I realized Wednesday that this alone time was more important than ever.  Only now, it wasn’t as much an escape from real people but the ones I am tempted to argue with online.  For years I have avoided the pitfalls of reading or participating in the cluster that is the comment section of articles.  I don’t know what has changed or what has driven me to look at them lately but geeze, they are awful.  I mean, everyone knows this right?  WE all know that these are just hideous little microcosms of anger and frustration but holy shit, it is so easy to get sucked into the train wreck.  And then I just feel all mad and disappointed in the world.  I have had to retrain myself not to look.  Not to read one single comment.  If there is one bit of social media that could disappear and we would all be better for it, it is the online feuds between complete strangers.  And it is everything.  I mean politics of course, but anything can ignite online warfare.  Grammar can set even the most mild mannered librarian into a tizzy.  For a while we had the notorious gang rivalry between the Boomers and Millennials.  

Because you know, when one was born is something to get riled up over.  My children still harbor much resentment against the Karens of the world.  Though when confronted directly on their actual interactions with said Karens, neither can give me concrete examples.  But I am assured this is worthy of dedicating quite a few angry brain cells to.  

And I guess this is the crux of my issue.  It feels very much like the world is competing for my anger.  The online world wants my attention, and I guess the algorithms find the easiest way to engage people is to enrage them.  Again, something we all know and yet…..even knowing it is a trap, I still sometimes fall in.  And a fall usually results in hours wasted that I will never get back.  And at 57, I don’t need to waste hours being right with people I don’t know.  It is stupid.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  And yet on some articles I will read they have 5 or 6000 comments.  So lots and lots of us are busy being stupid.  

It reminds me of my brain on my ex-husband.  In the months before I left him, most of my thoughts were absorbed with being angry, unhappy, guilty, frustrated and just full of negativity.  The weight of all of that was lifted when I was out.  It was as if my brain had been freed.  Suddenly, I could enjoy life because I wasn’t mad all the time.  We have currently chained ourselves to a bad online marriage.  

Sure, there are real things in the world to be upset about, and they warrant action.  But arguing online is distraction not action.  It shackles us to a conversation that is going nowhere.  Unlike volunteering at a Soup Kitchen or participating in a trail clean up or even going to a play or local festival.  Being part of a real community where people are working or enjoying something together. Monday I was walking on my normal trail and while I was taking pictures, a man who had been trail jogging sat on the reward bench.  It is positioned at the perfect spot to take in the Flat Irons and Long’s Peak.  It is lovely.  I said as much to the man in passing.  To my surprise, he was more than happy to engage.  There is a fine line on these trails.  People are often there to enjoy the solitude so interacting happens with a light touch.  He chuckled that since the bench had been added to the trail, it sabotaged his work out.  He now spends 20 minutes cooling off and enjoying the view before carrying on.  But we both knew that this is exactly the type of distraction we humans need.  20 minutes listening to song birds, watching the way clouds cast shadows across the mountains and enjoying green appear where it has been brown for months and months.  

When I am in my car listening to Chan Chan, or on open land silently passing other walkers, it feels like my brain is charging up.  It reminds me why I care about clean air and water and biodiversity.  It isn’t because I want to fight with someone online.  It is because I actually love these things.  I actually love most people.  I love the little girl next door who shows up unannounced at the front door to give us handmade cards and tomato plants.  I love the Renaissance summer camps that were happening at the park we were at yesterday.  Tons of whipper snappers battling in capes with pool noodle swords. 

Disengaging from the online outrage and re-engaging in community and yourself isn’t detaching from what is going on.  It is reconnecting to a world that is going about its daily business.  Helping someone look for a lost dog, holding the door open for the person after you, looking for the milk container with the longest expiration date.  That world isn’t following you down the sidewalk trying to pick a fight because you are wearing socks with your Birkenstocks.  That world tends to rejoice in the glimpse of a rainbow.   Whereas the online world will argue for days on whether or not it was a good or bad rainbow.  Some will think it was too short, too long, too dull, not a double rainbow and therefore a crap rainbow.  Everyone will get mad and be right and then there will be sides and some will think it was a conservative rainbow and some will think the clouds are too liberal.  The result, no one enjoys the rainbow.  I want to enjoy the rainbow.  I want everyone to enjoy it.  I know I will fall back into the hole.  It is inevitable.  But today I am looking up, and the view is amazing.   

This past weekend a friend gave me a watercolor set. An early birthday gift, and very timely. I had been wanting to get back into painting but kept procrastinating. Part of it was that great fear: I am going to be the only person ever to forget how to ride a bicycle. And then there's the whole, What am I going to paint? Well, missy — you have thousands of photos taken over the years with the express intent of painting them "someday." Someday is here.

I have always loved drawing and painting sculpture, and recently I stumbled across a statue by Nnamdi Okonkwo on a morning walk. The sun was creating dramatic shadows. Shadows do heavenly things to sculpture. This piece in particular seemed to be settling into the earth, feeling the sun on her face, comfortable in her own bronze skin.

I can't explain how drawn I was to it. I think the sculptor says it best: "My work is simplified and expressive of an inner largeness and capacity of the human soul. My emphasis is on aspects of our common humanity, which I find beautiful, noble and even divine. It is my hope that my sculptures are, for many, a shrine of hope and inspiration." — Nnamdi Okonkwo

I had assumed a woman had sculpted this. I was delighted to discover it was a man — a 6'9" man from Nigeria who entered the US when he was recruited by BYU-Hawaii to play basketball in 1989. By 1997 he had both a BFA and an MFA in sculpture. The US has been lucky to have this talented artist in residence ever since.

The whole time I was painting, I kept thinking back to a college art professor who told me to paint what I know. I had painted a Middle Eastern woman in nothing but black ink — standing in sand, gauzy fabric whipping around her, nothing visible but these deeply penetrating eyes. How could I not try to capture that? What was I supposed to paint instead — my messy dorm room? According to my professor, yes. Exotic Middle Eastern women, no.

I remember being irritated. I didn't yet have the skill or confidence to debate him. And it would be one thing if he simply hadn't liked the piece — that's legitimate. But he did like it. He graded it lower because he said it didn't represent me. Thank you, sir. I suppose the female figure drawings in your studio are more legitimate because you have carnal knowledge of your subjects? You see them through the male lens — you can claim connection through intimacy. And this is somehow more valid than the female lens? Where I see beneath the cultural differences to the woman herself. Where I see her silenced, but still fierce.

Yeah. I call bullshit.

To anyone picking up a pencil, a paintbrush, or a hunk of clay: do whatever the heck moves you. Not what you think someone else thinks you should create. If your thing is cows and you live in the middle of Manhattan, do it. If you live in Alaska but love painting tropical sunsets, do it. No one but you knows your muse. It can be ever-changing or always the same. One of the reasons humans make art is precisely because it isn't literal. We get to reimagine our world and invite others to come along.

This statue spoke to me. In her simple attire and relaxed demeanor, she is the essence of confident beauty. I wanted to try to capture that — while letting watercolor do what watercolor does, which is wander around the page with complete disregard for your intentions. I haven't used the medium in years, and I didn't have the page nearly wet enough for much of that magic to happen. Also, feet and hands still frustrate me. I had one petty, fleeting thought: apparently I don't know feet and hands. So I used the time-honored chicken-out technique and covered them in foliage. But even as I was chickening out, I was gathering courage from my subject. The courage to bypass self-doubt, trust the line, and commit.

It was a good start to getting back on the bike.

I am typically not a hardliner. I love camping in our van because it isn't overly primitive or overly posh. It has a heater and an air conditioner. And most importantly, a toilet. I want to avoid walking to a pit toilet at 3am. I like my thrift clothes but I also like the cute 1950s-inspired skirts I got at Rockin' Bettie's in Las Vegas. I want to be green, but for more than half a century I have contributed my fair share to the landfill situation. I love a good public transportation system but I equally love my comfy Palisade with its third-row seating. I was happy enough with public school for one kid and homeschooling the other. I even did a combo of formula and breastfeeding back when you were supposed to be team boob or bottle.

I know all of this seems very non-committal. But in an overly opinionated world, we can forget there are lots of right ways to do life.

Currently I am on my couch, where I will likely be for at least another hour. Meanwhile, I can clearly see joggers out on a trail behind my house. It is 7:30am. My YAs are upstairs and won't rise for another four hours. You have your late risers, your early risers, your neat freaks, your in-betweens, and your slobs. I largely fall into the last camp. I have never been a good housekeeper. My kids had the joy of climbing the mighty clothes mountain and scrummaging for clean socks five minutes after our drop-dead leave time. I throw no stones. I don't take a lot of hard stances because, at least in my experience, life is messy. Dealing with it may mean a spotless house or a cluttered one.

Which brings me to something I read: apparently we are now in the Beta Mom phase and have left the Alpha Mom phase. Darn, I missed my chance to — what does Google say — be an Achiever, Leader, and Trendsetter. Those are the positives. Overbearing and pushy are the negatives. Am I the only one who thinks these grand proclamations are silly? Aren't most of us both, or neither, depending on the day? Don't most of us fall in the middle?

AH HA. There it is. Being in the middle is average, and being average seems boring. In a world of influencers and social media, over the top sells. Average is the kiss of death.

I have been on the planet for a while, and I have spent most of that time in the middle being average. I would like to make the case that average is actually the sweet spot. I know, I know — I just said there are lots of right ways to do life. But average gets overlooked. Someone needs to defend it, and who better than me, just a run-of-the-mill human.

When you are average, you celebrate the little things. Getting your kids to school on time every day for a week. Do it two weeks in a row and it's cause to go out for ice cream. So when you work hard, support your family in that middle management job, and can finally splurge on tickets to Shakespeare in New York — that is a HUGE deal. If your life is always high-adrenaline, always going to THE places and being seen by THE people, downtime can feel like the space between the big stuff. Almost like a waiting room before the main event.

But when you are average, the waiting room is the main event. It's where you listen to your child's playlist on the way to school. Where you watch in amazement as 17 and 18 year olds let the kid inside come out during their last Girl Scout meeting at Build-a-Bear. The pride in holding down that middle management job for over twenty years while raising two kids and planning the occasional exotic adventure. The pride in finding the unicorn meal that everyone in the family will actually eat. Taking an hour for yourself after giving to everyone else all day.

The victories of the average are anything but. I love our occasional dalliances into over-the-top moments. But I equally love sitting on the couch with the family, eating a rotisserie chicken from Sam's, watching Taskmaster while we chatter commentary.

My friend's Tom Hiddleston tickets are going to be extraordinary. And next January, when she texts from New York, I'll be right here. Probably on this couch. Probably with a rotisserie chicken. Genuinely delighted for both of us.

I headed out with my favorite walking companion, John Green. He and his wonderful book The Anthropocene Reviewed are in my ear. I have a little less than four hours left and I am already mourning what I will do when it is complete. For now I allow myself one or two short stories, then spend the rest of the walk resonating over them. And listening to birds. I have recently discovered the Western Meadowlark. I am convinced some of the sounds R2-D2 makes were recorded from this guy. Claude says no. It was Ben Burtt's voice run through a synthesizer that coincidentally came out sounding like a Western Meadowlark. Regardless, I can hear their stunning song brilliantly through my earbuds. I am late to the earbud revolution. And for the most part, I can only use them for listening. I have a fat face, and when my mouth moves, it wiggles my ears and out pop the earbuds.

Glamorous women have their faces hollow out when they get older, doubling down on amazing cheekbones. Anything I ever had resembling a cheekbone has moved location and now identifies as a jowl. Even when I am not talking, the earbuds try to make a break for it. 

Yesterday the left one leapt into the dirt. I wondered briefly if I should not put it back in my ear. I walk in the land of plague. Yes, that plague. The one that killed 30 to 60% of Europe's population between 1347 and 1351. It took between 150 and 200 years for the population to return to pre-plague levels. I could very well have stuck plague in my ear. Fortunately, Mr. Black is no match for antibiotics, otherwise me and my fat face would likely be toast.

Still, I find it interesting that as I am walking through prairie dog metropolis, John Green is in my ear filling me in on the plague. He wrote this story during the pandemic. His story simultaneously makes me grateful that our plague is over, that it wasn't catastrophic in the way it would have been before science taught us a few things about viruses, and that my dad died of cancer — a disease that courteously allows family to gather close without jumping on them. The older I get, the more I appreciate a courteous death.

The walks I have been taking are long. Over an hour. That is a very luxurious way to spend an hour every day. Long, and yet such a small thing, considering the big happiness payoff. The last time I focused on small things was during the pandemic, and during my dad's illness. There was not going to be a big trip or even a Marvel movie premiere. What there was: a flock of pelicans that took over a third of the lake behind my parents' house. Appearing like hundreds and hundreds of white sailboats sparkling on impossibly blue water. Dad watched the birds. When he was too weak to do anything else, he would watch the birds with his own hawk eyes — gifted to him a few years earlier via cataract surgery.

So it is again that I am focusing on small things. Though I hadn't really thought about why. No one I love is actively dying. Mom is in good health. John is employed, for now. He is very aware that we are within five years of retirement. As he says almost daily, "We are no longer building wealth. What we have now is basically what we will have in five years." This affects every decision currently being made. I could walk over to Starbucks and get a $6 coffee, or I can make my own and have four cups instead.

I don't want to focus on what I don't have, so instead I am focusing on the little bits of everything I do have. I get to walk on open land. Open to everyone — me, the mountain bike riders, the irritatingly fit trail joggers, and all the critters that inhabit acres and acres of land we have mostly left blank. It is the same walk I do almost every day. I like not getting in the car to walk. I like walking out of my neighborhood into the blank canvas. 

John doesn't like it. There are no trees, no green grass, so many rocks. It does look like a moonscape. But now, there are prairie dog pups. They stick so close to their parents and each other. I saw a line of six of them, each with a small paw on the sibling in front. They snuggle and fall over each other and they are adorable. I have a game where I try to move past them without causing a retreat into their holes. I like to fancy myself the prairie dog whisperer, but it really isn't about me. They decide if they are too happy sunning themselves to react. Or, if whatever they are eating is worth tolerating my trespassing. They decide if I am going to be fussed at for 30 seconds or 30 minutes. I am talking to you, Ms. Grumpy Pants. We are neighbors. Can't I sit on the back patio without irritating you?

There are tiny, tiny flowers making their way through the rocky soil. I have pictures of them all. I was thinking this morning that slow travel doesn't have to be saved exclusively for exotic destinations. There are plenty of hidden gems in everyday life that get overlooked in the busyness. It is scary to sit on the edge of retirement and wonder if everything you did was enough. I completely understand why that is freaking out my husband. It is freaking me out some too. But it is also novel to embrace free time as a commodity. To not hurry back from a walk. To stand in one spot long enough to watch a meadowlark sing, his whole body participating in the activity. To see the shadow of a huge hawk — but it's not a hawk. It is a blue heron. A blue heron flying over the grasslands, taking a break from the pond to get a different view.

Once, long ago, in the glory days before 50, I was not a sweaty person. In fact, I probably should have sweat more. I just didn't. I went through a small phase in my 30s when my husband and I thought jogging was going to be our thing — we came to our senses pretty quickly. I would see other people on the trail, full-on sweating. Not me. I barely needed a shower after.

Fast forward to now. I need a shower after sleeping. Sleeping creates more sweat than jogging did 25 years ago. It offends me AND my poor husband. Heaven forbid he tries to cuddle me in the middle of the night. Two minutes in and he's: "Oh my God, you are a sweaty heat machine — shouldn't this phase be done by now?!" The phase he is referring to is the one that strips all the hormones from a woman's body and turns everything upside down. Literally. Boobs that were once up are down. Libido down. Sleep up. Energy down. Weight up. Brain down.

Every woman experiences this joyous time differently. For me, the main lingering ingredient is that my internal thermostat doesn't work at all. I asked my aunt not that long ago how long her hot flashes lasted. "Do you really want to know? I think they tapered off around 70." Oh for f's sake. Okay, maybe I didn't really want to know.

My new night-to-morning ritual: put on deodorant, sleep, sweat, wake up, have two cups of coffee, sweat more. Once all the coffee sweating is finished, I stand at the sink and wash the pits. There has to be a better way to put that — something that would not make an influencer cringe. Ah, apparently the formal term for armpit is axilla. I freshen the axilla. Before I go for a long walk. Sweat, and freshen the axilla once more. It is just one of those things, like skin tags, that arrives without invitation and stays indefinitely.

The sweat situation is heightened by the arrival of a cyst in my right armpit. It showed up right around the time the hot flashes did. Being completely reasonable, I assumed I had cancer of the lymph node and less than a year to live. I was assured: no, no. Just a perfectly harmless cyst that would be more comfortable if I didn't shave as often and switched to a deodorant without antiperspirant. So, a deodorant that does nothing for sweat. Right as I am entering the sweat portion of my life. Super.

The good news: the mood swings came and went pretty swiftly. Thank God. I have never felt such misplaced rage — just stupid, stupid stuff. My husband eating Lucky Charms would send me into a frenzy. I would stare at the back of his head wishing my eyes were lasers that would freeze his jaw indefinitely. No one had ever chewed so annoyingly. I would stomp off and turn back to give him an evil glare. "What? What did I do?" Of course I couldn't tell him that his mere existence was the problem. There is nothing like knowing you are being unreasonable, registering it, being mindful of it, and then continuing down the unreasonable path anyway.

Looking back, I am happy to have moved on from that phase of the phase. Misplaced rage has mellowed into just not giving a flying f about some things — and that is pretty freeing, actually. Hmm. I could wear cute uncomfortable shoes, or something flat with support. Definitely the flat with support. I could wear something with a tight waistband, or I can wear the thing like a tent, eat whatever I want, and no sweat will ever show. The tent wins every time.

Can I do that? Can I claim that lasering 57 years off my turkey neck is good for my family? I mean, if I don't have a turkey neck, surely we'll all be safer. I'll look younger and more capable, so would-be muggers and prairie dogs will be far less likely to attack me. (I am surrounded by prairie dogs. It is a goal to sneak them into every piece I write.)

Yes, the blessed ballroom — the one that will fix all the problems none of us knew we had until Prez Goldfinger came to power. Why can't he just admit that, like my laser, this is a vanity project? He wants to leave his mark all over Washington. The biggest ballroom. The biggest arch. The God-iest Air Force One. His name on everything he can get away with. He is marking his territory by peeing on everything — and all of us.

Of course, with some creativity, we could use this to our advantage.

Let's start with the National Parks. Goldfinger has been gutting research and the NPS because it's too natural — nothing gold or Trump-tacky available at any of the parks. But what if there were? What if every park entrance featured a gold statue of Trump? What if we commissioned three research facilities — one on the West Coast, one in Yellowstone, one on the East Coast — all bearing Trump's name? Gold and tacky on the outside, state-of-the-art on the inside. You know, like the liar he's apparently creating beneath the blessed ballroom. I'm sure if he believes these are satellite bunkers, he'll throw money at them like confetti. And scientists, of course, are the safest possible people to staff such places. Who else could you trust to guard the regime in the event of a bio-drone attack?

As much as I love the NPS, what I'd really like to slip into the budget is childcare funding. I know it's too big a problem for any one trick to solve. But imagine: a Donald J. Trump Childcare facility in every major city in the country. His name plastered across the top. Giant murals — not unlike his Jesus-healing-the-sick portrait — except in these, he's guiding the little American children. They will, of course, all be very white and very beautiful. We wouldn't want anyone to get the mistaken impression that he cares about all the children. The very white children won't typically need state-funded care, but we won't bring that up.

In fact, we could do that thing he always insists liberals are doing — hire people to perform. A chorus of cherubic white children gathered around him as he signs the DJ Trump Childcare Act into law.

Actually, scratch that. None of us want children anywhere near the Goldfinger.

Because we have coached them for years, I was flabbergasted that my 20 year old daughter used zero sense recently in regard to the situation she was in. You know the parents who post about their kids making the Dean's List for the fourth consecutive time? Yeah, that isn't us. We are the family that is grateful for no academic suspension after three semesters — each one a nail-biter finish that would give reality TV a run for its money. Thank God my kid tests well. What she doesn't do well? Homework and time management. I know, a lot of 20-year-olds haven't learned to manage their time. It's part of the process. Hers, however, goes above and beyond — to the point that a therapist I know referred to it as an actual condition: Time Blindness.

Unfortunately, we did not catch this when she was young and still listened to us. John has tried repeatedly to help her build a calendar. Something with a due date three weeks out might as well belong to a different semester. There is no pre-planning. It remains completely nebulous until — well, until it reaches panic distance.

Which is exactly where she is right now. There is an assignment due in four days. There is no way it will be finished, plus the long-sleeve button-down shirt she has to sew for her elective — costume design — plus five late German assignments. I am baffled that college professors allow late work. All I can think is that college has become so expensive that the people footing the bill would revolt if their kids had to retake a class three times because of missing homework. Though I don't remember having this much homework myself. Some of my classes had five tests and that was it. I loved it. I assured Helen her homework woes would be over when she got to college. Boy, was I wrong.

There is about a week left in semester four of Helen's college career. Now that medium-grade panic has set in, I spent yesterday trying to slap together a last-minute plan to get her projects across the finish line. My younger daughter and I cut the school day short and headed over for lunch and a planning session. It was mid-plan when Helen mentioned, "Oh, the TA did say we could have more time if it really seemed like an emergency. I'm going to ask for an extension." "Great," I said. "When?" It is Thursday. The project is due Monday. This needs to happen chop-chop.

Helen looked at me like a deer in the headlights. She is clearly not yet at the stage of life where she thinks in terms of work days — Saturday and Sunday do not count. Was she planning to wait until Sunday night and slip an email under the door at 11:59pm? Hi, my end-of-semester project isn't done. It's an emergency. Can I turn it in Friday instead? I really wished I had a fly swatter to beat her with. One with dead flies all over it. She is a bio major and this would completely gross her out.

We arrived back at her dorm and planted ourselves in the study room ten feet from her door. The room that is so messy we are not allowed inside. It can't be any worse than mine was in college, but I understand her not wanting us to see. We weren't there to judge her housekeeping anyway. We were there in silent vigil, keeping her accountable to her late German assignments and the email she needed to send asking for more time.

Writing the email was apparently hard work. You would think from the look on her face that she was composing a Dear John letter. "Helen, do you need me to write it? Just say you can't do the project justice without more time."

Finally — finally — she read me the three lines she had been working on for thirty minutes.

Dear Blah, Blah, Blah,

Hi, sorry I didn't respond to your email about presenting in class. I didn't see it until it was too late. I was glad to see there were several other presenters, so mine wasn't needed. Also, you mentioned we could turn in our final project a few days late if it was an emergency — it's an emergency. Can I have a few extra days? Also, I was asked to shamelessly plug the formal my group is sponsoring this weekend. Would you mind letting your classes know? Thanks!

I read that sentence. The one about plugging the formal happening Saturday. The one Helen will be spending all day at instead of working on her project. THE ONE THAT IS APPARENTLY MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE LINGUISTICS CLASS WE ARE PAYING FOR. Oh. My. God.

Where is a fly-filled fly swatter when you need one? More importantly, where is her situational awareness? How can she not register what a terrible, terrible idea this is? I have completely failed as a parent.

Of course I advised her to remove that sentence — and I did it calmly and reasonably. "Plug your event once she's responded." Helen gave me a look. That look that young adults who know everything give their parents. She tapped away, visibly annoyed, and turned her phone back around for me to read. The sentence was now a P.S.

I smiled and told her to hit send.

There are times when parenting is an exercise in both restraint and pettiness. I know it would be cutting off my nose to spite my face if Helen fails this class. But I am really, really hoping this teacher responds that she would be delighted to promote the event — and that she looks forward to seeing Helen's project on Monday, the day it is due.

P.S.  The update P.S.  Oh. My. God!!!  They gave her more time!!  These Professors are far more accommodating than I would be.  Although, she did not find out for sure until yesterday evening.  Thank God, otherwise she wouldn’t be as far along as she is.  She still has a perfectly choreographed two days.  It is like Jenga, if anything goes wrong, all the blocks will fall. Still, she sent me a picture of Professor Hate Troll who she created for her video.  I kind of love that having Time Blindness means you will spend half a day creating your vision, on the day something is due.  Maybe that is why the Prof. gave Helen more time.  You can't help but root for someone with good ideas, even when they are completely entrenched in last minute drama.

But the walking is helping. I am still sucking air that isn't there, just not as badly as when I first got here. I can mostly walk uphill and speak at the same time. On one of my first group walks, we were coached to take tiny steps. I had no idea this was a strategy for dealing with altitude. There is a lot of science behind it — muscle fiber recruitment. Large movements burn through oxygen and produce the dreaded lactic acid. Anyone who had to bend and unbend their pinky in elementary science class knows the effects of lactic acid. I remember my eight-year-old self being so surprised when this tiny piece of my body would not do my bidding. What foreshadowing that was.

Fast forward 50 years, and all this walking has had a side effect none of the scientific journals mention: grumpy feet. Grumpy Achilles tendons, to be exact. My ridiculously fat calves get tight as a drum, which pulls just enough on the backs of my heels to cause problems. During the day I don't really notice it. But the minute I lie down, there they are. Complaining. "Hey lady, we are here and we are not happy with you. You have been asking a lot of us lately — hauling your short, round self around for close to 10,000 steps a day. No bueno. So we are going to scream while you try to sleep. That's right, don't even try to get comfortable until after midnight."

And that is how it has been for months. Every time I lie down to sleep, my pains wake up. I tried the normal stuff: Tylenol, ibuprofen, an assortment of vitamins that AI said humans my age need to function at optimal levels. None of it was really helping. Every third night, after not sleeping well, I would simply be tired enough to ignore the screaming feet. Then came an epiphany.

Last weekend I happened upon an article about marijuana. It was a study claiming that it doesn't adversely affect memory. I thought this was complete nonsense. I only had it occasionally during my slightly rebellious youth, and it absolutely affected my memory. I could only imagine what the result would be on my now older, more forgetful brain. I consulted AI again. The bottom line, based on several sources it provided: it is all about quantity and age. Heavy users will have more memory issues, which will ease if they stop using. Younger people will also have more issues. But older people? Maybe we are already screwed, so it doesn't really matter. However, for very small doses — 2.5mg to 5mg — it can actually have a positive effect on memory. After all this reading, I wasn't exactly validated in my original opinions. But it did remind me of something. OMG. I live in Colorado. Pot is legal here. I mistake it constantly for an overabundance of urban skunks. Can I just say — they seem to be able to grow all sorts of varieties, so can't they breed out the smell?

Anyway, after some thorough investigation, I discovered a topical cream for aches and pains. Apparently what I was looking for was a 1:1 ratio of THC and CBD. The product with the best reviews was called "The Escape Artist," and it appeared to be around $30. Perfect — there was a dispensary less than a mile from our house. The only hiccup: my debit card was recently hacked and I am awaiting a new one, which hasn't come, and it has been a month, and I need to deal with it, but I am not always very successful at being an adult. This meant I would have to involve the husband.

John has a lot of great qualities. He is typically far more responsible than I am. He manages our bills — by which I mean he actually pays them. He makes sure I don't let things like oil changes fall off the radar. He knows when tuition is due for our older daughter's college bill. He never had a drink until he was in his forties, and he has certainly never smoked pot or had a gummy. So when I told him I had found a fabulous foot cream, and some 1:1 sleep pills I could cut into fourths to hit the sweet 2.5mg THC and CBD spot, he told me to go to a real doctor. AND that I was going to become a drug addict. AND that this was snake oil. AND, well, a lot of other things that after 30 years together I have learned to tune out.

To my surprise, he actually took me to the dispensary. I was kind of giddy. I mean, I know it is legal, but it still feels slightly… not. You go in and there is a window where you hand over your driver's license and they buzz you through to the inner pot sanctum. I am glad I went in knowing what I needed. Otherwise I would have been completely overwhelmed. Thankfully, the budtenders were very nice and patient with me. There was a sale! Thirty percent off — would I like two jars of "The Escape Artist"? And buy one, get one free on the sleep aid. Yes, yes, I will take it all! Great — with all the discounts, my total would only be $245. Cash or debit?

I stood there in shock. The cream that I had for some idiotic reason thought was $30 was on sale for $96. The sleep pills were more reasonable — around $34 for two bottles, but with only 10 pills each. Luckily, cutting them into fourths gives me 40 doses per jar. The second problem: I had no cash and no debit card. I told the helpful budtenders I would be back with my husband's card, but there was no way he was going for $250. I would just get one jar of cream. I went to the parking lot to retrieve John's card. John had stayed in the car as a protest against my buying snake oil.

Me: Honey, they only take cash or a debit card. Can I have yours? John: No. I don't want it tracing back to me so I look like a druggie. Me: No one will think you're a druggie for buying foot cream. John: No.

We leave. I try not to be dejected. I was ridiculously excited about buying something from a dispensary. Granted, my 20-something self would be horrified that instead of something cool — like a quarter bag of Willie's favorite — I was dropping $96 on something unlikely to even enter my bloodstream. I was thinking all of this when a miracle happened. John pulled into an ATM and handed me cash. I am now legally in possession of a jar of THC cream and THC sleeping pills. I am officially a rebel with a cause.

The pills are, eh, okay. I have taken them twice, with better results the first night. It may also be that they are very small and my pill cutter isn't super accurate. The cream, however, is the bomb. I have slept well every night I have used it. My feet aren't screaming. That is a win. I wish it weren't so expensive. I wish my mom and aunt had access to it in Texas. It is strange to be in the same country and have my feet enjoy rights theirs don't.

This probably has a lot to do with my preoccupation with spending an exorbitant amount of time writing about nothings that are, to me, the greatest somethings in life. It's likely why people spend so much time watching funny animal videos and silly human videos. Seriously, don't ever let anyone shame you for the time spent with Ozzy Man’s "Cats are dodgy wankers" videos. They are both validating and funny.

Besides, we live in a weird world where doom scrolling is a thing. I've been limiting how much doom and gloom I digest every day. Being informed is good. Being extra-super over-informed by every person with an opinion, not so much. Spending hours researching microplastics in male and canine testicles may be counterproductive to getting off the couch and taking a walk. 100%, by the way. 100% of humans and dogs tested had microplastics in their testes. And humans had three times the amount as dogs. Which tracks.

Back to lists. Specifically, mine. The top nothings I like to expand upon. These are in no particular order of importance. Like most people who take the time to write something down — often at the expense of housework or feeding the family — whatever pops into my head at that moment is the most important. But certain things keep orbiting back. Beauty, in its least likely forms. Irritation, which is sometimes just love with bad timing. And discovery — the small kind, the kind that's been there all along waiting for you to notice it.

Things I find beautiful. This can be an art exhibit, a hug from a stranger, a hug from a friend. A rock. A lump of clay molded into a monster by one of my kids. The kids are now young adults, but they still make silly, wonderful things occasionally. You get the picture. Beauty is everywhere, so these posts can be about pretty much anything — and I like to remember them. Especially on overwhelming microplastics-in-the-penis days.

Things I find irritating. For instance, the universally accepted one space instead of two after a period. Accepted by everyone but me. I can be a curmudgeon. I like the visual break. Just like certain YouTube videos where people talk and talk and talk without coming up for air — my ears like pauses. It likely has to do with being on the older end of Generation X. Which in itself is irritating. As a whole, we tend to think of ourselves as infinitely cooler than everyone else. We even think our flaws are cooler. We think being the smaller, forgotten generation is edgy. To this day, even as we open a bag of Cheetos and a fully leaded Coke while flipping off the invisible finger-wagging of our primary care physician, we see this as fringe.

Things I discover. Right now I am sitting on the couch looking out the window at the Front Range. There is nothing but prairie dogs and acres of dirt between me and the Flatirons. The windows are doing their best to keep very fine dirt out of the house. They are losing. Thirty-mile-an-hour straight-line winds are a force of nature. Before November, I had no idea that this was normal. Before November, I had no idea about the Marshall Fire. We currently rent a newly built house. The old house — like every other house in this neighborhood — burned down. On New Year's Eve, 2021, wind gusts up to 115 miles per hour drove fire across open grassland and into the neighborhoods of Superior and Louisville. It destroyed 1,084 homes. When it happened, I was coming up on the one-year anniversary of my dad's death. I wasn't paying much attention to the news, but even if I had been, I'm not sure it would have felt real. Living here, I've discovered that the threat of fire isn't abstract. It is part of daily life. Everyone, regardless of political affiliation, cares that this winter's snowpack was the lowest on record. The drought affects everyone — ranchers, nature enthusiasts, groms (a word I just learned, meaning young talented skiers and snowboarders).

Beyond lists, I love a good quote. My secret desire is to be quotable. Alas, I am not. I used to spend hours trying to come up with wise, wonderful, witty quotes. Now I just Google them. Generations of people have captured the essence of what I want to say better than I ever could. Marcel Proust said it best on the subject of discovery: "The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes."

So there you are — an introduction to what is orbiting now. The inspirations that drive me to click away on my Cheeto-dusted keyboard and share.