Author: ferylfiles

I don’t know how it is they know, but they know. Our animals know when we need extra. They know when we need the extended cuddle, the curl up on the shoulder, the lean. Currently, I have three cats. Two are fully indoors–Usul, a black and white tuxedo kitty who is an old woman at 14 and change and Martok, a gray and white bundle of mischief who is settling into a gentler version of his younger self. And of course there is Seamus, the increasingly indoors kitty now that the weather and light are shifting. He’s a Maine coon who serves as neighborhood ambassador and demanding old cuss. The daily care of these three yahoos has been an anchor for me. Do all my clothes and furniture have some cat fur despite my vigorous attempts to make it otherwise? Yes. Worth it.

These aren’t the only animals for which I am grateful. I’m grateful for memories of past pets who filled this home with humor, light, and love. I’m grateful for the time spent at my bestie’s where her two beagles, Doug and Travis, brought me extreme joy and lots of cuddles with their long soft ears, soulful eyes, and insistence at being loved. I am smitten with dogs even though I’ve never really had one of my own. Friends send photos and videos telling stories that make me smile, making me bask in vicarious joy, and if I’m honest, maybe creating a little envy. I get to meet new dogs on my walks at Mill Creek, too, and count the quality of those walks by the number of canines I get to give ear scritches. When friends, new and old, share their animals with me, I feel extremely lucky.

I’m grateful for all the love and enriched life these creatures so selflessly give. Even the shattering heartbreak of losing one is a reminder of just how beloved and dear they are. Heartbreak is the price of love and we willingly pay because it’s worth it. This is true for us and our critters, too, even though the reminders are far more frequent than we prefer.

This past weekend, on several separate occasions, I had the good fortune to meet up with many friends, to share a meal, a beverage, time. I appreciate so much these opportunities to be with people. Yep, even as an introvert I can say that. I made the joke a couple of times recently that living at home alone with cats I’ve become half feral (Feryl?) Truly, the ability to navigate relationships and communicate well are not innate, at least not for me. These opportunities to listen, talk, ask and answer questions, kvetch, express gratitude, help keep me sane and fit for public consumption. And that’s definitely a work in progress…

One chat revolved around how our modern lives have evolved so far away from our communal living in caves or in say a Scottish clan. Instead of having social fabric to help with all the things of day-to-day life within our living space (childcare, cooking, cleaning, hunting, medical treatment) by specialists within the group, in our modern homes we wear all the hats. I feel that when I come home to a pile of mail, laundry, housekeeping that’s not getting done, yardwork that’s not getting done, meal prep, cat care, etc. and I wear none of the hats well. Okay, that’s not true. The cookie-baking hat I wear with panache. I don’t mean to kvetch too much. I know how lucky I am, but I can be honest and say it’s all a lot and I’m overwhelmed sometimes having a full time job and the list of things above. If you’re feeling overwhelmed by *waves hands* allllll the things, just know you’re not alone.

Other conversations centered on exercise, mental health, touch, time, gratitude, pride, shame, and the foibles of human nature–all good stuff. I appreciate the chance to get out of the overwhelmed head space into places of conviviality and connection. And I am so grateful for people who like me enough to spend time with me and help sand off some of the rougher edges.

(Trigger warning: Body Dysmorphia)

When I was little, I was tall for my age group and often bigger than my peers. I had a tummy. Most of my growing up years I heard that I was in an “awkward-in-between phase” and that I would grow out of that tummy. Both of my parents struggled with their weight and many of their habits and insecurities, of course not deliberately, got passed down. Combine a 1990s culture of heroin chic models and a constant battle between sweets and self-loathing and you get a lot of body shame and a girl named Becci.

Over the years I’ve had successful periods of navigating diet and exercise and managing sugar and stress. And I’ve had times where the chocolate drawer was the only way I got calories or comfort. Recently, I’ve been more successful in navigating diet and exercise–not entirely on my own (those pesky Invisalign trays keep me from snacking or drinking beverages with calories, thank goodness). Most of what I’m doing, isn’t to look a certain way. It’s to feel a certain way. I get seasonal depression. Bad. I understand snowbirds better and better every year. I’m not sure at what point I will surrender to that. My efforts this year have been to build a foundation to help me through the winter so I don’t just white knuckle it.

The side effect of that is that I’m smaller than I used to be. The reactions to that are still startling to me. I’m still me. And it also makes me incredibly tender to bigger Becci who had the same naughty sense of humor, big heart, and joy-seeking nature. It’s easy to paint virtue on size when everything we’re bombarded with tells us that’s true. It’s not true. It’s garbage and I hate it. And even though the jeans I had in a drawer for several years fit again, I am still that chubby little girl inside.