life

Lulu

The Postscript by by Carrie Classon
by Carrie Classon
The Postscript | August 1st, 2022

My husband, Peter, and I are back in our little place in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

Of course, it is not really "our" place. We don't own it and have no desire to own anything here larger than a pressure cooker (yes, Peter bought one). When we arrived, Pepe at the front desk said, "Welcome home!" in English, and that is exactly how it felt: as if we had been away from home and were now returning.

A large box that had formerly held boxes of Cocoa Puffs was already in our apartment, filled with the things we had been allowed to leave behind: kitchen stuff and some art and clothing. It's nice having our things stored for us while we are away. It is nice to have other people worry about the internet and water and electricity and watering the many plants that fill the courtyard. It's nice having someone at the front desk who will accept packages if we have any and say "good morning!" and "good afternoon!" whenever we come and go. And, I have to admit, it is nice to have Lulu.

I'm not used to having housekeeping. But Lulu comes twice a week, and I'm getting to like it.

Of course, I wash all my dishes, and six days of the week I make my own bed. I don't leave clutter lying about. I find myself looking nervously around the kitchen to make sure the place looks OK before she comes. But then Lulu arrives with fresh white towels and a rag mop and a bucket full of cleaning supplies, and I smile at her and say, "How are you doing today, Lulu?"

Lulu always says she is doing fine.

Lulu is an older woman, thin and somewhat severe. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and she wears glasses. She does not readily smile and so, when she does, it is a special treat, because I am quite sure she is not doing it for show. Getting Lulu to smile has become one of my major goals on Mondays and Thursdays.

It was a bit awkward at first. I was nervous having her in the apartment. Should I leave? Was I in her way? I'm pretty sure I made Lulu nervous, skittering around to avoid her and constantly apologizing for my existence. But this is our second stay in this apartment hotel, and we are getting used to one another, Lulu and I. Now I stay put until she lets me know when she'd like to clean the area I am currently occupying, and I tell her about all the amazing vegetables I found in the market and, when she leaves, I give her a larger tip than is, perhaps, customary.

Because I can't think of a better person to have a little extra money than Lulu.

She always thanks me, and I thank her, and we have a moment of awkwardness, and then she is gone until the next Monday or Thursday.

And, of course, it is her job. But there is an ordinary kindness that Lulu embodies that warms my heart. She appreciates my gratitude, and I think she even enjoys my company for the short while we are together -- even though my Spanish is not good and I am a little nervous around her. I think she knows I mean well, and that I appreciate her.

When Lulu is gone, the apartment smells of disinfectant soap -- a pungent smell I will always associate with Mexico, a clean white bedspread, a spotless floor, and Lulu.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

life

Good Enough

The Postscript by by Carrie Classon
by Carrie Classon
The Postscript | July 25th, 2022

I've decided that I'm good enough.

I had a big birthday, and it got me to thinking, as big birthdays will, about what would change and what would stay the same in the decade to come. I found my list of self-improvement chores much shorter than in previous years.

I used to exhaust myself with these lists.

I would write them down and then worry I'd forget them -- and how could I become a better person if I didn't have my goals in mind every moment? Every day, I'd review my lofty goals of being more productive and more mindful and eating better and exercising more and accomplishing all the things I dreamed of.

But this year, I found myself making lists of all the ways I liked my life and, surprisingly, all the ways I liked myself -- just as I am. In fact, I woke this morning -- this morning of the big birthday -- and felt that I was good enough.

Of course, I'm not perfect. There isn't a day I don't waste valuable time, or miss an opportunity to be kind, or generally fall short of being the person I could be. But perfection is a terrible goal to set for oneself. I was never meant to be perfect and really, now that I think about it, perfect sounds a bit dull. Instead, I'm going to be grateful that I am good enough.

"Good enough" encompasses everything.

It covers the moments of overwhelming bliss that blindside me; walking down the street and seeing a shop filled with yellow flowers, or a small girl dancing in a dirty green onesie, or a giant furry dog pounding its feet on the ground, or the sun reflecting perfectly on a shiny piece of stone on the sidewalk. It's all the moments I catch -- just in time -- that cause my heart to swell and make me wonder how so much beauty could be around me so much of the time, and I am lucky enough to see it.

"Good enough" also covers the times when I feel alone and ignored. When friends don't write back and no one seems to notice my writing and I wonder if I might be delusional, typing away every day with no one reading my novel. It covers when I am tired and a little sore and I don't feel like taking my walk or doing my pushups or finishing the cleaning or the paperwork that seems overwhelming at that moment. "Good enough" covers it all.

And while I have always enjoyed articles about self-reinvention, I discovered with surprise, on this big birthday, that I'm not really interested in reinventing myself, because I like the self I've invented pretty well. Sure, she's got a few issues. But I'm used to her issues and none of them will get her arrested. She's good enough for me.

I realize (with a little disappointment) that this philosophy will probably not allow me to write a self-help blockbuster. "You're Good Enough: Get Over It" probably wouldn't make its way up the NYT bestseller list. And that's OK too. I used to think I had a lot more advice for other people than I have today. Today, I think it's good enough to manage my life as best I can and let others do the same. They are good enough as well.

It will be interesting to approach a new decade with fewer lofty goals and more kindness toward myself. I wanted to finish this column with words worthy of the occasion. I've decided this is good enough.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

life

The Package

The Postscript by by Carrie Classon
by Carrie Classon
The Postscript | July 18th, 2022

The package arrived last week and, I have to admit, I was surprised.

I knew what was in it, of course. It was a painting that my friends Angel, Nora and I co-own. I had it for one year 11 years ago. Then I brought it to Paris, where Angel was living. But Angel had no time to hang the painting. She had just moved to a new condo and was diagnosed with cancer. And so it remained rolled up under her bed for two years. That's when Nora decided her turn had come -- and she was right. Before Angel died, Nora brought the painting to her family home in Vienna and hung it in her mother's bedroom.

That's where it remained for seven years.

I didn't really mind. During those seven years, I started and finished a college program. I moved out of state, met my husband, Peter, moved in with him, then moved again back to the Midwest. There were a lot of changes and a lot of moving, and I knew Nora was enjoying the painting. Then, four years after Angel's death, after Peter and I had made a new home together, I decided it was time to have the painting again.

Nora was not immediately receptive.

Nora likes her things. This is not a criticism; it's just how she is. She is a collector. She has a lot of beautiful art and antiques and rocks and crystals. She likes to have her lovely things around her. Sending things away is hard.

This painting, in particular, was difficult to part with because it was a painting of the three of us -- Angel, me and Nora. Letting go of this painting felt like letting go of a special time in the past that had been important to us all.

But I still wanted the painting.

I told Nora the time had come, and I would like her to send it. She said she would, but then things came up. There were delays. There were a few excuses. More than a year had passed and, I will be honest, I began to think I would not see it again.

And, honestly, I would have been fine with that.

Because people are more important than things. My friendship with Nora and my memories of Angel were more important than any painting. If getting the painting meant hurting my friendship with Nora, I would do without the painting.

Then, one day, she sent a photo of a large box with my name on it in the arms of an unidentified man in a brown uniform.

"That could be anyone!" my friend, Andrew, said. He has heard every chapter of the painting saga and was more skeptical than I was about it ever arriving.

Then -- with no notice at all -- it showed up at my door.

It was incredibly heavy. Nora is an engineer, and she had built the box herself. It was made of half-inch plywood and 2x2s and lined with Styrofoam. It looked as if it could safely be launched into space. I had trouble carrying it into the house. It took several tools and a lot of time to open.

Nora is a woman of few words, but I knew what she was saying.

She cared about the painting -- but she cared about our friendship even more. She was sending the painting in a way that would keep both the painting and our friendship safe and whole for years to come.

I received both the package and the message. They both made me very happy.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

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