Getting Comfortable with Discomfort

Yesterday afternoon while I was reading a book by a Japanese author, the protagonist described missing her deceased father’s smell—smoke and body odor; gross. My dad smelled good. He passed away in 2022. Sometimes he smelled like the salty peanuts and silver-canned Coors Light he enjoyed at the end of the workday. Sometimes, he smelled like his deodorant, which might have been Old Spice. He smelled like aftershave, maybe Polo, when he started to be styled by his second wife in fancy leather jackets, shoes, and belts. I miss his smell.

I went to CVS to try to find it. There are so few humans at CVS that they have the essentials under lock and key. The booze you could pick up off the shelf, but you had to call an attendant for deodorant. I did find one bottle of Old Spice aftershave, and I looked over each shoulder and then covertly opened it to have a sniff. Not the right smell.

Later, I went to my book club which is usually so full of joy. Instead, we were all confused about the book. The Japanese to English translation was awkward. Some often-taboo topics included young adults struggling with workaholic tendencies; how much women should eat and weigh; and how much enjoyment is too much. The book’s lack of closure left me frustrated.

Our conversation turned to our real lives, which also made me frustrated. This is a group of beautiful, successful women. One works at a university where all liberal arts departments are being consolidated—as if all of humanities could fit under one heading. As an American Studies major, stories taught me about lives beyond my own, which is how I developed empathy and curiosity about the world.

Another person couldn’t answer climate questions posed by a young student without having those words vetted by the comms specialists at the institution of “higher learning.” Another friend works for a federal agency that has a harsh political message on their website. Yet another educator is trying to help the community deal with the impacts of underfunding, amidst a storm of professionals and community members alike undercutting each other. Angst doesn’t begin to capture my feelings.

We talked about our children and how they are loved by, but disconnected from, their grandparents. It is difficult for baby boomers to accept college graduates working in the service industry or pursuing a low-income passion - even if these young people are managing to balance their ambition with contentment.

This morning I did yoga at home. There is a collection of art in the room, including a piece acquired during COVID. It resembles a honeycomb with each cell containing a person busily engaged, alone. The piece captures the coping of those times. Though we can be together, we so often feel alone.

Back to my dad. There is a pair of charcoal sketches of me that my parents had done in the early 70s. I look like an innocent young child with a little bow on my head, wavy hair, holding the string of a balloon. My face looks a little blank, and in one of the two pictures, I’m sitting on a lap that isn’t there. It’s symbolic to me. My dad was present in my life at the time. He wasn’t there later. He was back at the end of his life.

I also thought of my bio dad. I’ve had a lovely reunion with my bio family (more on that later). I thought harder about how I was impacted by being in limbo for the first three weeks of my life. No one can tell me who tucked me in or held me, if anyone.

I don’t spend much time being sad. Maybe I’m just feeling it after doing yoga, twisting myself into uncomfortable positions. Only when I sit in discomfort can I look forward to the relief of untwisting, and letting go.

#getcomfortablewithdiscomfort #lettinggo #oktobesad