“Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.”

—Sam Keen

Photo courtesy Ian Dunlop

I’m sure you’re not surprised that I’ve been watching the equestrian events of the 2016 Summer Olympics. One of my favorites to watch is the eventing competition, which has been described as the triathlon for horses. Talk about some gorgeous, fit athletes! And yes, I am referring to the horses. One of the horses from the Brazilian eventing team has an unusual name: Summon Up The Blood. The announcers calling the competition noted that “summoning up the blood” is quite an accurate image of what is needed for this grueling sport.  Though “Bob” (his much less picturesque nickname) didn’t win a medal, he did complete the entire series of events respectably.  Click here to see photos and learn more about him and his rider, Carlos Parro. 

Eventing horses are cared for and pampered in every way possible: from optimum nutrition and carefully thought-out workouts, to chiropractic care and massage, to liniment baths, “ice boots” to cool their hardworking legs, and any number of high tech therapies. They are valuable partners to their riders (not to mention just plain valuable), and no one expects them to do their jobs without proper care.

Why do we expect any less for ourselves?

Yes, I am comparing myself to a horse. Bear with me.

In July and August, we’ve had punishing heat and humidity, and I admit I’m dragging. The slightest effort outside (watering my orchids, for example), leaves me soaked in sweat and ready for a cold drink. I’m tired. I have no ambition. The idea of keeping after my goals, even my indoor ones, does not appeal. I need to “summon up the blood”—find a way to motivate myself all the way to the finish line. I’d love to skip to November when we usually get some cooler weather and I get an energy boost, but I also don’t want to wish away any of my life, not even the hot, sweaty bits.

At this point in the year, I’ve lost the momentum and excitement of a new year, and the adrenaline panic of a waning year hasn’t yet set in. (“Oh, no, it’s December and I haven’t reached my goals yet!) Until then, how can I “summon up the blood” and maintain my motivation and momentum?

Though I’m not quite as well-cared for as Summon Up The Blood, I am placing more emphasis on self-care right now. Since August is a low point for me, energy-wise, now is the time to sprinkle in treats and rest breaks. August isn’t the time for me to start major new projects. It’s the time to set small goals, and break down larger ones into ever smaller, teeny, tiny (easily accomplished) ones. In the ongoing bathroom renovation (yes, we’re still working on it), I’m trying to do one or two things per week. This week I ordered the replacement globes for the light fixture and called myself done.

Now is the time to use my imagination to make the same old, same old more fun and/or easier and quicker.

To lighten up my schedule to allow for my lack of energy. That energy will return, as long as I don’t overdo it now.

I’ve even visited my chiropractor and had a massage to counteract the effects of stripping wallpaper and priming my bathroom walls.

But I do draw the line at ice baths.

Introduction by Ted Kooser: Poet Ruth L. Schwartz writes of the glimpse of possibility, of something sweeter than we already have that comes to us, grows in us. The unrealizable part of it causes bitterness; the other opens outward, the cycle complete. This is both a poem about a tangerine and about more than that.

Tangerine

It was a flower once, it was one of a billion flowers

whose perfume broke through closed car windows,

forced a blessing on their drivers.

Then what stayed behind grew swollen, as we do;

grew juice instead of tears, and small hard sour seeds,

each one bitter, as we are, and filled with possibility.

Now a hole opens up in its skin, where it was torn from the

branch; ripeness can’t stop itself, breathes out;

we can’t stop it either. We breathe in.

From “Dear Good Naked Morning,” © 2005 by Ruth L. Schwartz. Reprinted by permission of the author and Autumn House Press. First printed in “Crab Orchard Review,” Vol. 8, No. 2. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, the Library of Congress and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. The column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

You want an everyday adventure? I’ve got one for you: living with men.

Let me explain. I grew up in a home with a single mom. Though I visited my dad, I didn’t live with him. In college, I lived in single-sex dorms, and after I college I had one female roommate before getting married. Life in our house was feminine. Since I didn’t have anything different to compare it with, I thought this feminine way of living was “normal.” Living with my husband, and eventually our son, proved eye opening, to say the least.

Here are some areas I’ve found living with men different from living with women. (In case you are unclear, I’m about to make some major, tongue-in-cheek, generalizations. Your mileage may vary. In other words, please don’t send me letters.)

Men laugh at different things than women do, often involving bodily functions or slapstick-y pratfalls. Most women I know don’t find The Three Stooges all that funny, for example. Men’s humor tends to be insulting and directed at others. Women tend not to tease as much for fear of hurting someone’s feelings. We tend to prefer clever, witty jokes, puns, and stories—we like to use humor to connect with others. (Hey, I told you I was going to be making generalizations, didn’t I?)

Here’s a quiz for you: Which of these foods would typically be ordered by a man versus a woman at a restaurant? Wings or quiche? A double-decker cheeseburger or a large chopped salad? I’m not saying the woman wouldn’t want the cheeseburger or wings, just that she probably will not order either, especially if dining with someone else. What I cook for my masculine family is considerably different from what I cook for just myself, or for a female friend or relative with no guys around. Artichoke hearts and goat cheese never figure in meals I cook for my guys. Velveeta is not a crucial ingredient in hors d’oeuvres I serve my female friends.

Noise. When my son was still tiny, I bought the following saying, framed, somehow divining the truth about boys: “A boy is noise with dirt on it.” Most women I know go through life with the tread of a cat burglar, do not slam cupboard (or microwave or bedroom) doors, do not clang spoons and clatter plates on the counter. My husband is an exception (thank you, Dear), but I’ve found that once a man is awake in the morning, so is everyone else.

In a family composed primarily of men and boys, family outings tend to be activities you do (mountain biking, swimming, hiking, fishing), rather than passively observe (movies, window shopping). And you will likely never get your family of guys to partake of high tea, complete with scones and little crust-less sandwiches (see: Food).

Hiking in Yellowstone National Park

Which brings me to energy. The energy of men has a different feel to it—a combo of testosterone and Funyuns, perhaps? Women don’t have less energy (some have considerably more), but it has a different feel, sort of like an underground power source, always humming in the background.

Physical strength. While I pride myself on being strong—opening jars, lifting 50-pound bags of horse supplements—it’s nice to have someone who can do it for me, and do it easily. Just because I can do it doesn’t mean I always want to.

Tolerance for smells. ’Nuff said.

To this woman, men can be puzzling, exotic creatures, sometimes exasperating and insensitive. But they can also be wonderfully tender and loving, and hugs from my husband and son bring me pure joy. While I often feel more understood and accepted among my female family and friends, I value the different perspective my male relatives and friends bring to life. Living with men has made me a stronger, more balanced, more adventurous person. I wouldn’t trade this everyday adventure for all the scones in the world.

“Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude.”

—Denis Waitley