Lucy’s Regal Blue Dress

Nightlife. 1943 Archibald John Motley Jr.

Lucy Goosey pulled her worn winter coat out from the back of the closet.  Glancing around to make sure she was alone, she slid the dress out from underneath the coat.

The dress still had the tags on it.  It was a size 8, and the color was Regal Blue. It fit every part of her, requiring no alterations.

After she cut the tags off, Lucy would tuck them into her scrapbook.

 Lucy had never had clothing, other than underwear, that was storebought new with tags.

She kept the dress secret even from her mother, though it fair killed her.  She did not want the gossip and speculation to start.  She intended to surprise.

She laid the frock on her bed and spread the skirt.  The color was glorious, and Regal Blue was the perfect description.  The taffeta caught the early sun and glowed. With its full skirt and low neckline, Lucinda Marie Duval would command attention.

Lucy paid on the layaway for twelve weeks, doing without the few extras she allowed herself.  She walked to work every morning and home from secretarial school every night so she could use her bus fare against the layaway balance – the one decreasing oh so slowly. 

In celebration of her eventual achievement, the shop owner steamed the dress for free before expertly folding it to fit into the store’s signature box. 

Once home, she lifted the dress, taking care not to disturb the tissue paper stuffed into the bodice and sleeves to prevent wrinkles. Lucy set aside the pink ribbon used to bind the box shut. She would wear it with her maid’s uniform. 

She saved the pristine and sturdy white dress box.

Nothing in Lucy’s life served a single purpose. The gleaming dress would celebrate her betrothal or mark the end of a relationship stealing her youth.  The Regal Blue frock might go on to serve as her wedding dress should they decide on a Justice of the Peace, but either way, it would end up in the window of the consignment store.  The proceeds would be applied to the next semester’s tuition.

Johnny knew she, the woman he had nicknamed Lucy Goosey for her fluid dance moves, had been expecting a proposal for months. 

Johnny changed the subject if the air between them felt palpable with expectation.  He knew she was trying to find the words that would prod his.

Once she found those words, everything would change. 

A few times when her expectation niggled at his brain, he sent his younger brother with a message that he was ill and would not be able to escort her to Smitty’s as planned.

Johnny was not prepared for the Lucy who greeted him at the door.

Everyone at Smitty’s would understand as soon as she walked in arm-in-arm with Johnny. If they did walk into Smitty’s.  Moving from her doorway to Smitty’s might not happen.

The light from the floor lamp set her skin, her eyes, her hair, and the taffeta glowing.  Johnny was on the porch, but the lamp lit his face as well. 

Lucy watched his expression change and then change again. She did not need to say anything.

She was regal.

She wanted it understood she was not a supplicant. His first naked expression told Lucy he did understand.  He knew he had until he walked her home to make the decision.

The niggle had failed him this day. Surprise had been achieved.

The splendor of the dress did not overpower her in any way.  She was striking. She was tall. She was resolute.

Lucy was planning a future ablaze with certainty. She knew lots of people with promise who never found that future.

Still, her voice was soft when she said, “Shall we go now?”

Johnny held out his arm. She wrapped hers around it.

His voice as soft and gentle as hers had been, he said, “You are so lovely.”

Johnny would remember, for all of his life, the image of Lucy in the doorway.

Lucy did love Johnny.  He excited her and made her feel alive. They danced together like one body. She thought them well-suited in temperament, though she wasn’t sure his ambition matched hers.

Her future would fork left or would fork right this very evening. So would Johnny’s. The question was whether they would be arm-in-arm on the same fork.

Her mother and father had loved one another. As had his.

Though necessary, love can be not enough. Lucy understood that. Johnny suspected as much, but hadn’t allowed himself to think beyond the now.

He loved his Lucy Goosey, but he would never again call her by that name.

Now was slipping away and soon Lucy might too.

She slowed her pace to match his as he checked his watch.

Smitty’s was just around the corner.

I want to coin a new word

I want a word that means to feel it all at once. To include the cognitive dissonance with the revelation of divine knowledge. To embrace the sacred and the profane. I want that word to recognize that I can be at peace and at war within myself at any moment, either one or both simultaneously.

To feel it all at once is to glimpse the mind of the creator. Perhaps. I want the ennui and the exhilaration of my being to dance. A tango. Slow, deliberate, sinuous, winding about one another until the boredom embraces the joy reaching crescendo. And then there is silent acceptance of both when the music fades.

This is my life now. I don’t want to call it a new normal. I despise normal – always have. I have striven all my life not to be average. I’d rather be a failure than just fade to black.

This life, the one right here, the one that I call a trainwreck, is mine and I don’t want to shut down any part of it. It has become who I am.

I was in a trainwreck one time. Really. I hit a train. It makes for a great party story.

And that is my goal: to ferment all of this into a story that both bears witness to the tragedy and provokes laughter at having trried to overcome it all and only sometimes succeeding. I want to coin that word.

If we can’t laugh, we can’t cry, and both are necessary for either to have any potency. Any meaning. Any effect.

I want a word for all of this. These events and feelings and effects have shaped me and continue to shape me into a person I hardly recognize, but who is resolutely and most definitely me.

An interlude of tranquility

Just one interlude of tranquility, please.

This instant! 

Is it somehow cognitive dissonance to demand an interlude much less an interlude of tranquility to manifest out of thin air?  I think so. 

Tranquility, I think, grows slowly.  It is not rushed, demanded, or ordered about.  It is a rock hosting moss – the green coating develops slowly and requires one to be still. 

Tranquility can be – is – precarious.  For most of us, it can be destroyed in an instant.  Soft falling snow on a peaceful landscape turns into a tree crashing through one’s roof.  Or frozen pipes burst.  Or the power goes out. The quiet happiness of home and hearth is destroyed in an instant.

To disassociate so rapidly from tranquility, deep and quiet and blissful, to stress.  To disaster.  To mayhem.  Is perilous

and

dangerous and damaging. 

A disaster of its own.

Modern life is not adapted for this.

The natural biological response for these incidents is for the primitive brain – the one we aren’t allowed to operate with in this the first quarter of the first century of the latest millennium – to take control. Due to this, because of this, as a direct result of this, our bodies and our brains are flooded with the chemicals that depend on fight, flight, or freeze, and we are allowed to do none of those and be deemed to be good people, good parents, good employees, good anything.

And they certainly do nothing to help us with the situation at hand.

But there we are — swimming (treading water or maybe drowning) in the toxic miasma of an old response inadequate to the disaster at hand.  And so we need an interlude of tranquility to reset and restore, which now feels like an impossibility. 

I can demand satisfaction.

Challenge the fates to a duel.

Rail against an unjust universe. 

Or I can sit quietly here with my right hand on my heart and my left hand petting the small, rhythmic breathing bundle of unconditional love known as Emmylou-the-Dachshund and wait for the moss to grow while I meditate on all the good things still available to me.

Toxic Coping Mechanisms

I would have loved to have had an eavesdropper to a text conversation I had yesterday. 

Photo by Polish photographer Jacek Stankiewicz.

I’ve been big on drawing boundaries for the past two years. I have or had some people in my life who just either take me for granted without any reciprocity or just downright treat me badly. 

As appropriate, I’ve been calling out their behavior and telling them I won’t have it any longer.  A few of them I’ve said goodbye to. 

Yesterday, I got a text message I didn’t understand.  After re-reading it – understanding dawned on me.  I explained I knew nothing about any of it and couldn’t comply with their request. They were gracious and understanding.  I then texted the person who provoked the original text.  I got a very curt response, though I hadn’t been adversarial, placing the blame on me.  I had been sure it wasn’t malicious. I was concerned.  This was someone I love and someone who loves me.  I said, “That smells like gaslighting.”  They spit out defiant and terse words through their fingertips into a texting app that was the very definition of gaslighting. Noxious smell confirmed.

I gave no warning.  That person is now completely out of my life like a boil on my butt that has been properly excised by a medical professional.

And I feel proud of myself.  I will mourn the loss of the love we had for one another. Not loss.  I think love never dies, although it can stagnate. That’s where we are now.

In my quest, begun two decades ago, of working when possible to accept folks and their quirks, me included, I put up with a lot of bad and questionable behavior.  Including from myself.  Due to the circumstances of my life and my own innate personality, I have had a lifetime of people-pleasing. In fact, this holiday season has revealed a few more folks who are taking advantage of that aspect of me. There will be warnings if warranted, but I will be excising boils like a surgeon of exceptional skill if need be.

I am now, very much, all about pleasing my own myself.  I have always been a hedonist, but now I will insist on emotionally healthy pleasure.

People-pleasing is not in and of itself a bad thing to do.  Be kind.  Be a mentor.  Be a friend.  Say please and thank you. Especially thank you.  Be lavish with compliments and praise, but don’t do it because you fear what will happen if you don’t.  That makes it inauthentic. Do it because in a truly genuine manner, and not because you are trying to avoid their unpleasantness if you don’t.  If you do it to keep the peace or to avoid confrontation, that’s not healthy.  It shouldn’t be a coping mechanism to just get through the day. Needing to always walk on eggshells is poisonous to the heart, the soul, and the mind.   

Perhaps this is just the wisdom of age.  I don’t know, but I am going to work very hard from here on out to both accept folks for their quirks (still including myself) while also having boundaries firmly drawn with a large paint brush. Bright red paint, I think, to signal a warning.  Boundaries have been drawn to keep me from returning to my bad habit.  Boundaries drawn to protect me from those who would take advantage.  Boundaries from the parts of myself to keep me from using toxic coping mechanisms.

My tranquility is primary now, and that will require nurturing and reciprocal relationships that aren’t just loving, but respectful.  Still including the relationship I have with myself.  Especially that one.