanks as i am filling out the paper work, the tanning salon is being inundated with college students whom I would bet are trying to get a base tan before they head out on their respective spring break beach trips. One attractive boy-child even says, “is bed #10 available? I have the best results from bed #10.” Sadly for him, its not, someone still has 8 minutes in it. He chooses to wait… where am I?! I have entered another dimension, one that I havent a clue how to deal with…

I hand him back the papers… boy: You can have one for $20, or buy in packages. 2 for $31, 3 for $48. dk: Yes, laura told me that. But its my first time, I better make sure I like my results, before I over-invest… boy: (obviously upset he didnt make the upsell, but not going down that easy) Smart idea, Dana, but what about some of our products that help to make the mystic tan last longer, and appear more golden. dk: yeah, I will check those out on my next visit (have to be honest, I really didn’t think there was going to be a next visit, but I was going to try it.) I continue with the young boy who is trying so hard to get me to spend more of my money - let’s just have one session of mystic tan and no products. Thanks.

The action of only purchasing one time and no prodcuts was the first of ONLY two smart moves of the 15 minute adventure. Here we go… $20 down the drain, literally.

I follow the 12 yr old back to room #3. we enter. he looks at me… boy: Dana, its simple. You are going to undress. You will use this barrier cream (on the wall is barrier cream, it is called barrier cream because it somehow, amazingly makes a barrier on your skin and where you place this barrier cream you will not be mystic tanned) put the barrier cream on the palms of your hands, on your feet, in between your toes and your fingers, rub a layer across your cuticles. (please note he is sort of acting out every move. I, on a 2 second delay am also acting out every move, so as not to forget anything.) Put on a shower cap. Be sure to not cover your hairline, or your ears. step into the gas chamber (ok, he didnt call it a gas chamber, but at this point, he should have) with your legs shoulder width apart, arms bent, fingers slightly curled. Press green button. About 2 seconds after you press the green button, the spritz will begin. It will spray you for 14 seconds. it will stop for 2 seconds, turn around. Same position, back facing spritzers. When your back side is finished, step out, and rub off any excess mystic tan with this towel. Wipe yourself down, put back on your clothes, and dont shower or work out for the next 6-8 hours. Got it? Any questions?

At this point, I reinact all the steps. I repeat it back to him. He is all smiles, and says, “I am telling you, It. Is. Easy” Famous last words.

He steps out. I lock the door behind him. I stare at myself in the mirror. I have a moment of a nervous chuckle. And de-robe. As I stand naked applying the barrier cream to my palms - I wonder what the person who is probably sitting in the back watching me on some total invasion of privacy video is thinking. I chuckle again and put on the shower cap.

Here comes the second and final smart move of the mystic tanning adventure. I had a doctors appointment the day before. My face is sensitive, it has been through a world of trauma from the laser and I think to myself - I don’t know what kind of chemicals are in this secret golden spritzer, I should probably cover my face - I don’t want to have some freak out face explosion. I shower cap my face. Plus three cheers for thinking, but minus 8 for the entire extravaganza. So barrier cream is applied. Shower cap on head. Shower cap on face. Naked, otherwise, ready to enter chamber.

I stand there, legs shoulder width apart. Arms bent, remember once you start you have to complete both sides… deep breath. push green button. Spraying and praying begins. I am not inhaling. I am only on a constant exhale. I am trying not to breathe this heinous chemical. 14 seconds is so freakin long. Spritz stops. I quickly change sides. Spraying resumes. It finally ends. I jump out. I take the towel that is hanging there that the 12 yr old assured me is clean, “we are very sanitary, we clean every room after each patron, new towel, disinfectant, blah blah, I tuned him out I couldn’t think about it in too much depth or I would sick myself out. so I am wiping myself down, back of my ankles, calves, backside, shoulders, arms… I am wiping feverously, so as not to have it dry randomly on my body. I had yet to realize I am a lost cause. I take a second and look at myself in the mirror. Figured I might as well give the guy watching me on the invasion of privacy video a look to see how the mystic tanning has paid off. I see no difference. Except for what appears to be black vericose veins on both my legs. I take the towel to them again and rub rub rub…. still there. Let’s just pray they fade. I walk out of room number 3. Throw out a thanks as I am walking through the lobby, trying not to make eye contact with anyone that may be sitting there wallowing in that god-forsaken I am cooking myself scent, and exit the front door.

I think my favorite early response was, “oh dane, you have this mark on your back that looks like you got hit with a paint pellet gun and it splattered down the rest of your back, but if you are wearing a strapless shirt, this marking should fall below it…

I am going to tell you, that it amazingly gets darker over the next few hours, so we are going to have to inspect in the morning… ” I woke up at about 330am. I smelled so so so bad. I went into the bathroom and applied a flowery lotion of some sort. I dont even know what it was. It was dark, i was still essentially asleep and I just know it smelled pretty. I climb back into bed. When I awake, I cannot shower soon enough. I spent longer than usual in the shower. Scrubbing my body. Head to toe. 2 different exfoliators. One with sand, one with hell if I know granuals that are supposed to take off all the dead skin. I had a secret hope that the scent had killed the top layer of my skin overnight and if I was lucky, it would flake right off with the exfoliators, in plural. Parts of my body appear to have been plagued with that Michael Jackson discoloration disease. lucky for me they are parts that dont really count. The black vericose veins are non existant. My wrists look a little unfortunate. The palm of my left hand will not be waving at anyone over the course of the next 2 days, maybe the week. Knuckle bumps for everyone….

My heels are truly the unfortunate parts. Truly. I am missing an entire tiger stripe on the back of my right calf. And it is in an odd diagonal shape and I have no idea how it could have happened… Lesson learned. Mystic tanning isnt for me. I have showered. I have exfoliated. I have lotioned myself with enough lotion for a small olympic diving team after being in the sun all day. I even perfumed. A lot. And as I sit here at my desk, I get random whiffs of the tanning salon. I am not sure if it is my imagination or if its a vicious reality. I spent $20. I cannot watch it go down the drain fast enough. Mystic tanning is not for everyone.

This is from a couple years ago. I still don’t mystic tan. Although, when people have heard this story along the way, they always try to convince me how great it is…

F*T

Sometime right after college a friend from high school’s grandmother passed away. I had met her several times and was close with her grandson, therefore I went to pay my respects. My friends mother was already teetering on crazy, so losing her mother can definitely take partial blame for throwing her over the edge. None the less, it was the visitation the night before the funeral. I went in, paid my respects. As I was about to leave, the mother said she would walk me out, she needed a cigarette. She asked me to talk to her while she smoked. We briefly discussed what my new job was all about and how I liked being back in Houston, when the conversation turned to the most unforgettable, almost haunting. She asked if I was dating anyone. I wasn't so my answer was no.  Out of no where, she went on a rant about how much her son and his friends cared about me and enjoyed my company throughout high school and even college. “You have so much to offer, Dana. Joe* loved you, he has always thought you were amazing. All those boys do. But do you know why they have never been interested in dating you? [she left me no time to answer this question, fyi] They don’t have any desire to date you because you are fat. FAT. Pretty, but fat. You should think about doing something about it, really. I teach aerobics sometimes, that might help. Because you. are. fat.”

Fat. I can hear her saying it now. It’s a three letter, monosyllabic word, and yet, her pronunciation resonates to this day. It was so awful. And what was worse, is that I think I actually said ‘thank you’ and turned and walked to my car. I didn’t tell anyone for years after that. Years. Mostly becuase I think I was scared that if I were to repeat the story, whomever I was telling, might agree with her. I can tell you what I wore that day. I can tell you that I had actually fit into a pair of pants that were usually tight. I can tell you this, not because my outfit was spectacular and not because the pants were anything special. I can tell you what I wore because when I finally got home, I stared at myself in the full length mirror. For hours. And I cried. Like a teething infant.  It was such an awful experience. I didn’t like the word fat prior to that encounter. Now when I hear it, I think of me and this woman sitting on a curb outside a funeral home. Fat. FAT .

Growing up we weren’t allowed to say shut up or stupid - my parents considered it just as bad as shit or bitch. I don’t have children, yet, but when the time comes I think fat will be taken out of their vocabulary.