Red, Tennis Whites, and Blue

Thoughts that keep me up at night and things that help me sleep

Maybe it’s turning 35 today. Maybe it’s losing my favorite person last year. Maybe it’s binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy. My thoughts have been increasingly obsessed with mortality and what matters (and what does not).

I am a textbook sentimental Cancer, and this paired with a profession revolving around material goods should yield a tendency to hoard, but I have worked hard to combat an innate connection to things and stuff. My mom’s mom was my soulmate - we were completely simpatico - and when she passed last Fall, I made a conscious effort to not be too precious about anything she left behind. My historic house is completely devoid of closets and attic space, so it was unreasonable to think I should take my childhood dollhouse or set of Winnie the Pooh glassware or stack of family quilts from her house. Instead, I have found myself clinging to mundane attachments to her: a half-used Chapstick my daughter pilfered from her hospital room, the reusable tote bag she used to bring Christmas gifts over last year, the last Ziploc from a box I took when cleaning out her house. Similarly, I can’t stand to donate the dress I wore to my daughter’s baptism, though with its puff sleeves and primary-colored floral pattern it’s hardly my style anymore and takes up valuable space in my pint-sized closet.

I spent the week of 4^th of July in the mountains. Being there allows me to get back to the root of what really makes me tick. I feel better with less – less stress, less responsibility, less belongings. Just a handful of third-tier wardrobe cast-offs I keep there and whatever was schlepped up in an old Boat and Tote. Nothing superfluous. Everything is serving its purpose and doing it damn well. A few summery things punching above their weight: this dress I’ve worn on repeat, this persimmon blush for a sun-kissed look, and this tomato-scented perfume.

Mountain days are filled chasing the feeling of childhood summer camp and imparting the art of boredom on my daughter. Tennis, followed by fishing, perhaps croquet, a check on the garden, a dip in the pool, and a stiff cocktail. Rinse and repeat. Maybe more geriatric than nostalgic, but whatever.

The three of us share a bedroom, even when the other two bedrooms are vacant, and nothing makes me happier. I sleep well knowing everything that matters is within arm’s reach, but I must also admit that I have mastered the art of sleep there and that it is shockingly attainable. These pillows, these sheets, and this white noise machine (no need to spend three times the amount for the adult version) are the trifecta for REM sleep.

I hope your summer is going swimmingly, wherever it’s taking you!