Judith Pettersen

 I belong to a cheap bookbuying club that discounts all kinds of books. It lets you pick from a few different genres, and every day you have the option of selecting anywhere from 5 to 7 options. I’ve found some excellent reads there. But if you’ve even hinted that you can handle a romance novel, you will automatically receive every Billionaire Boyfriend book on the list. 

The titles are hilarious. The latest is called Her Bachelor Cowboy Billionaire, about a young woman and an old guy. Guess which one is rich? The thing that gets me is, who’d want a billionaire, anyway? I mean, sure, Warren Buffett is giving away most of his money before he dies. I’d love to have a conversation with him about that. But the rest of them? How ruthless do you have to be to end up a billionaire? Most of them start out with wealthy parents, like Elon Musk. But there must be a few self made ones out there, stepping on more than a few necks to propel themselves upward on their journey to extreme wealth. 

Currently, there are 3, 381 billionairs dashing around the planet in their private jets, or preparing themselves for their journey to Mars. If you had a billion invested at 8% interest, you’d make thirty million a year. And yet, what are these people doing with their money? 

Happily there’s another good one, Yvon Chouinard, who founded the Patagonia company 52 years ago, is giving all 3 billion to a special trust and creating a foundation to help combat climate change and protect nature. Now, that’s a guy to fall in love with. 

Please, Bookbub, no more billionaire love stories. You’re making me throw up in my mouth. Now, a down-on-his-luck cowboy who just gave his last dollar to a food bank? That guy’s dateable. Signing off, this is Judith, leaning just a little more to the left. 

(A reprint from 2017)

Once upon the new millennium, a guy looked at a photo of Sigmund Freud and said to himself, my facial hair envy is out of control. I must have that beard. I’ll shag it up, grow it longer, and throw testosterone around like a final sale at Sears. In an alternate scenario, the same man saw some Amish people driving their buggies into town and was taken aback by the manly ruggedness of it all. Overwhelmed by the desire to join a cult, instead he decided to skip the buggy, the plain clothes and pants that button instead of zip, and grow himself some long, shaggy facial hair. Third option: Tom Hanks in the movie, Cast Away. There it is. The winning look. A magical combination of irony and soul baring honesty. Bingo.

These are the only scenarios I can come up with that will explain the strange phenomena of the hipster beard. I had my first sighting of it in 2012 at my niece Heather’s wedding. The fellow was visiting from New Zealand, and my first thought was that he was an actor from the Lord of the Rings movies. His beard had to be at least eighteen inches in length, and fluffy in an eerie and disturbing way. I expected birds to fly out from hidden nests, or a swarm of wasps to descend, the lights to go out and strange maniacal laughter to issue from his lips.This man had a very pretty wife with him. I kept staring at her, wishing I could take her aside.  ‘I can help you escape,’ I wanted to say.

I’ve read several explanations for the rise of the hipster beard. One theory is that men want to downplay their attractiveness and up their masculine quotient in a bid to find a mate. Others suggest that if a man dresses too well, the beard is his way of saying, I know. I’m awesome, but in case it’s too much, here’s this beard. You’re welcome.

I like beards. My husband has one, and though I wish it was a little less scruffy, it could never be considered hipster. Combined with his Crocs and oversized wardrobe, his style says, ‘Not homeless, just admiring the look.’ It’s an unironic thing.

Ladies, let me know what you think. Perhaps younger women are on board with hipster beards. Maybe its just me. Perhaps snuggling up to eighteen inches of facial hair is a real turn on. I’d like to know for sure. And men with hipster beards, please weigh in on this. I have a feeling there’s more to it than meets the eye. And no. I’m not talking about the birds.

A few strange things have happened over the last few weeks. First, the top of my deodorant stick broke off. I was heading out on a trip and I hate wasting money so I found a tiny plastic bag I’d saved from Baba’s Bulk Bin, and shoved the piece in there. I am nothing if not inventive. And cheap. 

The strange part happened when I was getting changed. I lifted my arms up and noticed flecks of green in my pits. ‘Am I growing mold in secret places?’ I wondered. But as a pleasant, delicate odour wafted past I remembered my store purchase. The bag had been used to hold parsley, and it was covering the deodorant with the ferocity of sparkle dust. Naturally, I used the rest of the stick until it was gone. After all, the parsley was doing me no harm.

The next strange thing happened yesterday. I was  recently in Calgary, but since I hate shopping, I came home without the sports bra I desperately needed. I’m trying to up my activity level, and that kind of jumping around requires a stern undergarment with a bossy edge. I went to our local Red Apple store, which sells everything from groceries (they have the faint look of having been stored in an underground bunker) and plenty of other goods with tiny issues. Like beautiful sheets with an unsewn seam or an elegant jacket marked large when it’s actually size small. It’s fun going in there…its kind of like a treasure hunt. 

I found a beautiful black and gray racerback bra and brought it home to try on. It fit me perfectly and like a courteous escort, it said nothing but gave plenty of silent support. I promptly turned on YouTube and did a vigorus zumba workout. Then I bundled up for a walk and after returning home, got ready to settle in for the night. 

Now, I’d never worn this kind of garment before and it hadn’t occured to me that it would be difficult to remove. In fact, it was impossible. During my desperate struggle, I began to understand the fear of a baby hippo trying to escape from the mouth of a crocodile. The elastic might have been made by Nasa, perhaps to fasten an escape hatch onto the mother ship. I wrestled harder, but made no progress at all. And then I thought, oh, no. I might have to call the fire department! They’re the ones who rescue you when you’re locked in a stuck elevator. And I was having my own locked-in moment. 

My neighbor Linda was away, and her husband Gerry and I are friends, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. I thought about getting scissors and cutting the thing off me. But that seemed ridiculous. Besides, I’m a tad uncoordinated and could end up slicing myself instead. This was underwear and it was meant to be removed. 

I picked up my phone and googled ‘how to remove a racingback sports bra.’ Every answer started with, ‘loosen the straps.’ But there was nothing to loosen. My aha! moment arrived. This is why it was only $9.00! It was well made (too well made, really) but nobody had thought to install a zipper or clasp of any kind. 

Finally, through sheer desperation and with only the tearing of a few stitches, I got the thing off. Then I had to lie down on the bed and recover, since I felt like I’d just taken part in an Olympic wrestling event way above my weight level. 

Am I going to wear it again? You’re darn tootin’ I am. But first, the two of us will have a chat. There might be some amendments made to the thing. Because, really, the fire Department has more important things to do. But I’ll have a friend on standby, just in case. 

 Comfortable underwear has been my jam since I grew old enough to care. My preferred fabric is cotton, my style, granny. Back when I was nine months pregnant with our first child, I took to wearing my husband’s cotton jockey shorts because nothing else fit me.

When Clarence saw me, his face fell, like this.

   ‘You look like a sumu wrestler,’ he said. Thanks!” I replied. “I guess I’m the sporty type!” In response, he clapped his hands to his cheeks like McCauley Culkin in Home Alone.  I faced him down, hands on hips, my whale sized belly taking over the room. He got over it.

My love affair with comfortable underwear continued. At various times I attempted wearing things like tummy taming silky garments. “They really work for you,” my hubby said flirtatiously.

“Are you taming your tummy?” I asked in a voice any sensible man would understand meant, Stop Talking Now.” He slunk from the room, never to address the issue again. He’d made the mistake once of confiding in me that all a woman had to do to keep a guy interested was to show up. Ribbons and bows were merely wallpaper. I took him at his word.

But this isn’t about that. Aside from my comfort, I have minimal underwear concerns, and tend to purchase my favorite pairs by the six pack. Sadly, there’s always two pairs in gray. Now, I might not be the tummy slimming type, but that doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned all sense of self worth. If these were a light and trendy gray, that would be different. These ones look like they were handed out in a Victorian Orphanage for the Poor. In spite of their comfort, to see them on myself is to be visited with a sense of hopeless despair. So I save them for working around the house or writing all day. 

But the  biggest reason I don’t like wearing them outside is, what if I die? Say I’ve been hit by a car. (I’m a jaywalker.)  Now, let’s pretend that for some reason, they had to take off my pants in the ambulance. I picture the attendant making a small effort and throwing in the towel early. “She’s gone,” he’d say carelessly. The female EMT would not take this well.

“You think she’s not worth saving because of her underwear? We can’t let her die like this!’ And through her sense of solidarity and genuine understanding of the situation, she’d persist until I coughed myself back into life.

Having written this, I’ve realized that the sensible thing to do is to package up the gray pairs and leave them at a second hand store. “New,” I ‘ll write in an attached note. “But only for those who’ve abandoned all hope.” On the other hand, maybe others would be a bit more prosaic about the whole thing. Maybe the women  wearing fancy, uncomfortable underwear would buy them with a sense of relief. 

“And they’re so cheap!” they’d say to themselves. And so my poorhouse underwear become another woman’s refuge. At the end of the day, it’s just another story in the unfashionable circle of life.

 I was listening to the Current on CBC radio, where professor Rob Cockcroft discussed the construct of time. In other words, humans created the idea of time. Five thousand years ago, people like the Babylonians and Egyptians decided they needed to measure the day in hours. “The slaves are working 24/7 on that pyramid,” boasted sun dial makers in that week’s Papyrus. “But everyone else needs a bit more rest.”

I learned that in either June or December, one second of extra time, a leap second, is added to the year’s tally. The rotation of the earth isn’t as predictable as we’ve been led to believe. (But what is? A question for the ages.) And it’s slowing down…something to do with melting glaciers and rising rock. Anyway. To add a second, you actually stop time FOR a second. Since everyone’s trying to save money these days, I pictured the people in charge asking for volunteers to keep an eye on the atomic clock. Since I donate my time regularly at church and in my community, I might be the perfect candidate. 

Ah, but therein lies the folly. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when the scientists yell, ‘Now, Judy! Stop the clock for one second!’ —

—I will be finishing an exciting chapter in the Lord of the Rings trilogy that I’ve already read 13 times because it comforts me.( If Frodo and Sam can defeat the dark Lord, maybe the same will happen in November for our southern neighbors. Anyway.) I’d look up at them with bewildered eyes, my mouth ajar, perhaps a drip of saliva descending from my lips. ‘What?’ I’d say. They’d throw their arms in the air, then shrug it off, deciding to add two seconds in 2025 instead. 

Someone (I’m sure they have a name) has come up with the idea that instead of adding these seconds, they should wait sixty years and add a whole minute to the clock. I can just see the world when that happens. All the hockey players around the world will rest on their sticks while the fans wait, checking their cellphones. A guy on death row will lie there for a full extra minute as the warden waits for the signal. (But not in Canada. Instead, we torture people with endless years of waiting for a trial date. But I digress.) Let’s face it, the whole thing could get very messy.

In conclusion, if they ever seek a volunteer, don’t allow it to be me. ‘Get me to the church on time,’ is my mantra every Sunday, for a reason. Anything more, I won’t be able to handle. Now, where did I put my book?

For more info, here’s the link.

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thecurrent/wednesday-february-28-2024-full-transcript-1.7129107

 I used to work with my mother. How it happened was she showed up at my front door the  day after she retired from nursing, wanting to help me with my home business. I’d designed a baby carrier, started selling it mail order and then online. Stores were showing interest, and mom thought I needed her. She was right. 

Every morning she’d start by cleaning up the kid’s breakfast dishes, then begin wrapping up babyTrekkers. When my friend Crystal joined the gang, the three of us had a blast together. Technically, mom was my shipper, but she’d answer the phone if necessary.

‘BabyTrekker!’ she’d say a bit nervously, like she wasn’t the shipper yet but was still auditioning. 

One time when Crystal was out of town, I was chatting with a customer on our 800 number when mom picked up the office line. ‘Why yes,’ I said into the receiver, ‘The carrier comes in Hunter Green.’ That’s when my mother began shouting.

‘Sha na na sha na na!’

I stared at her in horror, then quickly stretched my phone line and moved around the corner, crouching over the phone so I could protect my potential customer from whatever craziness this was. Mom carried on, “In the mighty name of Jesus, I pray peace upon you!’ 

“Mom!” I hissed. “Who are you talking to?” Really, the possibilities were endless. I felt mortified, even as I started giggling.

For those not in the know, my mother was partly praying in English and partly speaking in tongues. This might lead you to believe that she was doing this with a Bible in one hand and a  poisonous snake in the other, (which I believe is actually a thing in the deep south.) First, let me explain about tongues. Ordinarily, it’s a private conversation with God where you speak things even you don’t understand. It’s like pouring out your heart, and is very useful when  regular words fail you. It’s meditative, kind of like a different version of ‘Oooommmm.’ I find it uselful in moments of despair when the world really sucks and I think Donald Trump might win the next election. Anyway.

Mom contiued exhorting the Holy Trinity while I kept hissing, “Who are you talking to?” Was it a customer who’d disprespected the babyTrekker? I couldn’t think of any situation that would call for this kind of fervor. Finally, she hung up the phone and turned to face me. “Crystal called from Winnipeg needing prayer.”

    “Did she need THAT kind of prayer?” I asked, kind of smiling but also feeling a bit stressed. Fortunately, I’d taken my customer’s order and hung up. 

“Yes, she did,” mom replied firmly. That was the thing about her. She was a dignified, deeply spiritual woman who never backed down when someone was in trouble. Many people loved and respected her, including all her grandchildren. 

When I asked Crystal about it days later, she confirmed that the prayer had really hit the spot. After that we got a portable phone so I could quickly flee the scene when things took a spiritual turn. Later, when we’d opened a factory and moved everything uptown, mom came with me for a while. And then she and dad started to travel. But I treasure those days…all the laughs and also the prayers. 

When things are tough like they’ve been over the last number of years, I miss my mother. And I’d give anything to hear her words of wisdom again. In spite of my reaction all those years ago, I realize that I need a little more of that Sha Na Na. I need the kind of prayer that lifts and soothes and calms my heart. There’s too much of the other kind of noise in the world. Mom, thank you for everything, for your patience, and your prayers. The world is less without you. I know, without any doubt, my siblings and our children will give me an amen on that.

My sister Linda is a bit like a character from a 1950’s musical—a good girl who likes to sing and doesn’t have time for rule breakers. Frankly, the world would be in a better place if she were in charge of things. Like world peace. ‘That’ll be enough of that!’ she’d tell Putin. The Middle East would get such a scolding, they wouldn’t know what hit them. Actually, all hitting would cease immediately. 

So, imagine my surprise when I learned she was getting a tattoo. Not any old tattoo, either, but a dragon crawling down her right forearm. It’s like she’s joined a cult and this was her initiation. She’s not a tattoo getting person. Yet, apparently she’s been planning it for years. (She’s careful like that.)

But now I can’t help wondering what she’ll do next. Shave her head and buy a studded leather jacket to accompany the gang tattoo on her neck? (She doesn’t have it yet…I’m just projecting.) I picture her planning her gang’s first book club meeting. (She used to be a librarian) There’d be a lot of shaping up and way less shenanigans once she got involved. (though Gangnam style shenanigans would be fine…she loves Korean dramas and the boy band, BTS.)

She often reminds me of Clint Eastwood’s movie character,  Dirty Harry. (As children who attended Scouts and Brownies, we memorized all her expressions, obeying the mantra, Always Be Prepared.) I particularly remember her narrowed eyes asking us Clint-type questions:  ‘Do you feel lucky?’ Or, “In this world, there are two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig.” Obviously, a tattoo was going to happen at some point in her life. Madam Librarian has flung away her disguise of well dressed respectabilty and shown us her leather wearing, possibly bald headed, dragon self.

I find myself wondering, does everyone long for another version of themselves? Do others feel threatened by that new version? (I feel threatened by this version of my sister. I took her out for lunch just to keep her on my side.)

But truly, must we continue liking the same things, holding the same convictions and maintaining the status quo so that others feel comfortable in their interpretation of who we are? I’m someone who does not like change. But it keeps happening, and life has a way of forcing me to adapt if only to keep my sanity. My husband loved change and grew quickly bored with life’s daily routines. I’m really hoping that death has offered him some crazy adventures so when I’m with him again, we can take it easy.

 ‘We’re doing what?’ I asked years ago, when he planned our camping trip through Asia and a hike up to Everest base camp. (Meanwhile, I’m challenged by hard pillows in a Canadian hotel.) But I adapted to his free spirit ways, because I knew that one of us had to have some spunk, and it wasn’t going to be me.

After my sister joined a cult (kidding…just a tattoo, folks) nothing will surprise me anymore. My brother may decide to take up ballet. My sister, Joni, might choose to lie around for the rest of her life and do nothing, though I can’t picture it. Her batteries will never die, and she will continue bustling around and helping people fix/clean/redecorate/stage their houses forever. In between all her travels, that is. 

Maybe I’ll surprise myself and do something completely unpredictable. But I doubt it. For now, writing a blog about my eldest sister is as close to danger as I can get. On that note, it’s goodbye for now. I need to find somewhere to hide.

(A repeat at the request of my friend, John Taylor)

There are some hallways I will never enter. Strange doors I will never step through, and belief systems I cannot embrace. I’m talking not about scientology. It’s the appeal of the Hallmark channel with its 24/7 Christmas movies that I cannot understand.

I know full well their popularity.  I have close friends and family members who wait all year for Christmas and the magic of Hallmark. These movies are a monetary success story, not just for the card company but for actors, writers and many who work in the business. Yet there’s something almost subversive about them. The characters don’t stare blankly like the women in the Stepford Wives movie, but still. I find their steady cheerfulness and unusual prosperity just a little creepy. There are other unexplained phenomena. Like the constant baking and the drinking of multiple cups of hot chocolate, yet no one is overweight. 

As I write this, I’m eyeballing a movie called ‘Christmas in Evergreen: The Tiding.’ Perhaps they’ve done many shows in the fine town of Evergreen, and this is the latest rendition. I have no idea, because the only time I watch them is when I land on the channel accidentally. Still, I have to confess. There’s something mesmerizing about the way they capture their audience.

The first thing I notice is the clothes. Everyone is so well dressed, like they’re ready to attend their own wedding. Even the children look fresh from the hair salon. Toques (that’s Canadian winter head gear) are accompanied by matching scarves. Boots gleam, and fun mittens adorn every pair of hands. All this fashion finery is backed by elaborate decorations that make Rockefeller Center look small time. Lights everywhere, wreaths on all the doors and even the smallest store is wrapped up like an extravagant gift. Nobody ever frowns in Christmas movie land. Well, nobody except for a child whose mother, (let’s call her Amanda) is just too busy.

Amanda has an immaculate, amazingly decorated house, works full time and is always home for supper. And yet, little Jenny feels neglected. She needs a Christmas miracle–one that will have her mother come to her senses and get her priorities straight. Amanda loves to shop. That could be the problem, except everyone in town is constantly shopping and strolling around toting beautifully wrapped presents. By the end of the movie, Amanda has found both love and more time for her daughter.

Then there’s little Jimmy, who needs a new mother. His handsome father  is too heart broken to date the boy’s gorgeous teacher, though she’s funny (Hallmark funny, not Tina Fey funny) and smart and perfect in every way. Jimmy’s father looks off into the distance as he speaks about his wife. He was too busy working when she was alive, and now he is filled with regret. Jimmy can’t act as well as his father, but we’re supposed to root for them both.

The men of Christmas are as well groomed as the women. They look like Ken dolls, with hair that stays put no matter what winter sport they’re playing. Usually it’s something light, like skating. Or shopping. Even if their car broke down on the highway and they had to spend the night in a village resembling Santa’s workshop, they still look like mannequins. Their fastidious appearance leads me to believe that these men are all gay. Except I don’t think they have any LGBTQ people in Hallmark movies. Not any who are out of the closet, anyway. Please let me know if I’m wrong. (This is a repost…things may have changed?)

There are no drunk uncles in a Hallmark Christmas movie. No one ever confesses to cheating on their spouse. If they have a child and they’re a single parent, they’re never divorced, they’re a widow. Or widower.

 I hate to diss the company, because I’ve been known to wander through Hallmark stores, reading cards while sitting in the aisle and weeping. After a good half hour of this behavior, I’m usually approached by a clerk with a strained look on her face. “May I help you?”
 “No thanks. I just like to read the cards. This is the one,” I say, holding it up with the solemnity of a woman buying herself a $10,000 ring. I’ll spend $8 because this clever writer deserves the pay.

If these movies were cheesy novels, (which, maybe they were, once) there’d be a bare chested cowboy leaning over a beautiful girl while doffing his Stetson. But TV Christmas movies require clothing. Well fitted, stylish, fake casual. Young couples strolling down snow covered streets, flakes drifting softly past their faces, and a church spire or an old brick bank that needs saving, in the background. Maybe a dog. I haven’t seen one yet. There must be a Hallmark dog movie out there somewhere. Dogs are emotionally available, and therefore popular.

No one in a Hallmark movie is Charlize Theron beautiful, just very good looking for regular town life. Even the old people look fit and attractive. There’s a lot of botox and filler, but its subtle. I can’t help thinking, oh, please. Give me one heroin addict dying in an alley while people wander by, unseeing. An old person neglected in a neighborhood of uncaring young people. Any touch of reality that acknowledges the messiness of real life. Our houses may look nice for half a day, but who can keep it up longer than that unless they have domestic help?  Especially if there are kids around. I want to see a Hallmark character step on a Lego piece and yell, ‘Fuck me!’ It will never happen.

I’d love to see a guy say, ‘Want to hook up, just for the night? Nancy next door has been talking about a three way. You up for it?” Wouldn’t that shake up the audience. As their Christmas movie coma fell away, the viewers would blink their eyes and shake their heads. “I have to get a life,” they’d say, getting up from the sofa for the first time in eight hours.

And yet. The people I know who watch and love Hallmark movies are busy with their own jobs and kids and full lives. At the end of a hard day, they long for the comfort and dazzle of a well decorated town. A simple story line where love waits for the pretty, and kids have small, easily solved problems. No one’s parents have dementia, no one’s dad is trying to kick his drug habit. Small problems, magical fixes. Yet watching these movies makes me want to try heroin, or lie down in a back alley with a bottle of 90 proof home brew.

I guess what I really want is to burst people’s bubbles. Apparently this is the reason I can’t stand the movies. I’m a bubble burster. A Christian scrooge. Bah, humbug. Christmas for me is about Jesus, but I can’t stand the church people in these movies, either. Anyway.

Wait a minute. They just kissed. Why is she leaving? Is she driving away? I thought they were going to get married! What the…?? Dammit. Now I have to watch to the end. Sigh. At least I’m dressed badly. My old flannel bottoms and torn sweatshirt represents the realities of regular people’s lives. Because someone has to keep a firm grasp on… Wait…she’s back! She’s getting out of the car with a string of lights in her hand! Oh, for the love of God! Stop decorating, already.

When the world feels heavier than usual, I put away my Game of Thrones novel or collected short stories by Virginia Wolfe (I want to love her writing, but no) and pick up something lighter. A mystery novel, perhaps, though nothing too suspenseful. Reading about a woman unaware of the strange man living in her attic is just not relaxing. 

Unfortunately, I chose a romantic comedy that backfired. Why? In spite of suffering from a serious heart condition, the main character ate nothing all day but candy and pizza. ‘What about spinach?’ I found myself asking her aloud. ‘Or carrots?’ (Dear reader, her diet caused heart palpitations in me.) So I abandoned the novel, picked up my phone and found a ten minute meditation on YouTube. My friend Penny had given me one, but I used it the night before and wanted to try something new.

Supposedly, meditation stops our thoughts from bossing our brains around. One can spend so much time worrying about things that may never happen that it can provoke a very unromantic heart condition. So I found a new meditation to try. 

A man with a relaxing voice directed me in hushed tones to make myself comfortable. I chose to sit on the sofa, leaning back and pretending that my legs were as bendy as my old yoga teacher’s. In reality, I might as well be carved from wood. I closed my eyes when ordered to do so, and let the music wrap around me as I pictured myself standing at the edge of a lake. I was told to breathe, to notice my heart rate and pulse. I opened my eyes to peek at the candle my sister Joni had given me, mostly to distract myself from my heart beat.

Was it unusually fast?  I tried to calm myself by closing my eyes again, listening as the man quoted Winston Churchill. ‘When you’re walking through hell, keep going.’ Excellent advice, but I immediately pictured the Gary Larson cartoon where hellgoers repeat endless leg lifts with the devil and his pitchfork on standby. ‘One million one, one million two…

Stop it! I scolded myself, focusing once more on the voice. ‘Count the clouds in the sky,’ he ordered. And you know what? I didn’t feel like counting the clouds. When I’m out kayaking, I take in the calm lake, watch for wildlife, stare at the rocks and peek up at the sky. Not once have I counted clouds. Why? It’s boring. And dumb. My irritation made me anxious, so I disregarded his instructions, whispered a prayer of gratitude for my life and turned off the meditation. 

At first I felt a bit bereft, like a Hogwarts student who couldn’t do spells and never got to spend time with Harry Potter. And then I started laughing. And I thought, okay. I feel better. 

I’ll try another meditation, but not the kind where they aim too high. ‘You can do anything!’ some will say. I believe it on a spiritual level, but I’ve already given up on certain aspirations, like my old dream of skating in the Olympics. It was unrealistic anyway since I never took lessons. Besides, such things won’t happen no matter how well I control my breathing. Perhaps I could envision myself skating competitively as a form of meditation. But no. My anxious imagination would make me fall, and I’d end up with a Judge’s score of five at best. Oh, those Russians!

 You never want to meditate on being a loser. So, feel free to offer other suggestions, dear reader. I’m open to any of your YouTube referrals, so long as I don’t have to count clouds.