Phew

If you're reading this, you're probably far enough away that you didn't see me this week. You should be grateful for that, because I wasn't much fun to be around.

I had more work than I could get my head around and it just about killed me. I didn't have time to exercise. I didn't sleep enough and every evening I had commitments that cut into the time I desperately needed to finish my work projects. It didn't have to be so hard, but I'm not good at handling anxiety sometimes. So there you go.

At one point my boss had to pull me aside and tell me to chill. That's how lame I am.

On the upside, those projects are done and they turned out okay. The coming week will be less stressful - mainly because I'm taking Thursday and Friday off and I plan to do lots of pie baking. (I'm going to test a cool new crust recipe my mom sent - it uses vodka. Stay tuned!)

Tuesday night was Lyle.

This is a terrible photo - but I was on the front row and he sang some of my favs and a bunch I've never heard but know well now that I've purchased his latest record. Love Lyle.

My apologies to anyone (yes, you Mom) who was worried since I left that stressed-out post up all week. If I'd had time to change it, I would have. I'm still alive and I can breathe without choking now, so that's progress.

Just call me Old Faithful

Some days I feel like a Yellowstone attraction, barely keeping the anxiety at bay as it churns just below my calm veneer, occasionally sending up spouts of steam. As quickly as I jam a finger in one leak, another gurgles through. I'm desperate to keep the vague worries from escalating into gut-gripping panic. Reading books, watching TV, surfing the web, small-talking with friends on the phone all help. So does the Zoloft.

And it's not like there's anything to be worried about. No dangling sword of Damocles or impending crisis. Just niggling little things I can't control at work, at church, at home that aren't worth getting worked up over. But they bubble and hiss just under the surface and if I'm not careful to breathe slowly, repeat reassuring mantras and otherwise keep myself distracted, there's a good chance one small geyser will escape and in that moment of weakness, a thousand others will come spurting through the too-thin peace of mind I work so hard to maintain.

Updates

Every day this week I've had plans to write and didn't. So allow me to do a quick summary.

Monday
A flash of movement in the headlights jolted me out of a sleepy daze on my way to work at 3:45 a.m. A squirrel running for its life, fluffy tail trailing it straight as an arrow. Then another flash. An owl, flying low and sleek, white puffy cheek feathers, beady black eyes closing in on its prey. Poor little squirrel about to meet its maker at 3:45 a.m. on a Monday. And I thought having to be at work by 4 a.m. was a bummer way to start the week.

Wednesday
The person with the building key didn't show up for work at the gym on Wednesday morning, so I drove to another gym nearer my office. I used a weight machine I'd never tried before and strained my right quad. It's Saturday and I'm still limping. My haphazard approach to weight training is probably very unsafe.

Thursday
I spent the evening at South Pacific and came home with the scent of salty sea air on my skin. They had a magical backdrop lit to give the impression of an endless horizon over the ocean. It looked just like the view from my grandparents' Hawaiian condo. Amazing. And the singing! I will never forget the resonant bass of the man who played Emile. Rogers and Hammerstein are masterful. I'd never seen a full production of South Pacific on the stage and now I think I may never see another because nothing could compare to the Broadway revival. I'm now resolved to read Michener's Tales of the South Pacific, on which the musical is based.

I'm writing this now to the sounds of Lyle Lovett. Next week is his concert - front row seats!

Saturday
It's been raining in Charlotte for three days - the remnants of Hurricane Ida. Today, though, the sun is bright and it's 72 degrees. Everyone's out raking endless piles of soggy wet leaves from their yards. The leaf-raking never ends when you live in a town with so many trees. Makes me glad I have a condo with no yard. . . I'm free to enjoy the glorious cool, dry air and brilliant fall colors without distraction.

Are you ready to ROCK?

My dad taught me to love music: Linda Ronstadt, Barry Manilow, Pavarotti, Whitney Houston - anything with a good melody.

But my brother taught me to love COOL music. There was the year he learned to play the guitar and traveled around to all the elementary schools in the district singing John Denver hits. Then came the White Album period in junior high he listened to nothing but The Beatles. High school was was Led Zeppelin, Jimmy Hendrix, Stevie Wonder . . . and all the while I was stuck on Michael Jackson and 1980's era ballad abominations like "Lady in Red." The travesty of youth.

And yet, the good stuff seeped from under brother's bedroom door and into my subconscious so that when I turned 21, a light went on and I was converted to rock and roll. Always a late bloomer, I begged my brother to let me pilfer his music collection. Soon he would become rock star in his own right, recording albums and letting me tag along to his gigs.

Nowadays our conversations frequently include a "hey you should check this band out" reference from my brother. His latest project is a rock-pop ballad co-written with his 4-year-old daughter: "Caterpillar don't you cry, someday you'll be a butterfly."

He turned 34 yesterday, so this is shout out to my favorite brother and main music curator.

Rock on Chris.

P.S. Take six minutes and watch this. Can you believe Sesame Street rocked this hard?! I can totally relate to the kid at :38 seconds in to the video!

Happy Birthday Low

There are very few people from high school or college with whom I am still in touch at the age of 35.

This is one of the reasons I resist Facebook. Once I'm on the site, I know all of the people I knew at Provo High and BYU will find me. I'll be obliged to account for the last 20 years of our lives. The Christmas cards will start up again and the "Hey, we're going to be in Utah for the holidays, want to get together?" invitations.

I know I won't be able to muster the energy to keep up the charade. I'll stop responding to the emails and the Christmas cards will come later and later into the New Year before stopping altogether. And then they'll remember me as a jerk, rather than a curious "I wonder where she is now?" afterthought.

On the otherhand, my youngest sister Laura turned 28 yesterday and she is still in touch - very closely so - with many, many people she knew at 16. She still sees them when she comes home for a visit, her husband and 2 year old in tow. They come visit her in a distant state. She sends cards and gifts and remembers their birthdays. And I feel compelled on the day after her own birthday to tip my hat to my little sister.

She is the most devoted friend I've ever known and I'm lucky to have her as a sister. Even when I'm a little distant and lazy in our relationship, she never lets me slip too far.

I love you Laura. Happy Birthday.

Desperately Seeking Cinnamon

You don't realize how much you miss something until you realize it's missing.

Ever since I realized there are no cinnamon bears in the South, I've been obsessively checking the candy aisles at every grocery store, drug store and gas station. I'm compelled to pop into every candy store I see.

Who ever heard of a candy story with enormous barrels overflowing with taffy, pop rocks, swedish fish and every other confection under the sun - including the really gross ones like spiced gum drops and rootbeer barrels! - but NO CINNAMON BEARS?

I'm beginning to think it's a North/South conspiracy. Spice sales financed the Northern military so the Confederacy banned cinnamon bears out of spite. They must have left that little detail out of the history books.

But now, thanks to a dear, generous friend, I can give up the candy store quest. This amazing stash of regular and CHOCOLATE-COVERED cinnamon bears greeted me at the door on Saturday.


I should be set for at least a year, assuming I can exercise a shred of self-control.

Fat chance.

Filling my time

I will not be spending Thanksgiving with my family. Alas, I will have to find a surrogate gathering to eat my world-famous pies.

But I am consoled by the anticipation of several exciting events. One already happened.


Wednesday night I saw a performance of The Reduced Shakespeare Company with three great friends and laughed so hard my cheeks hurt. See it if you can. Very, very fun(ny).

The second thing is that as soon as I finish this post I'm off to Charleston to visit my friend Jenny for the weekend sure to include talking and walking and wandering and eating and NO MORE HALLOWEEN COSTUME WEARING.

Thirdly, I am going with those same great girlfriends (one of whom laughs even louder than I - can you believe that Mom?) to see the Broadway revival of SOUTH PACIFIC when it comes to Charlotte in a few weeks.

My freshman year in college I spent the summer running the reservation office for the university alumni camp in the mountains. I had to go up in the cold, wet spring as soon as school let out to get things set. . . long before the guests and other staff arrived. My SOUTH PACIFIC cassette kept me company that long, lonely month. Ever since, SOUTH PACIFIC has been my favorite musical of all time. I can sing nearly every word of every single song and tell you which character sings it, where it comes in the show and what happens next. The music is divinely singable, but it also fits with the plot (not like Mamma Mia, which is a silly excuse to sing ABBA songs). Besides, the plot of SOUTH PACIFIC is deep and challenging. There's love, hate, racism, war, fear, betrayal and redemption. Bring on the show!

And finally. . .


I've lost count of the number of times I've seen Lyle live in concert, but I just couldn't pass up another chance. Front row (too expensive) seats. Maybe I'll finally catch his eye and make it back stage for a photo and a quick kiss on the cheek. . . !