10 February 1999: Similarity and Contrast

I added some pictures to my photo album.

Tuesday. Cramps. Nasty ones, for me. I struggled up at 6:40, parboiled myself in the hottest possible shower, gathered my hair into The Big Clip, deposited glasses on my nose, and threw on my beloved houndstooth big dress. A small houndstooth check, it has a dropped waist, a generous, ankle-length skirt, and a boat neck. Ideal. Really one of my favorite garments. (I just got distracted starting a list of fives à la Rob.)

Early this morning I popped into my boss's office to tell her something or other and she remarked upon how different I can look from day to day. This is true, and compared to how I looked yesterday might be taken as insulting, but except for the glasses I quite prefer today's look. She told me yesterday's was a happening suit, so I told her the story, with an epilogue: the next day a bunch of people went out for lunch and the Überboss who witnessed the end of that story related it to everyone. So I got a lot of ribbing for it, afterward, and women wanting to try on my hats.

I plead pain at noon and went home. The sun was ver' nice. On the way home I heard a Muzak version of "So. Central Rain." I should have stayed at work.

Why is it that as soon as I'm home and in comfortables, I feel better? I did laundry--I'm always much more productive on weekdays, even the weekday days of a three-day weekend. That work ethic. Later, I went to step.

There is a woman in my step class who reminds me so much of HEBD I want to propose. The first thing I noticed was her overall appearance: the same bright brown hair, worn short as HEBD's was throughout college; the same wide-set blue eyes; the same sloping height; the same general shape. And the same long tee-shirt worn over sweats, with Keds. Then I noticed her during class, not just standing around before, and she moves like HEBD, which marks the similarity as almost inescapable for me. Languid. Graceful. Slow (yes, even during step).

Last night we ended up next to each other, but I didn't introduce myself: "Hi, I'm lisa, and I want to be friends because you look like my beloved HEBD, except I want to warn you that if you exercise only languidly like that, you also probably will find your effortless natural slimness won't last forever." How long could I have talked to her without saying that? Not very long. I might not always say what I'm thinking, but when I don't I feel like I'm lying, and anyone can spot either my restraint or discomfort.

I hadn't exercised much since last Thursday. Friday I collapsed, Saturday we shopped and never even went for a walk, Sunday we went for a very short hike, Monday I had no excuse. So last night I was ready to get back into it. I snagged a real step, which helps; the wooden ones are okay as long as the rubber grips haven't escaped the corners, as had happened to one I used last week. I modified every movement, adding propulsion and kicks, making longer lunges and stepping wider strides. I used my arms, reaching and pulling and not merely exploiting their momentum or swinging them.

The activity room has no mirrors but big windows, and after the daylight faded away, I could see both the HEBD look-alike and myself reflected in the window. The contrast was laughable. Me, propelling myself through the routine, my whole body springing from here to there and less-favored parts of my body catching up with the bulk rather afterward, a Percheron lumbering through a Lippizaner's dressage. She, expending minimal effort, lithe, elegant, blase. I almost do mean blase without the é, too: two syllables are too much effort.

Besides, this woman reminds of HEB-then, not HEBD-now, and I'm better off just contemplating her on my mental pedestal.

After supper RDC and I cuddled and watched a PBS program on human evolution. It mentioned Lucy, who I always thought, because of her name, had been found in the late '60s. Actually she wasn't found until 1976--long enough for Sgt. Pepper's to have permeated into east African radio, anyway. I'd like to study anthropology and archeology more: I have always admired the intuitive leaps one makes in theorizing a culture or anatomy out of fossils.

Speaking of anthropology, I thought of Jean Auel--here delving into bad anthropology, of course--because Beth mentioned her in the same context: "The Alienist reminded me a little of The Clan of the Cave Bear: a fictional character is set into history and winds up making all kinds of miraculous discoveries that actually weren't made until quite a bit later, but hey, it makes for a good story."

Exactly. And for me, irresistible.

After PBS, and lacking a new, underedited, selectively supported, overlong new Auel to read, I watched "Parenthood." There are some movies I am just guaranteed a happy cry during, not a frustrated wretched cry like when I read Jacob Have I Loved, and "Parenthood" is one. Besides, I knew that this way I'd have the futon all to myself: it's not big enough for two, not when one doesn't really want to be there anyway.

I pet Blake's head and ripped the stitches out of the labels of my new shorts overalls--Union Bay, not Gap; I'm not sure if I'll like them but the labels are off now so I'd better--and dissected some magazines and cried when Kevin caught the ball and in the final scene.

Wednesday. The temperature plummeted from an enjoyable if worrisome 60 to 30 with wind fog and allegedly snow in about an hour this afternoon. When I got home, either the breeze was loud enough to mask my footsteps or Blake himself was making so much noise he couldn't hear me. He likes to pretend he just sits and sulks when we're not home, and I do think that does, unfortunately, occupy the bulk of his time. But today I stood in the entryway and listened to him sing--not really a pleasant noise no matter how much you love him--and run through his limited repertoire of words a few times. I flung open the door in the middle of a trill, and he interrupted himself to greet me: "Wheet wheet!" He called me a good boy as I took him out of his cage and he immediately began to steer me toward the windowsill, where he patrols while I change my clothes. Blake likes to keep on eye on what's going on outside, a closer eye than he has from his cage. However, he is a bird, and cowardly. He stalks back and forth like a duck in a shooting gallery but as soon as something startles or scares him--a leaf blowing by, an insect flying too close, a plane overhead--he hides, drawing himself up very tall and skinny so that he can hide behind the frame.

The window is horizontal, not vertical, so two panes are separated with a sash perpendicular to the bottom windowsill. There's no such frame on either side, so he hides in the middle. Very effective. We call this sort of action an Evasive Cockatiel Maneuver. We've never not caught him, but he tries to run away, scurrying to hide behind the fruit bowl, lifting his tail (giving an effect like that of a woman picking up her hoopskirts) to skedaddle under the nearest piece of furniture, into another room, towards the other parent (who must be the kinder one), wherever. Also whenever we catch him with a shoelace in his savage little beak and yell "No!" at him, he also runs away, still holding tight to the lace. He doesn't get more than a foot before he jerks against the weight of the shoe. Furthermore, he never learns. He's not that bright.

However (I reconsider, gazing at him fondly sitting next to my foot on the chair), he knows how to take care of his feathers. To me it seemed that Percy really enjoyed taking care of his plumage but I think the daily maintenance is just a frustration to Blake. Percy was systematic, luxuriating in his twelve long tail feathers and distributing dust and oil from his gland all over. Blake attacks whatever feather is lying wrong, or not properly zipped, or feels loose, or whatever it is that compels him to preen. He enjoys it enough that he indulges in it most when he's happiest, and he likes to make sure you're pretty too. Percy plucked beard hairs and tangled himself in hair. Blake only occasionally rips out beard stubble but does preen regular hair. The only time he spent any time tweezing either of us was once upon a time when he was sitting on the desk chair in front of my crossed legs. He endeavored to shave my legs for me. You want pain? Have a determined cockatiel randomly tug-tug-tug-yank individual leg hairs. The death of a thousand cuts, that was.

And he's very good at prancing and showing off his shoulders and spotting spiders in the house and hiding in his basket with just his tail sticking out and generally charming everyone he meets, even those who expect less than nothing from a stupid bird.

Hooray! Unlike last night, tonight I have my new books from Amazon! Two I've read and now must own, Corelli's Mandolin and Moo, and the other is a new A.S. Byatt that a reader recommended. Tee hee, a reader.