One week in ...

Yesterday morning, I had a meltdown. I went to the pool with Matt to ask some questions about the therapy pool and strength building classes. As I watched women with severe mobility issues get slowly and carefully get into the pool, slowly and carefully walk across it, and slowly and carefully get back out, I was crushed.

Now, I get that I don't have a permanent disability.  At its worst, I'll feel lousy and walk like a constipated duck until sometime around our wedding celebration. I can live with that.

But gosh, yesterday I just hurt. A whole seven days after my injury, I was terrified that this would go on forever.

What a wuss.

To be fair, I've had plenty of moments of enormous levity. On Sunday, when Matt and I took a stroll in Santa Monica, a gentleman in a plaid blazer and a comb-over breezed past us. The guy was 90 years old if a day. Later that morning, I stood patiently holding my donut while Matt bought me a bottle of hand lotion. The store clerk pointed to my donut and asked what it was. When I explained, she responded, "Goodness, it's so large." I promptly turned around, pointed my fanny in Matt's direction, and said, "Do you think so, too?"

Today will be my first day back with my students. Last night, I wrote "coccyx" on the board and a definition that includes words like "articulating" and "tailless." I'll answer my kids' questions. I'll accept their help picking up all the stuff I drop, which seems like a ton. And I'll proudly sit on my very-large donut.

Training wheels

In three days, my marriage will be eight months old. In that time, Matt and I have had a stress or two: moved several thousand miles, started new jobs, and weathered a couple of lawsuits. Although not always a bump-free ride, we've managed each challenge nicely, learning to lean into each other. I like to think of our relationship as new, green bamboo, bending and swaying together in the wind, growing taller in the sun.

Cheesy, yes, but the image makes me smile.

Over the last couple of days, I've wondered if my sweet husband might be ready to get out a machete and lop the tops off the bamboo. A broken tailbone means I can't pick up a cooking pot, tie my shoes, or roll over. He has to lift me out of the car. And after holding my hand during this morning's hospital exam -- an extreme challenge to even the most robust romance -- the poor man had to pull up my pants.

Of course, Matt is a man of gentle grace and kindness. On his way out the door to work -- over three hours late -- he put a business card into his wallet for a tea shop in old town, and said, "I'll make reservations for Saturday. And we'll take your donut cushion."

The training wheels are off. Look at her go.

A three-siren day

About a week ago, I was in a meeting with my boss, and I told her how disconcerting it feels to constantly hear sirens. On most days, I hear two or three pass right outside my classroom. Matt and I generally notice a couple either while we sip our coffee in the morning or when we snuggle up for the night. I wondered aloud to Sherre if all these sirens cause a backdrop of anxiety for our students -- and for the residents of our city. My students insist they don't notice them, but I am startled every time I hear one.

Until this past Monday, that is, when I strained with all my might to hear the siren coming for me.

I was lying on the floor of my principal's office. I was so faint with pain, I would not have been surprised if someone told me I was soaking the floor with my own blood.

Tweet version: Rain on stairs, fell, stumbled into principal's office, tried not to pass out.

Poetic version: The world looks odd from the floor. I distinctly remember the scent of our French teacher's jacket as she folded it beneath my head. Pete, another teacher and former marine, kept his hand right between my shoulders until the paramedics put me on a back board ... and then he held my hand for a long, long time. I saw my backpack, my phone and ID being pulled from it.  And there was a styrofoam cup by my head, but I vaguely wondered how I could drink from it.

Mostly I closed my eyes and hoped the room would stop spinning. And I listened very intently for the siren.

I broke my coccyx. That's one of those words my nephews like to say because it sounds naughty, but technically, it's not. I've been in a lot of pain since my fanny connected with the stairs. And I don't know how long I'll be home not sitting, not standing, and not lying on my back.

I believe the universe, God, Allah, a higher power -- whatever you want to call it/him/her -- feels perfectly at ease teaching us through life's circumstances. I'm not sure what the lesson is. Melissa, you are not your job? Melissa, don't be such a pain in the butt? Melissa, slow down? Melissa, update your blog?

Speaking of blogs, in the time it took me to write this one, I heard two sirens. I'd like to say they didn't startle me, but that would be untrue. Honestly, I'm glad the siren is not for me. But I am grateful that help is on the way.

Yellow Dog

We arrived in Twentynine Palms, a nearby town to Joshua Tree National Park, well after 9:00 p.m., so it was dark as a pocket. It was disconcerting to wake up the next morning and see our surroundings for the first time nearly 10 hours after arriving in them.

Ahem, it is a desert. Dry, sandy, scrubby, rocky desert. And cold -- the low our first morning there was 22 degrees.

There seemed only two reasonable responses to all this dry cold: eat breakfast (we were, after all, staying at a lovely B&B, and isn't breakfast one of the Bs?), and go for a walk.

The walk part -- that's where Yellow Dog comes in. I lost Matt for a few minutes as  I peered into my overnight bag and pondered how many layers to layer on. I found him outside talking to a stocky, yellow dog. The dog was on the move, grinning like a fool as the patrolled the field behind our cottage. He displayed a number of dog-like habits -- stopping mid-sprint if an aroma caught his attention, sprinkling mailboxes, and investigating trash with the intensity of a crime scene detective. All cute and fun to watch on our Twentynine Palms stroll.

What was interesting about Yellow Dog was his response to us. I know this is anthropomorphizing and a serious insult to animal behavioralists -- but that dog seemed tickled pink to have us along for his morning routine. Although he did not once veer off his sniffing and chasing duties, he glanced over is left shoulder at us, time and time again, as if to say, "Isn't this just the best?" He often ran straight at us,  ears and tail flapping, each time getting closer and closer, until his last charge when I felt a woosh of cold air between him and my knees. When we neared a No Trespassing sign, he parked himself between us and it -- that is until a pile of discarded vacuum cleaners caught his attention. And as we stepped back onto the porch of our cottage, he skittered past with one last, loopy grin.

Here's what we learned from Yellow Dog:

1. Be aware.
2. Immerse in each moment.
3. There is joy in habit.
4. Make new friends -- no matter how long the relationship might last.

A sense of place

Moving to a new city causes one to ruminate, percolate, and marinate on deep issues such as what makes one place feel like home and another place make you want to hit the Eject Button.

Matt and I love to to fantasize about where we'd like to live when we grow up. We stroll through neighborhoods pointing out features that resonate, like old houses, cheap breakfast joints, and community gardens. And, inevitably, we talk about the aspects of a place that we don't want to take with us into retirement, most notably smog, excessive retail, and snow.

We travel a lot, too, which further stimulates all this percolating and marinating. Why, we ask ourselves, is Springfield, Illinois so irristibly entertaining, yet certainly a place we'd never settle?" (I suspect it's the corn and cows on both counts.) Why has Shanghai soaked into Matt's soul, but God would have to poke him in the middle of the chest before he'd move me there? (No NFL.) Why do we both like Colorado in theory, but not in practice? (It meets all of our criteria for activity, but none for diversity or spirituality.)

McKinney, Texas is all kinds of cute, Santa Monica oozes lifestyle, and Winter Park gets a double-nod for charm. People we love and trust tell us that Austin and Tucson would knock our socks off. (Of course, people we love and trust also tell us to get our butts home to Orlando. Or at least the eastern time zone.)

I don't know where all this leaves us, except for these two things: L.A. is not likely our forever home. And as long as we get to hold hands at the end of the day, any place is just fine.

When all else fails ...

I'm not sure why, but about six weeks ago, I started loving my job. No more cowering under the covers when the alarm went off, no more resentment over grading papers on the weekends while normal people go for a run or head to the movies, and no more dread-parading-as-nausea on Sunday afternoons.

I think it has to do with this: I started loving my kids. Like the way Luis dribbles his basketball into my Reading class, or how Laura's favorite conversation starter is, "I don't have to read today, do I, miss?" Instead of gritting my teeth and forcing myself to by sweet, I started seeing the sweetness in that bouncing basketball and fear of reading.

One of the reasons I love my kids has to do with the things they write. Josh, in as stylistic and succinct a manner as I've ever seen, explained that living in a ghetto does not make one a ghetto person. Vanessa used perfect parallelism to convey the awfulness of racial judgement. Day after day, with little to go on other than the instinct that I'm trustworthy, my beautiful students bend their dark heads over their journals and tell me the truth.

This trust they're doling out to me ... it's becoming more evident every day. They listen when I babble (and lord-a-mercy, can this woman babble), they are patient when I fall behind on grading or when my lesson is a snoozer, and they laugh at my poor attempts to speak Spanish.

They used to ignore me, just as I used to grit my teeth to be nice. We're moving closer to each other, now, and my surprise and relief is as monumental as this city.

I think they can tell that I love them.

And what problem has love ever failed to solve?

It's a New Year

Forty-eight posts ago, I wrote about the Rose Bowl and all things associated. Today, at long last, we attended the Rose Parade. And, well, like much of our move to  California, it wasn't at all what I expected. Super cool and fun -- just not what I expected.

About 36 hours ago, our city turned into a campground. Literally. Hundreds of RVs, folding chairs, portable BBQs, air mattresses, Uno decks, and Kindles showed up on every available square inch of Colorado Avenue, the main parade route.  Yesterday, my cute husband, with utter excitement all over his face, asked, "Can we go look at the campers on Colorado?" 

I honestly thought the only way to see the parade was to log onto Sharp Seating and give up all my credit card information. In fact, when the grandstands went up about a month ago, I was confused as to why they stopped about ten feet away from the curb. I thought, "Oh, they must leave the sidewalk clear until the night before." Uh, no. Thousands and thousands of people cram between the bottom of the stands and the "blue courtesy line," a boundary painted a good five feet into the street.

I was also confused as to why heavy ply-wood and temporary chainlink fences appeared in front of all the stores and restaurants on Colorado. Today, I got it. Camping is kind of a mess. 

The parade itself was pretty much awesome. Right at the beginning, a B-2 bomber made a fly-over of the route, followed by a blimp and lots of Happy New Year sky writing. Kenny G stood on the very first float and gave us a very fine soprano saxophone solo. 

The floats were gorgeous. My husband was hilarious. At parades, he likes to yell out each band director's name, super enthusiastically, and then wave like they are long lost cousins. It works. The band director waves back, equally enthusiastically. When the mayor went by, Matt yelled, "Hello! Please fix my street!" The crowd loved him almost as much as I do. (But perhaps, not the mayor.)

I've always thought of the Rose Parade as classy. No beads, candy, or TP thrown to the crowd at this parade, no sir. Just millions and millions of roses. But now that I've been? Er, no.  I still smell like grilled sausages the lady at the makeshift hibachi next to us sold. She spent two hours yelling, "Hottah, hottah!"When Matt asked her how much, she looked him up and down, thought a moment, and then said, "Four dollah." There were other vendors selling cotton candy, bubble guns, seat cushions, and programs. And the trash in the streets afterwards was impressive, even by L.A. standards. 

My favorite was the marching bands. Gosh, those girls from Japan could dance! And the Wisconsin Badgers brass section ran straight into the stands, instruments aloft, grinning like the silly badgers they are. The best was the Lubbock Texas All City Marching Band. What did they play? "Deep in the Heart of Texas."And we sang as loud as we could.

We love us a parade, and the Rose Parade is about as Mac Daddy as it gets.