The Snow Scare, Part II

Decade N° 5: A Not-so-Average Blog on Middle Age

Month 8 (Part Deux)

Alone Together

Photo by Fiona Murray-deGraaff on Unsplash

“I’m a weather geek,” said Patti, my pelvic floor therapist, as she attached biofeedback sensors to my skin. “We are definitely going to get some!“

The “some” to which she was referring was snow and ice. Much of the country was under a winter storm threat, and Knoxville was on high alert.

The contrast between this midsize, East Tennessee city and my previous home in a suburb of Chicago was radical when it came to snow. On wintry weekdays in Bloomingdale, Illinois, Mom helped my sister Paige and me into our snowsuits, boots, mittens, and hats, and sent us off to walk the half a mile to school. Trudging along with a group of friends, I never did mind, but I do have memories of icy falls onto my bottom.

Things are much different here. While Knoxville’s interstate is usually quick to become passable, even a dusting of snow on the hilly side roads and neighborhoods can leave its residents stranded for a week.

I groaned at Patti’s statement. “I have a problem,” I shared. She looked at me with confusion, and asked if I was scared of the predicted weather. “Nope,” I said. “You see, my husband John takes this annual snowski vacation…”

I explained my turbulent emotions surrounding whether or not John would depart for his week-long trip. There was no time for Patti and I to discuss, however, as our attention was soon focused on me tightening my left and right abdominal muscles symmetrically.

On the drive home, my thoughts turned again to the following week. In years past, I had devoted my solo time to special activities: visiting my mom and stepdad in Atlanta, scheduling outings with friends, or simply doing what I pleased from dawn ’til dusk. Vacuuming at 7:00 am? Why not!

This year, I’d laid out the itinerary of all itineraries: a writing retreat to work on my first book. Home alone and unsupervised, my schedule held a cornucopia of creative pursuits, reflective business exercises, and, of course, pen-to-paper (or fingers-to-laptop) time.

I’d worked myself into a lather at the thought of incorporating my beloved, but active, husband into my week. I pictured him balking at the “artsy” movies I had on the roster, or interrupting me ten minutes into writing Chapter One. I knew he would turn up his nose at the not-so-healthy frozen breaded chicken patties I’d been saving just for this occasion.

As well, midweek I had scheduled my first “Artist Date,” a heralded exercise invented by Julia Cameron in her pivotal book, *The Artist’s Way*. Intended purely as a tool to nourish one’s aesthetic tendencies, the Artist Date is a block of time carved out as a getaway for your creative inner self. After pondering elegant options such as visiting the Knoxville Museum of Art or attending a symphony performance, I settled on an outing that fit me to a T: a trip to our local shopping mall. After all, my love for fashion took root in my childhood, and the shade of its sartorial branches have been present throughout my career and life.

John loved clothing, too. It was one of the reasons I’d married him. But if he accompanied me with his own style agenda, would I still be able to wander at will, caress the textiles-of-the-moment, and make a circuit around the Food Court to catch the glorious scents of pizza, Chick-fil-A, and Philly cheesesteaks?

My answer came soon enough. The day before he was to fly to Montana, John and I mutually decided that he should forego the trip. The entire situation felt like a “better safe than sorry” one, and we chose safe.

Then he asked, “What did you have planned?”

Oh, boy. Did he have a few hours?

I attempted to explain, cognizant of not sounding too excited at the thought of being alone, and guilt-ridden that I felt that way in the first place. As I did so, I sensed my artistic inner self heading for the door.

“Maybe next year,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.

No, wait!” I thought. “I want you both in my life. I need you both in my life!”

I came clean with John about the importance of this week. I let him know about the movies, the activities, the writing. He encouraged me to keep my agenda.

I described the Artist Date, and how it was meant as a creative reservoir-filling time. He understood and was fine whether or not he attended — whatever I wanted to do.

I told him that I’d planned on dinners not taking too much time. I then did something for the first time in my 33-year marriage: I asked my husband to make the evening meals. That whole week.

He agreed.

Like a fiery orange rising sun on a new day’s morning, the light of my awareness grew.

I reflected on how supportive John has always been of my artistic endeavors. When he and I dated, more times than not I showed up at the door wearing an outfit I had finished sewing minutes before. John always greeted me — and my nineties ensemble — with an approving bear hug.

When I opened my first small business as a dressmaker, bridal fairs monopolized many of our weekends. Among the carful of items, my booth contents included three mannequins, heavy garment bags bursting with dresses, veils, and slips, and an overflow of nerves. John handled them all.

And writing… my writing. I thought back to the college graduation present John had given me: a hefty, luxury ballpoint pen. I was distraught at the time that it wasn’t an engagement ring. I was overlooking the fact that, even then, he recognized my love of writing. I think he is as proud of my writing business today as I am delighting in it.

I thought about our surplus of togetherness since John’s retirement, his multiple cameo appearances throughout my workday, and the frustrated feelings I had toward my role as a retired guy’s wife. But was my focus accurate?

I realized that John’s cancelled trip wasn’t so much about how to handle my husband, it was how to handle myself.

How many times had I simply not asked for what I needed? And how many times would he have been willing to accommodate — especially now that he was free and clear of all work responsibilities?

John was fine with my Creative Self hanging around, and always had been. His retirement wasn’t a box for me to squeeze myself into or feel obligated to follow, but an opportunity for us both to thrive. His interruptions were not because he needed to be entertained, but because he likes me. My marriage was not holding me back, but blessing me with a supportive partner in the pursuit of my dreams.

As I pondered the revelation, the winter storm finally arrived. It turned out that the weather event in East Tennessee was more of a whimper than a threat. It was, indeed, a “snow scare”. We did lose power in the wee hours of Saturday morning. But, that was due a driving-impaired individual running into a utility pole rather than ice-heavy power lines.

With hearth, home, and community at rest, I prepared for the following week’s book retreat. John and I decided that I’d set up shop in our cathedral-ceilinged sun room.

Located at the back of our house and away from heavy foot traffic, the Retiree could more easily resist the temptation of saying hello. The room had also been the site of my bridal business, and the location where I had earnestly studied for my Master’s degree. The airy space felt like “coming home” to some of my best creative work.

Monday morning, I put on a cute outfit, and found John. I wanted to look good on the first day. “There she goes, to work on her book!” he said, beaming.

After a happy embrace, I left to get started on Chapter One.