Linda Hoye's Blog, page 192

Lunchtime with Bobby

This little fellow came to me from a package of Red Rose tea many years ago. His home has been on the windowsill above my kitchen sink when I had one, and these days he sits on the counter behind my sink.

Once upon a time I had small collection of similar little figurines but this little guy is the only one I have left. He is the only tangible thing that has had a prominent place in each of the six houses I’ve lived in since I left my parent’s home when I was eighteen-years-old.  I intend on keeping him for the rest of my life.

He’s stood watch as I’ve prepared, conservatively, over seventy-five turkey dinners. He’s been there during the lean years when I fretted over how to feed my family. He sat quietly by the sink during the difficult years when I lived alone and eschewed meal preparation for one in favor of take-out meals grabbed hastily on the way home from the office.

He reminds me of my mom who let me take him, and the rest of the one-time menagerie, from her boxes of tea. He reminds me of my kids who used to call him Bobby because he has similar coloring to our family dog whose name was also Bobby. I can’t wait for my grandchildren to get to know him when we move back to Canada and they’re able to spend lots of time at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

As I stood in the kitchen today preparing a light lunch I smiled at the ingredients on the counter top–a low-carb tortilla, red pepper hummus, matchstick baby carrots, kale, and goat cheese–and thought about the variety of ingredients that have passed in front of this little figurine over the years.

Once upon a time lunch was often Kraft Dinner because the kids loved it and it was inexpensive. I sometimes got creative and added mushrooms, sour cream, or spaghetti sauce for variety. Campbell’s Soup was another staple: either mushroom or tomato with enough crushed crackers  to give it the consistency of stew. Grilled cheese sandwiches were a favorite, as were open faced sandwiches with bubbling cheese and fresh-picked tomatoes on top during summer months.  Sometimes I’d just fill our plates with an assortment of cut up fruit, cheese, pickles, and crackers and we’d have a picnic in the front yard.

Twenty-five years ago I had never even heard of hummus or kale and I couldn’t have imagined cutting up carrots into tiny matchsticks and wrapping them up inside of a tortilla. Now this is a healthy lunch I enjoy and can envision making for the grandchildren when they’re over.

I can’t help but think about what other gastronomic surprises my little Bobby will witness from his place on my kitchen counter in the years to come; and I wonder if, one day when I’m gone, he’ll find a new home in the kitchen of my daughter and granddaughter and witness the preparation of meals I can’t even imagine today.

Elevator Story

“I’m reading your book.”

I was in the elevator with someone at work the other day when she revealed that she had picked up a copy of Two Hearts. It’s been nine months since my memoir was released and I still get a thrill when someone tells me they’re reading it.

“You’re such a good writer,” she said before the conversation turned to adoption when she revealed to me that her dad was adopted.

It was a brief moment in the middle of a busy day but it set a spring in my step for the rest of the afternoon.

I’ve worked in the corporate world for almost twenty-five years and, at times, I’ve received praise for work I’ve done in my role as a Computer Programmer, Project Manager, and Business Analyst. None of those accolades have given me the same kind of satisfaction as what I feel when I’m told that I’m a good writer.

I hold no illusions that I’m an amazing and talented writer but I love words. I love writing, I love reading,  I love writing about reading, and reading about writing, and I had the tenacity to plant my butt in my chair long enough to produce a book.

When I was about eight or nine I first my parents that I wanted to be a writer.

“You can’t make a living as a writer,” I was told.

Unswayed, I continued to write. I wrote little stories, illustrated them, and stapled the pages together and called them books.

As a teenager I spent countless hours at my typewriter crafting short stories and poetry and pored over worn copies of writer’s magazines. I submitted a few pieces for publication and began collecting the requisite set of rejection letters that I read all writers amassed on the road to acceptance.

In my twenties, one of my poems was accepted for publication in an anthology and I received the first monetary remuneration for my writing. It wasn’t much, but it was something; I used it to get my daughter, Laurinda’s, ears pierced.

My thirties were stormy years and most of my writing was done in my journals as I tried to sort out the chaos all around me.

I didn’t do a lot of writing in my forties; I was adjusting to a new marriage and a change in my career, and that seemed to be enough.

Ah, but in my fifties I’ve been able to honor that little girl who told her parents she wanted to be a writer. Today, I call myself a writer; that’s who I am, it’s who I’ve always been. No, I’m not making my living as a writer, but I’m writing and I’m being true to the person I was created to be.

I think that’s the answer to the question of why praise for my writing means so much to me. Recognition for the work I do in my chosen career is just that: a compliment for something I’ve done. Recognition for something I’ve written is different: it’s approval and acknowledgement of who I am.

If I could step back in time and talk to that little girl who wanted to be a writer I’d tell her not to be dissuaded from her dreams; I’d tell her to set goals and be deliberate about the paths she chose. I’d tell her that the road would be winding and bumpy and, while she would encounter many detours, she would ultimately reach her goal of becoming a writer.

In some ways it’s like that little girl was there with me in the elevator the other day, and my nine-year-old self grasped the hand of my fifty-four-year-old self and we came full-circle.

I’m struck, once again, how incredible the experience of growing older can be with the right attitude and the eyes to see the wonder in an simple conversation with a co-worker in an elevator.

Eleven Months Left on the Retirement Countdown Chain

Change is in the air.

In less than a year I’ll be retiring from my corporate job. There will be a change in my routine, my finances, my home, even my country of residence will change. I’ve been thinking a lot about these changes and how our life will be different next year at this time but today I was reminded that a whole other batch of change is coming my way.

I had an appointment with my hair stylist today and she informed me that she’s changing careers and this would be our last appointment together. I wanted to plead with her to wait eleven more months before embarking on a new career, but of course that would have been selfish of me, wouldn’t it? Instead I congratulated her on her decision, thanked her for the years we’ve been together, and wished her well on her new journey, and all the while inside I was panicking.

A hair stylist is worth her weight in gold–more really, in the case of my slender stylist. I thanked my lucky stars when I found her. She get’s me–she get’s my unruly hair and double crown–and she’s worked magic with it. The thought of starting over with someone new is not something I look forward to. All of her clients are being directed to another stylist in the salon so I’ve got my regular appointment set up for six weeks from now. Stay tuned for a report out on that experience.

This unexpected and unwelcome turn of events got me thinking about the plethora of other changes that are on the horizon for me in the next year.

A new doctor, for instance. Just weeks before we moved here to the Pacific Northwest, the doctor I had been going to for almost thirty years retired. That made the transition a bit easier; I had no choice about changing doctors whether we moved away or not. That transition has worked out relatively well, although I’m still amazed by the way the Canadian and US health care systems differ, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Then there was finding a new dentist. Shortly after we moved here  I chipped one of my veneers and asked co-workers to recommend a dentist in the area. I lucked out on this one. My dentist and his staff are stellar and it will be difficult to find another one of their caliber.

One change I won’t be faced with is finding a new optometrist. I couldn’t bear to leave the one I’ve had since 1978 and so every year I make a trip back to see him for my annual eye exam. I fully intend to continue that routine for as long as he continues to practice optometry so I’m good there.

There are so many practical things we need to consider over the course of the next eleven months. I feel blessed that we’re able to take the time we need to make plans for our next phase. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time but I’m certain it will all work out just the way it’s meant to.

I just hope I can find a good hair stylist. .

It Begins Again

It’s beginning to feel like it’s always been winter. The damp, dark days have overtaken my mind. I can barely remember what it feels like to have sun on my body. I feel sluggish, melancholy, tired, and generally fed up with this season. I’ve had enough of the rain and the steel-gray skies.

So, I dig out my dusty gardening shoes—ugly flower-patterned shoes still dirty from last year’s garden—and venture out in the cool morning. My destination: the shed where Gerry tucked away my gardening paraphernalia last fall.

As I climb up on top of tires to reach the top shelf I have only momentary thoughts of spiders—worse yet, mice!—hiding on the shelves that have been undisturbed for so many months. My resolve to get what I need quells those fears and I grasp the plastic tray I need for the morning’s project.

Later, I stand at the kitchen counter tearing last Sunday’s newspaper into strips. I roll the strips around a can to make little pots. Fourteen of them, nestled together in the plastic tray, filled with seed starting medium. I pour water into the tray and then, when all the water that’s going to be soaked up has been, I pull out my seed envelopes.

Brandywine, Stupice, Manitoba, Pruden’s Purple, and Red Delicious Cherry. Little packages filled with the promise of hot August afternoons, bare feet, and cold glasses of Chardonnay. And tomatoes. Fat, warm, sweet, juicy heirloom tomatoes. Three seeds per pot, only the strongest will ultimately survive, and a light dusting of soil to cover them.

As I work my mind wanders, and I’m back in last year’s garden picking treasures for salad: lettuce, radishes, carrots, peas, and yellow nasturtium blossoms for color.

In my mind I’m reaching for fat pods of peas that I split open, pop the individual peas into my mouth, then reach down and give each dog a half of the pod; all three of us thankful for the garden’s bounty.

And I’m picking the first ripe red cherry tomatoes of the season: one for Gerry and one for me so we can enjoy the first taste together. There is nothing on this earth that tastes as good as a sun-warmed, freshly-picked tomato.

By September I will have had enough of the tiny tomatoes as I struggle to keep up with how many, and how fast, they ripen late in the season. I’ll make a mental note not to plant them next year, but the lure of those early-ripening fruits will win out and I’ll be unable to resist picking up a packet of seeds.

Now, with each newspaper pot home to three tomato seeds, I place a clear plastic cover over the tray and carry it to the mini-greenhouse set up in the dining room—the only south-facing window in the house. I gently place the flat of pots on the greenhouse shelf and smile at the sense of satisfaction I feel at having completed the morning’s work.

I’ll watch these pots closely over the next few days and, at the first sign of germination, will remove the plastic dome that covers them. My usual morning routine will change; as I stop by my plants before leaving for work every day and turn on the grow light. When they’re tall enough I’ll run my fingers gently across their green stems, or turn a gentle fan on every day to simulate the wind, so they will grow strong like they would if they were planted outside.

In time, when it’s warmer, I’ll begin moving the plants outside for an increasing time every day to harden them off, and prepare them for the permanent move to the garden. Then, when the time is right, I’ll dig holes, fill them with an unlikely mixture of fish parts, aspirin, eggshells, bone meal, and vermicompost: their first real meal to help them grow and prepare to set fruit.

For now, I return to the kitchen to put away my gardening supplies and begin to clean up the mess I’ve made. As I scrub my hands, I see there is dirt underneath my fingernails and that makes me happy. I’m content when I am in my garden and the sight of my dirty fingernails reminds me that I’ll be back there, physically and mentally, before much longer.

As I reach for a dish towel to dry my hands I glance outside and see that the sun has broken through the clouds. Farewell Winter, you’ve had your run, we’re on the cusp of a new season today.

Age: It’s a Relative Thing

I was having lunch with a group recently and the topic of conversation came around to my pending retirement. One of the women was surprised to learn that I’m so close to reaching that milestone.

“You look so good!” she said referring, I think, to the fact that I look younger than the traditional sixty-five year plus retiree age. (Good thing since I’m only fifty-four!)

When I was in primary school I was put into an accelerated program and, as a result, for the remainder of my school years I was younger than most of my classmates. As a teenager I wanted to be older: I wanted to get my driver’s license, I wanted to be able to go to the bar (legally), I wanted to vote, I wanted to get married and have a family. I despaired of my youth.

When I was in my mid-twenties I went back to school and found myself one of the “mature” students–a “Golden Girl”–at age twenty-six. Yet, despite that detour into maturity, when I look back over my life I realize I’ve often been most comfortable with people who are a few years older than me. The woman’s observation of my relative youth in terms of her perception of what a retiree should look like sat well with me. I liked it; it fit.

Later the conversation shifted to child-rearing. I sat quietly listening to the women talk about the cost of babysitters (Crikey! And to think I used to get paid fifty cents an hour as a babysitter in the 1970′s.), teenagers getting their driver’s licenses, and “meddling” mothers checking on their children’s plans (“No one else’s mom does that!” Yeah. Right.), and curfews.

I felt somewhat removed from the conversation–it’s been a good many years since I’ve been concerned with getting a babysitter or missed curfews –and it then it hit me: I’ve got children about the same age as some of these women!

I was old enough to be the MOTHER of some of these women! 

Whoa! What happened to that good feeling of being younger than many retirees? In an instant I felt like an old woman, a matriarch, a fossil. I almost had to check to see if I was wearing a heavy wool coat, support hose, and sensible shoes. (Okay, I was wearing sensible shoes, but not those kind of sensible shoes.)

I couldn’t help smile at the conversation, and I sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that I was past the days these women were living and talking, about but as I listened and smiled at their stories my mind was racing and I felt older with each passing minute.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, how the way we feel can change in relation to the people and circumstances around us. In the course of one lunch I went from feeling young-and-bouncy to old-and-feeble all due to conversation of women at the table and my own thoughts about age in relationship to the women I was with.

I like to think I’ve embraced my age; most of the time I believe I have. I appreciate the wisdom, sense of self, and perspective that I’ve gained as I’ve matured. I’m less fond of the changes in my metabolism, stamina, and memory that have occurred in recent years. I’m convinced though, that the positive far outweighs any negative aspects of growing older. I feel more “me”. I’m more comfortable with asking for, and taking steps to get, things I want and need for my own well-being.

I was going to end this post with a tongue-in-cheek comment about needing to spend more time with senior citizens so I can continue to be the youngster in the crowd, but I changed my mind. No matter what demographic I find myself around I’m choosing to embrace being fifty-four. I wouldn’t want to turn back the clock for anything–these are truly the best years of my life and I’m blessed to be living them.

Car Talk

“Someone’s stolen the car.”

I’m guessing it was about 5:15pm when Dad called home to tell Mom that his white Oldsmobile had been stolen. I can only imagine his shock as he stepped out the back door of his office expecting to find his “Iron Horse” parked in the same place he had left it when he returned to work after lunch. Dad was a bookkeeper by trade, a meticulous man, he liked things kept “just so”, and he was in his fifties. I expect that the missing Oldsmobile must have set him well back on his feet.

I don’t know if he called Mom before or after he notified the police about his missing car. The police were called. That I know for certain.

The events that happened next are sketchy. Dad probably pacing back and forth, his blood pressure rising, anger taking hold. It might have been the pacing–the act of being in motion–that caused the jog in his memory.

Oh yeah.

When Dad returned to the office from lunch there had been a barricade at the entrance to parking lot behind his office because workers were onsite preparing to lay down fresh pavement. Dad had driven around the block and left the Olds on the street in front of the office.

Oops.

————————————————————————————————————-

As we exited the department store Gerry and I came upon a distraught middle-aged woman standing on the sidewalk.

“My car is gone!” she told us through her tears.

As I tried to calm her down Gerry stepped into the entryway of the store where there was a bank of pay phones (this event took place a few years ago–before everyone carried a cell phone), deposited a quarter, and called the police on behalf of the frantic woman.

I don’t remember just how far the conversation between my husband and the police went. Again, it may have been the motion as the woman paced back and forth that attributed to her realizing her mistake.

Oh yeah.

Gerry hung up the phone and we walked with her to the opposite side of the parking lot, outside of a different door of the department store, and watched her tears turn from those of angst to relief as she put her hands on her car.

“I usually park in the other lot,” she told us sheepishly.

Oops.

————————————————————————————————————-

I developed a habit many years ago of parking in the same general location–the same row at the very least–at stores, my place of work, church, everywhere I frequent. I strongly encourage Gerry to park in my chosen row when we’re together too.

At times, I’ve been jokingly mocked for this little idiosyncrasy. I’ve never called the police because I think my car’s been stolen though.

Just sayin’.

Don’t Call Me Callipygian

I came across a post on a pretty funny blog called Catharsis recently called Top 20 Words to Revive in 2013. Many of the words on the list surprised me because I use them fairly often and I had to face the fact, yet again, that I’ll never be in step with all of the current trends.

Ah well, I suppose I won’t be thrown in the hoosegow for my faux pas, though I confess to feeling a tad discombobulated as I perused the list.

Since when is rapscallion a “has been” word? I lovingly refer to my hubby that way on a regular basis.

And melancholy? I used that word in the title of a recent blog post, and if I haven’t said it out loud I’ve certainly used it silently in my mind more than once so far this year.

There have been a few kerfuffles in the news these days that I consider to be a load of malarkey, and the talking heads who go on and on with their cockamamie discussions only serve to flummox me.

There are some words on the list I don’t know that I’ve ever used, but now that I’ve seen them I want to.

Snollygoster. For some reason that one brings to mind a dashing young man in a dark suit and a fedora, standing beside a shiny black Model T with his hands in his pockets and whistling a tune. There’s a story there.

Ballyhoo. I think of the movie South Pacific and that island of paradise, Bali Ha’i when I say that one.

I think it would behoove us to not be so quick to put these grand old words out to pasture quite so quickly.

Not to beleaguer the point, but I plan to make a point of continuing to use these words. I can’t stand the thought of words that sound great, look good on the page, and are fun to say disappearing from our language. Kind of makes me run out and buy one of those “word of the day” desk calendars.

Oh yes, and if you really want to call me callipygian, well, who am I to argue.

Twelve Months Left On The Retirement Countdown Chain

A number of months ago I created a paper chain with a link for every month remaining until I plan to retire. I hung the chain in my home office and every month as Gerry and I have ceremoniously ripped off another link.

I’m starting a new series today where I’ll share my thoughts in, what I intend to be, my final year in corporate life. Over the next twelve months I’ll share my musings as I travel this journey toward what some call retirement, but what I prefer to describe as a transition to a new way of life.

Retirement is no longer an event where you’re given a proverbial gold watch at the end of your working life and then head off to spend your remaining years idle. These days many view retirement as a transition to a different way of life that can include new careers or resuming activities that had to be put on the back burner during busy working years.

Lord willing, next year at this time I’ll be walking out of my corporate office for the last time and transitioning to a new life.

What concerns me? The real estate market.

We will be moving back to Canada and will likely sell our home sometime this year. We bought at the peak of the real estate boom and even though the area we live in here in the Pacific Northwest wasn’t hit as hard as some other areas of the United States and prices are on the upswing, it’s definitely a concern. Not only are we paying close attention to the market here, we’re also watching the Canadian real estate market and the value of the Canadian dollar.

I’m also concerned about my health in general. My mom died suddenly at age fifty-five and I can’t help but feel angst as I approach that milestone. I’ve got to get my weight under control and learn to manage stress better. I keep thinking that these things will be easier post-retirement but I know I can’t wait until then to start focusing on them.

I temper these comments with saying that these concerns aren’t keeping me up at night and I’m continuing to trust in God’s perfect will for the direction of our life–even our retirement life. (Still, there is that insecure and fearful part of me that can’t help but wait for the other shoe to fall that will turn our dreams to ashes. Agh.)

What doesn’t concern me? Whether I’ll find enough to do to keep busy and active in retirement.

I’ve got plans to write another book, fiction this time, that have been on the back burner for a while. I made a conscious decision after Two Hearts was published to hold off on getting serious about another book until I’m no longer balancing a full-time job with writing. I’ve been dabbling, but that’s about it for the time being.

I’m also working on a plan to facilitate workshops to help for older woman tell the stories of their lives (more to come on this soon).

I can’t wait to get back to quilting. There are three grandchildren who have yet to receive quilts made by their grandma.

Having more time to spend in the garden will be delightful. I’ll continue my current trend toward preserving as much home-grown organic food as I can and look forward to becoming more proficient at making homemade yogurt and cheese too.

Gerry and I are exploring a common-hobby in the area of photography now that we’ve both got our own good cameras and lenses. (I sense some friendly competition on the horizon!)

What I’m looking forward to. Going home to Canada.

Six years ago I remember asking a clerk  in the grocery story where the J-Cloths were kept, observing her confusion as I described to her the dish cloths I had used for most of my adult life, and realizing she had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. For a time, I had a running list of products I purchased every time we visited Canada.

I miss knowing what’s going on in my country. We don’t get a lot of news coverage about Canada and despite continuing to read Macleans and Chatelaine magazines, regularly watching CBC news, listening to CBC radio, and more recently accessing Canadian news online, I still feel out of touch with day-to-day Canadian life.

Most of all, I’m looking forward to being closer to our family and playing a more active part in the lives of our grandchildren. I’m looking forward to babysitting, having the grands spend the night now and then, and preparing Sunday and holiday dinners for the family.

Planning and preparing. It’s one thing to dream about possibilities when retirement is still a few years away; it’s another thing entirely to take a realistic look at your financial portfolio and make choices and decisions that will affect the rest of your life. Some things that may have sounded like a good plan five years ago are being reconsidered; we find ourselves choosing this over that as we move toward changing our mindset from saving for retirement to living in retirement.

So there you are. These are the thoughts of a pre-retiree daring to dream of this day one year from today.

January Melancholy

We arrived home from enjoying a sunny and warm week in Playa Del Carmen one week ago and ever since then I’ve been struggling to get back in the groove of life. I’ve been in a funk.

At first I chalked it up to fatigue from the long flight and adjusting to the time zone change. I attributed it to the heavy fog that covered the area for the first few days this week. Then, back at work and faced with an over-abundance of email and work to get caught up on, I told myself I was still getting used to my work-life pace.

I suppose I should have expected it. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. It wasn’t long before this melancholy that has shrouded me in almost every waking moment for the past week began to feel strangely familiar.

It happens almost every January. It’s my birthday tomorrow.

For a number of years, a sense of melancholy has fallen over me on my birthday. I insist on minimal celebration: phone calls from my children and a card and flowers from my husband are enough. “It’s just another day,” I insist.

Every year on my birthday, the underlying sense of sorrow and my desire for the day to pass unnoticed is coupled with a sense of wanting to be special, of wishing I was special, and at the same time wishing I wasn’t.

Excerpt from Two Hearts: An Adoptee’s Journey Through Grief to Gratitude

For the past few days I’ve been trying to snap out of this mood. I’ve prayed about it, shed a few tears, and chided myself for the absurdity of allowing myself, again, to be caught up in it. I even googled “adoptee birthday sadness” looking for something to help me snap out of it.

Ironically, the second item on the list that came up was a link to an article I had written that had been published in Adoption Voices Magazine last year talking about this very topic. Oh yes, I’ve been here before.

I came across many other articles confirming that I’m not alone. I’m reminded again that the grief is real and that many adoptees experience birthday grief. Karen Belanger’s poem Unhappy Birthday that she wrote at age forty-three says it well.

There were no birth announcements.

No cigars were handed out.

No newborn baby pictures.

No parent’s joyous shouts.

No counting toes and fingers.

No comparing eyes and chins.

No nursery decorated.

No proud grandparent grins.

Instead the day that I was born,

a mother silently wept.

While in a room close to her,

her newborn daughter slept.

So close we were together.

So far we’re now apart.

Two lives were separated.

A love doomed from the start.

And so each year since I was born,

this day has been the same.

No one can know the sadness.

No one can know the pain.

No candles ever bright enough

to light my darkened soul.

No happy birthday party.

No heart that can be whole.

I am frustrated, even angry, that it’s happening to me again this year. My logical mind reminds me how blessed I am, that I have a family who loves me, and that I’ve worked through the issues associated with being adopted, but I’m beginning to believe that grief becomes hard-wired in someone who has been separated from her first mother and from her entire family of origin.

So here I am again, back in the same sad place I’ve been in years gone by.

This too shall pass. Until it does, I’ll be wrapped in a quilt nursing a cup of tea.

The Annual Check-Up

How’s your diet?

Agh. I knew he was going to ask.

I lie. Again.

It’s good! I’m being very careful. Lots of fresh fruit and veggies, raw mostly. Or steamed. No butter or heavy sauces.

He nods slowly, looking me in the eye, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows I’m exaggerating the truth.

The holidays. You know, the holidays are hard. That’s when it started.

This is the truth. It all started with a piece of shortbread, that led to another, and another, and before I knew it my clothes were feeling snug and my descent down the slippery toboggan hill slope had begin. Five pounds. Seven pounds. Then I stopped stepping on the scale every morning and before I knew it I was in the attic pulling out the clothes I had packed away last year that were one size larger.

It’s just until I can drop these extra pounds, I told myself as I hung them in my closet. It’s temporary.

But now that silver toboggan is picking up speed as it slips and slides down the slope and I’m craving pasta. White penne, stirred together with butter and Parmesan cheese. Not whole wheat pasta; it has nowhere near the same comfort quotient as white pasta. Not freshly grated Parmesan cheese either. Oh no, I want the stuff that comes in a plastic container that is probably filled with a cocktail of preservatives with names I can’t pronounce. Warm white pasta, chemical-laden Parmesan cheese, and butter, all stirred together and served in a heavy stone wear bowl that I can wrap my hands around as I curl up under a soft quilt on the sofa watching Hallmark movies. Comfort food. Filling food.

My diet? My diet is fine, I tell him again. I don’t understand what’s happening with this weight gain. I’ve been so careful. Maybe you should test my thyroid.

Right. He knows. He has to know that I’m lying.

Because once I break down and start again with buttery and cheesy bowls of pasta I might as well head straight to the closet, rid it of my smaller-sized clothes, pack them straight away in the attic and pull out my larger sized outfits. I might as well just admit defeat and surrender to the comfort of Ronzini pasta, Kraft Parmesan cheese, and butter. Lots and lots of butter.

What about exercise, he asks next and I can’t help but wonder if he’s testing me, teasing me, daring me to make a choice whether to tell the truth or to spew forth another half-truth or, worse yet, a bold-faced lie.

Yoga, I tell him. I’ve been taking a class. And walking. Yeah, walking to the cupboard to pull out a pot to cook the pasta in.

And all the while I’m speaking, visions of a turquoise Fiesta ware bowl of pasta are dancing in my head and I’m trying to remember where I put my yoga pants–the larger sized ones, the ones I packed away last year at this time when I stood on this same precipice of making a choice whether to surrender to the pasta or give myself over once again to the weight loss program that worked for me in the past–that same weight loss program that I’ll probably be turning to again this year.

This piece started out as an exercise at a writing workshop in response to a prompt about guilty pleasures.  It may or may not have snippets of truth in it that relate to my life.