March 11, 2017…Day 51
As Jon Lovett says, 201 weeks left to go.
I walked at the lake with a friend who has been having a hard time. I thought I was doing a tend-and-befriend to her, but in the end it felt like she was doing a tend-and-befriend to me. It was pouring rain, 45 degrees. We started to see a lot of women and men in pussy hats with clear plastic ponchos over white shirts that had Rosie the Riveter on them. Everyone seemed upbeat even though it was the worst weather. It’s been longest, wettest, coldest, darkest winter here. Not in MY life (not by a long shot), because I’m from Alaska. But we’ve had months of dreary weather and months of Trump depressingness. It’s been several weeks since the triumphant, sunny women’s march. It’s been days and days and days of upsetting, bewildering news. And here they are in their pussy hats, early on a Saturday morning, getting drenched by a cold rain, gathering themselves up to walk or run around the lake for Planned Parenthood. Holding signs for reproductive rights. Tending and befriending left and right. Take that, anyone who doubted the newly active, newly aware knitters of pink hats.
In related news, many of the women in my book club were at ACLU resistance training seminars today. I’m looking forward to hearing how that went.
I didn’t do either of those things. I had a day of recuperation (aka housework and errands). I think I’m getting sturdier and more seaworthy. But I still sometimes feel that with work obligations, family ties to maintain, getting around in this city, keeping my armpits acceptably hairless, and sustaining a few key friendships–in addition to the national emergency and mindfuck that is Trump– I catch myself spinning like a top toward the edge of something, and I have to pull back and breathe. It’s a luxury I have now to do that, and it makes me feel like I’m hiding in my privilege, not taking the whole thing seriously enough.