I no longer call myself a writer, for the simple reason that I don't write anymore. There are plenty of reasons I've let what skill I had atrophy -- some good, such as taking on other responsibilities or nurturing relationships with my older children; some poor, such as an unwillingness to practice, or a willingness to be distracted, or a weariness with trying to shape ideas into words in an environment where curious and critical youth are constantly looking over my shoulder.
That said, writing is how we communicate over time and distance. Whether or not I feel like writing (usually not), I do want to communicate. So, have a pomodoro's worth of writing.
***
Here's what was on the 2024 bingo card: The Tempest! I am directing, and we are in the midst of rehearsals. This should be a lovely and magical show, so if you're anywhere in the Central Ohio area over the second week of November, come and see it! Tickets are available here.
It turns out that Sibelius wrote an entire suite of Tempest incidental music, so here, enjoy Juno's glorious blessing, and then come hear it live with harmonization for Ceres and a chorus:
***
Here's what I should have expected to be on the 2024 bingo card: the doctor leaning back and saying, "Well, you're perfectly healthy, but you could lose twenty pounds. Would you like to talk to a dietitian?"
This is why women of a certain age put off checkups: because we know we're going to be told to lose weight. If I knew how to lose twenty pounds, I certainly would have done so by now. "It's a matter of portion control," said the doctor, and there was certainly some control going on because I did not immediately torch the office, nor scream into the void, but meekly said "Sure, I'll talk to a dietitian," when I desired to say, "Go to hell."
Perhaps there is a gendered difference in the reception of this message. Darwin, who is a better person than I am, does not have his ego wrapped up in whether one carries twenty extra pounds and so did not respond as if this was an extraordinary request and a judgment upon my very existence as a pre-perimenopausal grandmultipara, and this lead to a tense weekend between us until I got over myself. And at my next meal, I watched my damn portion.
***
Not on the bingo card: the week after my appointment, my oldest daughter (the one who was so sick during her last semester of college, who no doctor would pay much attention to whether at the college clinic or at the ER, who had surgery in June and has been recovering very slowly) and I were at the OB/GYN reviewing her bloodwork, where she was diagnosed with PCOS (not a surprise) and insulin resistance (unexpected). She was prescribed Metformin and needs to eat 80 grams of protein a day and watch carbs, and the GYN recommended a continuous glucose monitor.
Well. It may be beyond human endurance to be asked to lose twenty pounds by sensible portion control, but it turns out that it is simply in the nature of parenting to alter one's diet in solidarity with one's child. And it turns out that eating small portions of high protein and low carb is conducive to losing weight in a person with no health problems otherwise, and I have dropped eight pounds. And as, between you, me, and the wall, I do not actually believe that anything short of starvation would cause me to lose twenty pounds and hit a weight I have not seen for more than a decade and two pregnancies ago, I'm okay with that.
***
Also not on my 2024 bingo card: my son has fallen in love with a female and has moved her into his room.
Dammit, my old cat is 18 years old, and I have been looking forward to a pet-free existence. And now we eat dinner like this:
No one has any respect for my nerves.
