I’ve always had a worry-riddled mind. Even so, I typically manage to wake up feeling reasonably ready to make the most of whatever’s next.
But I didn’t wake up feeling ready today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Or any day, it seems, since the insidious, novel coronavirus began hijacking human cells and organs, social interaction, the economy, momentous ceremonies, travel plans, spontaneous outings, and every single aspect of my three teens’ academic and social lives and their certainty for what the near future holds.
Instead of waking up feeling ready to make the most of whatever’s next, I’ve been waking up feeling like my stomach is full of lead.
I have a few coping strategies. Some good. Some bad.
♦ I pray.
♦ I go for walks.
♦ I journal.
♦ I eat too little.
♦ Then I eat too much.
♦ I find stuff to laugh about.
♦ I vent to my husband.
♦ Admittedly, I sometimes add a splash of brandy to my evening Diet Coke.
♦ And I twist and tug at the cheap, little ring that’s been on my right, middle finger since the summer of 1991.
I’m not sure why I twist and tug at the ring. A nervous habit, I suppose. But maybe it’s because it reminds me of a more carefree (and less dystopian-feeling) era. In fact, I can’t think of a more carefree time in my life than the day I bought it. Don’t mind if I wallow in it for a minute.
It was an impulse purchase at the Minneapolis Uptown Art Fair while on a scorching hot, August Saturday afternoon, the summer after I graduated from college. A summer of glorious new independence.
Earlier in the week, I’d moved into my first grown-up apartment a couple of blocks away from the fair at 28th and Fremont in Uptown. It was within walking distance of a chain of lakes linked by canals and paved paths, consignment shops, healing crystal boutiques, and a basement bar covered in peanut shells where I’d meet up with friends.
As a new twenty-something, there was no place I’d rather be than Uptown, that funky de facto second downtown where Prince once owned a record store with a purple door.
I can practically still smell the funnel cakes, cigarettes, and armpit sweat as I happily made my way through thick crowds of people with strollers, slobbery dogs, flowery blouses, and barbwire tattoos vining around their biceps.
With no one to really worry about and no one expecting me back any certain time, I floated in and out of the exhibits at my own pace. Beneath vinyl canopies, artists of all walks of life displayed their gifts of imagination, color, and form poured into sculptures, ceramics, paintings, carvings, and that stunning street photography capturing whole cities and the human condition in a single image.
I had hoped to find a piece of unique artwork for the new apartment. But as a part-time editorial assistant by day and part-time waitress by night, with my first car loan and school loans to pay off, the selections were all above and beyond my tiny little budget.
So I thought, well, maybe a piece of jewelry instead.
I stopped by a tent where a woman with a long braid in a white tank top was holding a pair of pliers while hunkered over a small table crowded with wires and beads in little clear plastic cups. She was fully immersed in what she loved to do.
At the front of the tent was a table full of necklaces, bracelets, and rings. I’ve never been much of a jewelry person. I have zero interest in anything flashy. I’d probably just lose it anyway. But a small, oval black onyx set into a simple silver band with a tiny silver leaf curled around one side caught my eye.
Wow, my hand sure has aged since I bought this ring 29 summers ago.
To me, the ring looked like an old soul.
I picked it up and turned the price tag over. Only $8!
I slid it over my right, middle finger and held it up to the sunshine. It was perfect. So perfect, in fact, I haven’t taken it off since.
That’s right. Twenty-nine summers later, and that $8 ring is still on my right, middle finger.
Part of the reason for that is because it hasn’t fit over my knuckle since my first pregnancy 20 years ago. Even if I did manage to get it off, I’d feel naked without it now anyway.
But it’s also become a personal keepsake. A reminder of a wonderful, carefree day.
Of course, it was a lot easier to be carefree back then:
♦ I wasn’t waiting for announcements of closings, reopenings, cancellations, mandates, and back-to-school hybrid scenarios.
♦ I wasn’t helping to caretake my mom with advanced Parkinson’s throughout the week while wearing a mask.
♦ I wasn’t reminding my dad to wash his hands after returning from the hardware store.
♦ I wasn’t worrying about how all this social distancing is affecting the well-being and friendship circles of my three teens.
♦ I wasn’t worrying about how my rising high school freshman with asthma is going to tolerate wearing a mask all day if/when classes resume in-person.
♦ I wasn’t worrying about how my rising high school senior is going to choose which colleges to start applying to now that all of the in-person tours we had scheduled for this summer were canceled.
♦ I wasn’t worrying about my college sophomore returning to campus (despite all but one of her classes moving to online), where she’ll be required to log her temperature every day. And where I’ll be strongly discouraged from visiting her but if I do, I’ll have to check-in to log symptoms and provide contact information should any future need for contact tracing arise.
Dear Lord.
Maybe if I twist and tug at the ring enough, I’ll be transported back to a more happy-go-lucky time.
Oh, who am I kidding?
Memories of carefree moments are a good thing. But I can’t live in them.
I need to make room for carefree moments now, in spite of the disappointments and uncertainty brought on by a global pandemic.
Unfortunately, wandering around an art fair is obviously no longer an option for a while.
But I can take an extra-long shower, snuggle with my dog, play cribbage with my husband, binge watch Schitt’s Creek, bake cookies, learn a new card trick, or how to fold an origami bird, go on a hike, or a bike ride, watch the rainfall, admire a sunrise, a flower, or an eagle, and most importantly give each of my kiddos a great big, reassuring hug and remind them that I love them, am proud of them, and that together, we’re going to make the most of whatever’s next.
I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three teens, freelance journalist, editor, coauthor of Here In the Middle, and author of the newly released Secret Twin Cities: A Guide to the Weird, Wonderful, and Obscure. This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle. Subscribe and receive the occasional stories in your inbox. Read other recent posts.
I read your wonderful words of wit and wisdom twice. So inspiring! Thank you. Since March 17, I have followed all the steps for staying keep healthy, safe and “sane.” I would like to share my remedy for keeping my sanity: I’m reminiscing each and every day about simpler things and simpler times — enjoying my mind swirling with memories, wallowing in melancholy and letting my imagination to run amuck. I’ve discovered this makes for good writing too. Wishing you all the best. Stay well.
So fun to see you here Georgia. Not too many people take the time to make comments inside a blog anymore it seems. Thanks for the kind words and Great advice. Looks like you’ve been doing a lot of writing—always announcing some sort of publishing news. Take care!
I’m so glad you shared this, Julie. We all have different specifics in our lives, but I share in your overall feelings FOR SURE!
Oh Nina, it means so much you took the time to stop by!! So many feels lately nearly impossible to put into words!