Tag: selfcare

One Teardrop At a Time

Let the tears flow. Tears of survival. Tears of determination.

Erma: I assure you, Sylvia, it’ll pass. It’ll be over soon.

Sylvia: You think so? Promise? Because honestly, Erma, I don’t know if I have anything left. I’m so tired.

Erma: Bullshit, Sylvia. There’s always something left, so grab the Kleenex.

Hold the Key Closely

Sylvia’s finally learning the difference between kindness and love. The hard way.
Don’t confuse kindness with love. Kindness you give away freely. Love requires a key.

“Erma, start a pot brewing. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

Sunday Morning Coffee

Sometimes coffee is just coffee, but coffee delivered to a perfectly-appointed hotel room is a decadent indulgence that Erma always enjoyed on her girls’ getaways. So, this sunny Sunday morning, before Sylvia heads back home to weather another storm in life- just a little teacup tempest not full-blown furor-she’s treating herself to a deep, dark, steaming roast. In bed. It’s the jump start she needs.

For those of you acquainted with Sylvia and The Best Cup of Coffee Sylvia Ever Had, the coffee is steaming not steamy at this hour. But hey, the day is young. Enjoy, friends.

_____________________________
Making coffee has become the great compromise of the decade. It’s the only thing “real” men do that doesn’t seem to threaten their masculinity. To women, it’s on the same domestic entry level as putting the spring back into the toilet-tissue holder or taking a chicken out of the freezer to thaw.
— Erma Bombeck

The Most Important Person in Your Life

A sunny Saturday on the cove provides the perfect back-drop for old friends sharing bold coffee, laughter, and of course, a requisite dose of wisdom.

Erma: How was your week?

Sylvia: Same old. Been trying not to over think things. I hate that I take so much of what others say to heart.

Erma: Example, please?

Sylvia: Well, when I’m told to get over myself is the instance that comes to mind. It’s a strange concept for others to tell us how we should or should not be feeling and reacting to the relationships we are a part of, don’t you think?

Erma: I’ve always found it somewhat dismissive, even hurtful, when someone tells me it’s not about me -when the very way she or he is acting and interacting with me affects no one more than it does me. The subject matter may not be about me directly, but the very fact that I’m being used as a sounding board or a confidante (and looked to as a friend) engages me in his or her drama du jour.

Sylvia: You hit the nail on the head. How can a relationship in which I am involved- either as an integral player or as one on the periphery- not be about me? How can it not concern me? How the other person feels about the situation-at-hand may not be about me, but how I feel about him or her in that situation is definitely about me. I own that. That shit is mine.

Erma: Absolutely, Sylvia. Above all else, remember that the most important person in all of your relationships is YOU.

Both Erma and Sylvia agree on a couple of things. First, you are completely encouraged and definitely allowed to be the center of your own universe, just not of the entire universe! Second, most conversations of this ilk might be best served with wine. Just a thought.

Perfectly Imperfect

The Best Gift Sylvia Ever Received

“Can being happy be this easy? Must I live outside of the life I’ve chosen in order to find myself again?”

It had been weeks since Sylvia returned from her life-changing adventure. And although there had been intervening holidays and requisite social engagements that such holidays demand, on a daily basis Sylvia replayed many of the luscious moments of the time she had enjoyed with Cam. Everything had been firsts with him- again and again- and yet there existed a natural and very familiar rhythm to their connection, a rhythm that seldom if ever one experiences after a chance meeting. She recalled that each time they touched and kissed in those seventy-two hours of unbridled passion and spontaneity, she was born again, not merely refreshed but seriously reinvented. With each kiss, caress, embrace, and thrust, Sylvia became the woman she had been longing to be. She evolved from weary wife and caregiver- a woman stunted by her own inability to choose her happiness above everyone else’s-to confident and carefree enchantress, the woman she had always imagined and deep down knew was lying just beneath the surface.

That first week at home after Charlotte, and despite the many unanswered phone calls from Erma that needed to be returned, Sylvia kept everything to herself. She had mentally packaged up her time with Cam, carefully and covetously. Erma’s messages never begged for details and Sylvia never offered any. In fact, like many close friends, the two did not require a play-by-play of events or an exchange of minutia. They just knew when the other was in trouble; out of sorts; in need of love, time or space; or at peace. After a week at home which demanded the simultaneous departure from cloud nine and re-entry into the tedium of everyday living, Sylvia called her friend and invited her over for conversation which at that given point in time was code for coffee and confession. Erma accepted the invitation without hesitation because she knew better than anyone that, although Sylvia needed that steamy daydream to become a reality in order to survive, she would also be ruminating on it to the point of destroying it and the happiness it had provided her.

When Sylvia called, Erma was prepared. She was not going to let Sylvia lie in a pool of self-loathing, and she wasn’t going to let Sylvia forget that she was both deserving of happiness and worthy of love.

Erma: Why is it so hard for you to let yourself be happy?
Sylvia: Is that what this is, Erma? So, this is what happy feels like?
Erma’s friendly yet pointed interrogation gnawed at Sylvia every day since that afternoon when the two finally carved out time to catch up on life. Sylvia knew that she needed to respond to Erma’s question, if not at the moment it was posed then certainly at some point, even if only in her mind and for herself. Sylvia attempted to answer it. Many times. Quickly. As a matter of pure fact. Such a silly question and certainly one that warranted an immediate response. Is it hard to allow myself to be happy? Yet each time that Sylvia revisited the question- at the kitchen sink while washing the breakfast dishes, at the dining table while sitting with drafts of stories that needed desperately to be assembled like jigsaw puzzles, or in the bath after everyone had gone to bed, where she could hear her own thoughts and visit her hopes and dreams for the first time all day-she could not find the one word that both she and Erma knew should satisfy the question. No. Not at all. It’s not hard to be happy.

However, after repeated stops and starts in producing that one little word, Sylvia startled herself. It was a Thursday evening and as she began to add more hot water to the bath that she had let become lukewarm, actually cool to the touch, she heard herself say out loud, “Yes. Quite. It’s difficult to be happy.”

Since her unplanned rendezvous with Cam, her admission that happiness while supposedly within reach still seemed ever elusive, and a number of subsequent chats with Erma, Sylvia had been writing. A great deal. About nothing. About everything. The sheer pleasure she felt after being left physically and emotionally satiated had oddly created a bit of mental chaos for her. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything completely since Cam; for each time she set out to perform even the most mundane task, her mind wandered. She was transported to the wine bar where the fingertip dance began, to the bedroom where every part of her body was explored, and to the airport where their departing kiss did not mean goodbye but rather “this is just the beginning.” So much time had passed since she had allowed herself to succumb to both yearning and contentment, letting them engulf her completely and unconsciously, that now that Sylvia had accepted her delightful transgression and even disclosed it to her closest friend, she didn’t want to return to normal. Ever. She had been happily paralyzed by her newfound sense of self and sensuality. And in these last weeks while digesting every morsel of deliciousness and attempting to comprehend the meaning of every word, thought, and action she shared with the man who had come to life from a daydream and who had awakened her like only a rich, intensely caffeinated roast could, she kept reaching the same conclusions about their meeting. Satisfying, positive, lingering and naughty, surprisingly atypical of the woman she and certainly others thought she was and was expected to be. Each assessment led her to ask the same questions, those which were absolutely rhetorical but necessary nonetheless: “Can being happy be this easy? Must I live outside of the life I’ve chosen in order to find myself again?” This time and every single time thereafter, the reply came more quickly, more confidently, and more unapologetically. Yes. Yes, it can. Happiness can be this easy. If I allow it.
Sylvia: Erma, come on over. I’ve unwrapped the best gift ever for the new year.
Erma: On my way. Put the coffee on.

So, the gift that Sylvia received? It wasn’t that her dreams were coming true. It wasn’t that her passions and appetites had come to life with Cam. It wasn’t that she had learned that seizing an opportunity can be life-affirming. While those gifts were all recently validated and had been restorative to her body and soul, Sylvia’s greatest gift was so much easier to access than any of those realizations. She just had to allow it. She had to allow herself to accept happiness in order to give herself the very thing that she thought she had lost. Herself. Simply the best she could ever hope for.

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