I thought today for Wobbly you might enjoy an excerpt from the diary I’m writing:
“A diversion. A diversion for me, for sure: a week at Club Med in Turks and Caicos with Kelly and her husband Doron and eight of their friends. All in their 50s and 60s. How will that be for me? I’ve met many of them and like them, but my back hurts, I can’t play pickle ball, I can’t take power walks, I can’t dance (not very much, at least). And I can’t hear worth a darn. And frankly, living as we do a fairly cloistered life, heading out into the large, unpredictable world is a little daunting.
Kelly says bring a big suitcase with lots of clothes. She says I should buy dressy sandals, which I’ve never had, since I need orthotics. She says I should paint my toenails, which I never do. Why bother when your toes don’t show? She Zooms with me while I pick out clothes to bring. I listen to her because she’s gorgeously fashionable, and I’m not. I’ve never been. I spend several days packing the huge suitcase (she said the huge one), and the morning of the flight, I get a text saying the flight is delayed because of weather in Chicago. I’ll miss my connection.
United is very helpful by text. They re-book me from Chicago to Miami and put me up (in a very skuzzy hotel) for the night, so I’ll be a day late getting into Turks. I stand on the curb at the airport in Miami in the hot dark, waiting and waiting for the hotel shuttle. There goes Hilton, Hyatt, Marriott, Holiday Inn, Ramada. But no Clarion Hotel and Suites. How do I know they even have a shuttle? I try and try to call, but their line doesn’t seem to work. I head back in to a United desk. They try to call for me. No answer. I try to get a taxi, but I’m told Yellow Cab doesn’t go there, I should get a blue one. I saw no such thing. At long last, the semi-comatose manager answers at the hotel. He says “Just watch for the shuttle. You might head to Zone 20.” I drag my gigantic bag down to Zone 19. There is no 20. I drag my bag to the other side of the walkway, through traffic, to see if there’s a 20, but No. As I’m walking back, there goes my shuttle! I frantically wave, but he’s on his way. At least I know one exists. I wait and wait. Forty-five minutes later, here comes another. I fall gratefully into a seat. I’m pretty proud of myself. I say, “This is good for your brain. This requires flexibility and cool.” I get to the skuzzy hotel at nine, get a beer and a tuna salad, the only thing on the menu that looks edible, and fly into Turks the next day.”
That’s the excerpt. My analysis is that along with being a joy, the trip was very helpful to me. I needed to be around younger people. They call me Mother Superior, which is funny because my daughter and son-in-law and their friends are mostly Jewish. I’m poised now to work on my diet to control my arthritis. I want to lose a little weight in the process. I feel energized.
While I was there I finished the book I took with me, a memoir called “Me,” by Brenda Ueland (1891-1985), a Minneapolis writer and journalist, a fiercely independent woman when that stance was hard to maintain. There’s nothing particularly spectacular about her life. She grows fat, she starts walking miles and miles every day, she loses the weight for the rest of her life. She chops off her hair. She has love affairs, she marries unwisely, has a child she loves, divorces, and so on. Just a life, but any life, told straight and honestly, and written well, I find deeply attractive. I like seeing how others live, and tell, their lives. At the moment, I’m more interested in that than in fiction. I think the world is in great need of intimate, true stories, well told.