Chipping Away

Even though National Potato Chip Day was back in March - I received a gag gift of Lays Classic chips earlier this week.  The bag resembled a Mylar balloon, having travelled from sea level to the Mile High City.*  This delivery affirmed my steadfast belief of how important the US Postal Service truly is.  Receiving my ballot in a timely manner was civics in action.  90-day medication deliveries are life giving, cheaper and safer than an in person pharmacy visit.  But potato chips?  Excuse me for mixing metaphors, but they take the cake.

I subscribe to "Informed Delivery", a service of the USPS.  Almost every day I am pinged that a package or handbill is in the mail hut of the complex where I live.  Knowing what is in store when I open the little mail receptacle adds drama and excitement to my otherwise mundane life in the time of Covid.  It's my own personal OOH-OOH moment!  I can be a kid in the minutes between notification and gathering.  I can get my tools for opening the package at the ready.  Knife, letter opener, an orange band-aid for the inevitable paper cut incurred by overzealousness.

But the USPS failed in their mission of informed delivery and neglected to get my hopes up that a surprise awaited.  When I opened the little door recently there was a key to enable me to access the larger boxes available for packages.  This convenience has never stopped the mail carrier from pushing and shoving bundles into the rectangular slot: bending CD cases (sorry Andrea), and tearing fliers and other important correspondence. Once he packed my mail and a package in so tightly, I had to leave a note and ask for him to put it in the bigger box, less than an arm's length away.  But I am not here to bash the postal service - our current administration does enough of that without help from me.  I am grateful that my mail shows up, mostly unscathed and somewhat on-time.

I took the key and a deep breath and opened door #118.  What would I find?  Well, we already know it was a bag of chips.  But not just any chips.  Lays Classic - a generous 8oz bag to boot.  Not one of those small school lunch sized bags, but a convenience store end-rack special.  I used to buy those individual, portion-control chip bags ostensibly for my children's brown-bags.  I would tell myself that I could eat just a little bitty amount, maybe 15 chips or so.  But the truth is the effort to open another bag and then another wasn't too strenuous and the reward of salty goodness was always worth it.  After all you can't spell chips without HIPS!

The box had a coconut water logo and I thought "Why would my daughter order coconut water"?  Sorry, Andrea.  I do know better... (and sorry for the ellipses)  It was light as a feather, so the muscular strength I mustered to slide it out of the mailbox was not needed.  I balanced the empty recycled bag, a stack of late arriving election fliers and the mystery box for the 200 steps or so back home.  Not Hanukkah, not my birthday, not national potato chip day.  Why would my cousin's husband send me a bag O'Chips?

The note read:  Sorry.  I think these are all good.  Enjoy. Marvin.  Now why would Marvin send me chips, you might ask.  I admit it took a bit of head scratching to recall that I had recently told Linda a story about me, Marvin and America's favorite snack.  I was six and let's just say Marvin was a grown-up.  No need to out his age here.  We were at this idyllic swim 'club' that my parents joined each year for about $100.00.  A five-acre sand bottom pool, tennis and volleyball courts, picnic areas, even mini-golf!  This was the sixties and I would later come to learn that my mother was not drinking coffee from her bottomless thermos in the 90 degree/90 percent humidity weather of the Hudson Valley.

I was a skinny, high-diving mermaid.  These leisurely days of summer were the highlight of my suburban childhood.  This day found us under the giant willow that shed thousands of leaves into the water every day.  There were lounge chairs to catch the breeze, enjoy the shade.  I was having lunch - and though I don't remember all the details of the day -   I am confident that I was hungry because swimming still has that effect on me.  Five+ decades later, that hasn't changed.  Marvin kept dipping into my bag of chips and would proclaim after each one "That one is no good."  Finally, the final chip and Marvin declared "Now that was a good chip".  Or something like that.  It was a long time ago, but I know the gist of my memory is accurate.  Just like my dad taking a giant forkful of my cheesecake at Leonetti's - these memories of purloined potato chips and pastries do not elude me.  Unlike the diner caper, I did not burst out in tears over a chip or two.  Nonetheless the trauma is real or I wouldn't be dedicating an entire blog post to potato chips!

The memory of that day, those times of carefree childhood, telling Linda the tale...  It all came back to me.  I laughed out loud and that was medicine for my soul.  I glanced at the postage Marvin had shelled out and realized these chips would be the most expensive snack of my life.  Ha! - worth it I thought.  I quickly penned Marvin a thank you email, told him an old corny potato chip joke in the process.   And then it occurred to me.  I should have told Linda the story in exact detail editing just one small fact.  Nothing too major.  What writers might call embellishment or a character change to move the story (or reward) forward. I should have made the star of the saga Mallomars.

*Mylar Potato Chips

Forty is a Good Number!

Just three days until the election.  This evokes many feelings within me:  anxiety, hope, disgust, relief.  And those emotions are stirred up without the brutal whisk of Facebook.  2020 has been a tough year, no need to tell you that.  For me it has been all about keeping my serenity and my sanity in good working order.  Thus, I decided the last weekend of September would be my last foray into Facebook - I would refrain at least through November third.  

Here is my true story of surviving and perhaps even thriving without the scourge of social media.  Early in the pandemic I began taking a weekly "Spiritual Fitness" class via Zoom with a Torah Educator.  As a kid I did not receive much (any?) formal religious training and the casual, conversational format of this weekly talk appealed to me.  Yes, I resonated because the instructor is a woman.  Yes, it was a convenient time and place - HOME!- to take the class.  But it was more than that.  I thought why not now?  This is a good time to strengthen my emunah (faith) in a more specific way, not the generalized "I'm spiritual, not religious "mantra of late.

I knew the Jewish calendar was lunar, and the Gregorian calendar revolves around the sun.  I understood that the dates of  holidays were always the same in the Jewish calendar, but beyond that my knowledge of the months of Judaism was scant.  In mid-August Chaya began mentioning the month of Elul.  How it is a full moon cycle of reflection and repentance leading up to Rosh Hashanah and the Days of Awe.  As a 12-stepper in Al-Anon the idea of taking a month to ponder my being, my actions, my thoughts...  well, it really appealed to me.  I downloaded an Elul workbook that extended to Yom Kippur and faithfully did the daily reading and writing.  There were questions, deep thoughtful questions to reply to.  All done in my jammies, at night, by myself, in brutal honesty.  This was a forty-day endeavor as the workbook extended through the Days of Awe to sundown on the night of Yom Kippur commencing.

I was still on Facebook during most of this time.  Being pawky, highly opiniated and vociferous.  We were gearing up to an historic, important election and I wanted my voice heard!  In a punny, funny, witty way of a writer.  Clever me.  But then I started to not feel good about my behavior.  My overzealous engagement with friends and family.  Having harsh judgements about the intelligence levels of people who had different opinions than mine or supported the contrary opponent.  Doing this meaningful reflective work and Facebook sniping seemed to be in opposition of one another.  

I decided to give up Facebook on September 27th before sundown and the beginning of Yom Kippur.  I had a prior thirty-day hiatus a few years back and found the self-imposed blackout difficult.  I occasionally snuck a peek to see a post or check in on someone.  This time I vowed to be clean and rigorously honest with myself.  I uninstalled the app on my phone to limit temptation.  I had a last proclamatory post so folks would know I hadn't just fallen off the face of the earth.  After all, anything is possible in 2020.  

What was also floating around my brain was the number 40.  There are forty days in the penitential period from Rosh Chodesh Elul and Yom Kippur.  Moses told the Jews they were not worthy to inherit the land and would wander the desert for forty years.  The heavens broke open and rained on Noah's ark for forty days.  Jesus fasted for forty days and forty nights before his temptation.  In the middle ages ships had to harbor for forty days before passengers could disembark due to the bubonic plague.  Sound familiar?  Even Lent is forty days long, not counting Sundays.  This number 40 carries significance!  Ergo I decided my Facebook free period would honor the gravitas of forty.  I quickly looked at my (Gregorian) calendar and calculated my social media sabbatical would end on November 5th.  

Logically this date of reemergence made sense.  The election would be over and that was my initial reason for the respite - add two day and maybe some of the rancor and nastiness would have subsided.  Now I have doubts that a quick turnaround to normalcy is feasible.  Each day I am growing more comfortable with the possibility that Facebook is firmly in my rear-view mirror.  I haven't peeked at all this time.  Not even to go onto my beloved groups - Embracing our Silver Hair, a Cop Mom forum, one that is all about living with Rheumatoid Arthritis and a couple more.  One of my daughters told me that I can just go onto my groups and not the general scroll till I fall down a hole feed.  But I thought I am all in this time.

Here is what I have gained from my absence.  I don't miss Facebook.  I didn't engage in inane, circular conversations with virtual strangers.  I didn't read any death wishes or slimy slogans.  I did miss photos of kids and food and vacations - well not vacations - we don't do that anymore.  But you get the gist.  I wish there were two Facebooks - one for the political/social/societal hostilities and one for butterflies and flowers.  I suppose Instagram is more geared for the latter and I might try to be more diligent about checking in and posting there.  Maybe I will even figure out how to post this blog on that friendlier forum.  But not this instant.

Right now, I reflect on my choice to abstain.  I liken it the practice to exercising my willpower muscle.  Seeing if I have the courage to change a habit.  Can I give up something I love for forty days, like a Lenten practice?  E-Lent-ion is what I jokingly called my experiment.  I survived!  I found more time to read, write, crochet, and cook.  I spent less time staring at a screen.  My blood pressure remained slow and steady.  I didn't feel riled up or raring to go with anyone about anything.

As for returning to Facebook, only time will tell.  In the meantime, I will engage with my Spiritual Fitness and remember to place principles above personalities.  

Time to Write,

Jane