Like most of my endeavors, my thirty days of DHD was a colossal failure. I say that not in a self-deprecating way, honestly. But I’m back, at least for now. Naturally I have so much to say. And, as evidenced by what you’re about to read, I have absolutely no idea where to start. Let’s begin with my promise and subsequent lapse in writing here for a month.
I don’t know if it was the high from my 30-something birthday, or perhaps the hangover, but I was feeling heady in those first few days of May. My second writing class was coming to a close and I had queued up another to start the following week. Work was going well, despite the pandemic, and my peloton blue dots were more consistent than ever.
I was going to do it, the next great American novel was going to emerge from the pandemic, at the hands of yours truly — if I could only figure out a name for my protagonist and stop reverting back to first person after a glass or five of Pinot noir.
But, four days into my new life as soon to be best-selling author and saleswoman and dog-mom and Steve’s girlfriend I threw in the towel. On thirty days of DHD. On my third writing class. On whatever I was trying to prove with my insane amount of extracurriculars not all of which I’ve listed here. I consulted various friends (read: Lauren), studied the expressions on my boyfriend’s stoic Irish face, and decided I would not listen to Hudson cry outside my office door for another night. I emerged from my office cave a quitter that day, humbled and tired, wondering what was for dinner.
When you’re working from home, they say boundaries are everything. Did I mention I had been commissioned to create a scrapbook during all of this? If you don’t know what this entails, I won’t bore you with the details, just think lots of pictures and time, and wine. My days spent working stretched into nights curating pictures and designing page templates. Steve often would silently leave dinner on my desk while I wrote, scrapbooked, attended writing class, etc.
On my birthday, as Steve and I poured celebratory afternoon drinks, I almost wanted to say nice to see you again. I didn’t say that. I opened the gorgeous birthday gift he had waiting for me, apologized for missing all of April, and drank a shitload of red wine whilst listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter’s greatest hits.
Then I pushed the pause button. I took the following Thursday off of work hoping that some sunshine and fresh air would coax my mind from whatever rock it had crawled under. It was hard at first. To distract myself, around noon I went to the park with Hudson. I purposely left my phone home; it was going to be one of those walks. We found ourselves in the park next to the elementary school down the street. It was empty, with schools closed across the country, the only life nearby was an old man in an electric scooter doing counterclockwise laps around the parking lot. The gentleman seemed unabashed as he made his way, the American flag tethered to his grey leather seat flitting behind him with furious purpose.
Hudson danced beside me until we were close enough to the soccer field for a throw. After a few I wandered to the baseball field, and as I sat sweating in the late spring heat with my thighs adhering to the wooden bench in the dugout, I knew something had to give. This knowing was unfortunately equal and opposite in magnitude to another feeling. A new feeling.
Permanence. Legacy. During my typical day to day those are two things I don’t often think about. But, given all we’d seen this year up to May – I’ve found myself recently obsessed with what would remain if I ceased to exist. Sitting on that park bench, I realized that adding this worry to my already overloaded anxiety bandwidth was not a great idea. Hudson, his eyes eagerly following the movements of my right hand (and his ball), was none the wiser.
As he returned a long throw from deep in the outfield, I realized a few things and nothing. I stood up and opened my now raw and painful legs for Hudson to run through. With his tongue out and the sun on his back, he was clearly tickled by his luck to be exactly where he was. I was jealous. Wiping sweat from my face, I picked up the ball and threw it. I wanted to push pause on my whole life right then and there. I don’t even know what I want to be, I silently whined. I was still cringing at the thought when Hudson returned. His giant body landed before me with a thud, causing a cloud of dirt and pollen and bugs to rise from the ground in his wake. I sat down next to him.
I want to know. I want to be present. I want to stop wanting and live, what do I even want? Hudson seemed to understand there was some kind of existential crisis occurring in his owner, and the edges of his deep brown eyes softened knowingly. He placed his paw in my lap, connecting our two bodies momentarily. It helped, until Hudson saw a bee a few yards away and flung himself in its direction, leaving me with his drool covered ball and my crisis alone. I walked home with the sun on my back, none the wiser, but content to simmer in abject nescience.
More to come tomorrow or perhaps in a month, nobody knows for sure.
The Dog Hair Diaries 