Rebecca Hendrixson – Page 35

First Time Things

I read a quote, author unknown. It is this: “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” I do most things in my life repetitiously, as do most of us. However, this night I did something for the first time. We were invited by (dear) friends to attend the Reds game with Diamond Seat tickets. I thought it would simply be nice seats with all of the brats and burgers and peanuts and pretzels I could go through without getting sick. But oh, it was so much more.

We parked in a nice garage and literally walked through one door into a lovely restaurant environment. I was like a kid at Christmas. There were rows of food – salads, pastas, breads with numerous flavored butters, sautéed scallops, potatoes, other vegetables and even a guy in a tall white chef’s hat carving prime rib. Last, but certainly not least, was a row of desserts; cheesecakes, frosted brownies, cookies, candies and petits fours. It was great. After dinner, we walked out to our seats. I have never been so close to a professional baseball field; third row right behind home plate. I could see the sweat on Joey Votto’s neck.

I discovered that food heaven continued out there. We were handed menus to choose anything and as many of that thing as we wanted. Of course I was full of prime rib and scallops and petits fours but I knew before I left the stadium that I must have a brat with sauerkraut and mustard and an icy cold cherry Coke. I waited util the sixth inning and placed my order. It did not disappoint. There is nothing quite like a brat at a ballgame. It was a good night. It was definitely something I had never done before and quite possibly, may never do again.

The Middle

I’ve been thinking lately about whether I am an introvert or an extrovert. I believe that people may think I am an extrovert but I am not convinced. The other day I self-described my style as a confident introvert. That sounded totally narcissistic so I quickly dismissed it. Perhaps it is better defined as an outgoing introvert or maybe a loner extrovert. I took a couple of little online quizzes and both times came up as an ambivert, which is a nice blend of introvert and extrovert. Shocker!

It feels I am always in the middle. I am a middle daughter and from there it seems to have set a pattern for my life. I am not fat and I am not skinny. I am not beautiful and I am not ugly. I am not rich and I am not poor. I am neither brilliant nor stupid. I am not successful and I am not a failure. I am happy and I am sad.

Occasionally it may be nice to be an extreme in some area. Yet, given the choices, I would always choose the best of an extreme – skinny, beautiful, rich, brilliant, successful and happy. Perhaps the middle is not such a bad place to be, after all.

Crawfish and Annette Funicello

Work event this evening, magazine release party. Would have preferred to not go, but it was necessary. Took photos all evening, mostly random, a few posed. The food was actually decent, which is not always the case at these things. I was a bit surprised, however, that one of the large metal serving pans was full of red crawfish, eyes and all. I am always up for trying new food, though I was not exactly sure how to eat it; wasn’t sure of proper crawfish etiquette. A coworker of mine was standing nearby and asked if I had tried one. I told him no because of the eating dilemma. He has spent time in Louisiana and told me that the way you learn to eat it is a saying and it is this: “Pinch it, squeeze it, suck it, eat it.” And yes, he demonstrated. I tried, without nearly the success he had. I was not a huge fan – too much work; pinching and squeezing and sucking to garner very little eating. I decided to stick with the meatballs. However, it is a catchy phrase and I’m sure it could apply to other things as well. Duly noted.

While lingering around the food table, one of the women who was preparing and serving the food told me that I look like Annette Funicello. For starters, she died three or four years ago and had been stricken with multiple sclerosis several years prior to her death. The image that came to my mind was of her, at age 70, somewhat crumpled in a wheelchair with large 1990’s type wire-rimmed glasses. Awesome. So that is what I look like. I told my colleague, Jennifer, what the lady had said to me. Jennifer said “Oh no, not in her later years. She was telling you that you look like Annette in the highlight of her films when she was on the beach all cute in her little 1950’s swimsuit.” Most likely not true, but I am going to go with that. Bring it, Frankie.

Ordinary Days

The truth is that most of our days are ordinary. Today was definitely that. A normal day of waking and making breakfast for Mike and me and washing my face and applying makeup and packing a lunch and driving to work. I had much to do at work and basically sat at my desk for eight straight hours, save a few minutes to walk across the street to the Alreddy Cafe for a second cup of coffee. I munched on radishes and tomatoes for lunch and by 4:00 was hungry and stiff and done. A drive home with a normal run by the grocery store to pick up a few things, including some quick flat steaks to cook up for dinner. Dirty dishes, a little TV, a load of laundry, a couple of phone calls, a couple of hugs and it’s a wrap. An ordinary day. Yet…an ordinary day is such a gift. I will take it and be grateful.

Car Trouble

This cool, rainy morning I was driving to work, heading toward the highway. Ahead I could see a car stopped in the yellow striped area in the center of the road, flashers on. It was a light colored early 90’s sedan of some sort. Outside, leaning against the car was a skinny, young black guy with his hands jammed into the pockets of his saggy jeans. Car trouble. Not just car trouble, but car trouble on a rainy morning, in heavy traffic, in West Chester, Ohio, a predominantly white, SUV kind of suburb. As chance (really, chance?) would have it, I pulled up to the stop light, perfectly aligned with his car. I had the thought of offering him money, then refrained. Not right. Then I had the thought of just rolling down my window and saying something, anything. That got quickly pushed out of my head, too. But only for a moment. I was pressed. I rolled down the window and with my best sympathetic smile (and meant it), I said “Car trouble.” He smiled shyly and said “Yeah.” I said back to him “I’ve been there. I know. I will pray for you.” Again, the shy smile and a “thank you.”

I did not forget. I prayed for him. I prayed that he would get help and that his day would not be ruined by this morning’s event. And I prayed that when things went okay, he would realize that there is a God who cares about him and that maybe, just maybe He is worth seeking. I do believe with age comes courage. I’m not exactly sure why, perhaps it is because we lose our concern about what people think, or maybe we realize that not for one moment would anyone think it is flirting. Whatever it is, I like the courage. There is a true freedom in it and I choose to embrace it, for myself and for the ones I hope to touch in some small way.

Never Forget

Sixteen years ago our world changed. I watched a two hour documentary this evening on the National Geographic channel. I had never seen it and I learned new things. I heard stories of survivors, new stories. It is always tough to know whether to grieve the lost or celebrate the saved. I realized that we must do both. These things are mysteries of which I cannot comprehend. Who dies and who lives. The rain falls on the just and the unjust. May we never forget.

Sixteen years ago I was 44 years old. I was just coming into my main years; my strongest, healthiest, sexiest years. Allegedly. I did not know that then. I am quite sure I did not feel that then. The old saying is true “You do not know what you do not know.” I did not know that I was in my prime (allegedly). So today, on this day of remembering, I will also remember that I am my healthiest, strongest, sexiest self on this day. And the Lord willing, in His great grace, will be my healthiest, strongest sexiest self tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. I truly only have this day to be my best self. May I never forget.

My Stuff

Home is a good place to be, in spite of my struggle with this house. Home is where my heart is housed. My safety is locked up in the eyes and arms and smiles of those I love. My stuff is here. We develop such a connection to our things. For me, it is truly not an idol thing. I do not worship my stuff. I do not “need” it. I simply find comfort in it. I putz around with my jewelry. It is not expensive. It is just what I have collected, pieces that have caught my eye, meant something to me. I put my clothes and socks away and unpack my cosmetic bag and hair dryer and curling iron and brush and comb. They are not completely organized. They are not completely convenient. But they are mine and knowing the familiarity is there and my stuff is where I am used to seeing it, well…there is some weird satisfaction with that. As I age, I do want to be mindful to not let those comfortable habits become rigid ones. I know I must remain flexible and nimble and that will serve me well as I continue on this journey of perceived consistency.

Places

A little girls-road-trip to Barnesville, Georgia to visit relatives. Mama had been talking about it for several months, asking us to take her. Time on the road okay. Being the middle sister, I often feel that position literally; mediating, understanding each side, remaining calm. But is there also some kind of weakness there? Some kind of mousey-ness? These forced togetherness times reveal things. I am somewhat geographically challenged and my sisters appear to not be at all. Occasionally I feel a bit dumb about that. I find myself questioning things; questioning my identity. At the alleged maturity of age 60, I would have hoped those moments of not knowing my true personality would have been answered. Yet, there they are, creeping up on me like a goblin on Halloween. Perhaps I will, to some degree, spend the rest of my life looking for my true place in this world. Sigh.

A Table

So today I was between interviews for the magazine and needed a cup of coffee and a quiet place to work for two hours. I stopped in at a local bookstore. I got my coffee, it was good and hot, and headed to the second floor where there is a large wooden desk with chairs and on one side and on the the other, a comfy couch. I preferred the table but it was occupied by a guy and his computer. I opted for the couch. I worked for a solid hour and then decided I should elevate my legs. I had on nice little soft ballet flats so I propped my feet up on the table in front of the couch. I actually got drowsy and closed my eyes for five minutes.

I was shaken to alertness when I heard a female voice say “Excuse me.” I looked up and saw a 50ish year old employee in a green apron. With very little discretion and very little softness and very little smile, she asked me to please remove my feet from the table. First (to self), “Are you kidding me?” Second (aloud), “Oh, of course.” I worked for another 30 minutes but the longer I thought about it, the more irritated I became. This is not the MOMA. This is not the Vatican. Heck, this is not even a sweet little storefront church. It is a freakin’ bookstore in Norwood. Yeah, I said that. The table looked to be a clearance item from Target, at best. Kids color here. People set their coffee mugs here. Maybe I have a problem with authority, though I really don’t think so. I have a problem with people behaving in false pretenses of created greatness. I couldn’t help myself. I took a small pad of paper out of my purse and wrote this note “For the record, this table is not all that. It is just a table.” I left it on the table and walked out with a smile. Small victories, I guess. Perhaps that is part of being 60. It becomes harder to bow to stupidity and triviality.

Labor Day

And Labor Day 2017 is in the books. I know I am the exception, but I am always glad to see summer go. I much prefer Labor Day over Memorial Day. For the reasons I do not love summer, well they are possibly inherent. I am the only child of six who was born in summer. My mother told me that the August I was born was one of the hottest ever experienced in Cincinnati. She told me that the day I was born, she was at Mt. Airy Forest with my dad and four older siblings, kicking a ball around. Later that day, due to excessive heat, she sat in a tub of ice-water.

I am sure my dis-love of summer is also environmental. My hair and skin have never been a friend of humidity. Also, I have lived in a non-air-conditioned house for 21 years. I have also lived in this house that requires constant summer work; mowing, weeding, planting and then more mowing, weeding and clean-up. Those are very often the reasons that I am not on a boat on Memorial Day weekend or Fourth of July or my birthday. And by Labor Day weekend, I am ready to be done with all of that. See ya later, summer.