Trust in Dust (on death and faith + the best of February)
Fat Tomato Monthly // February ed.
February // Dusty (in spirit)
Forecast:
After a mild December and glacial January, February was a wintry version of unhinged. We’ve had it all! System snow. School closings. Nor’Easters. Fog. Lake effect snow. Plague-like hail. School delays. Wind advisories. Thunderstorms. Ice. And one random day that hit 60 degrees, inspiring every male between the ages of 10-18 to show up to school in shorts.
Weights:
The E-files. I haven’t been reading the actual files, but following reports from those who are and it is…too much. When I started having actual nightmares, I backed off a bit. It’s unconscionable that we are being “governed” by this level of violence and corruption.
Over the past two weeks, several friends have landed back in jail. The system is constructed to create recidivism, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier.
Trump continues to muse about disrupting the Midterms. (This is an emergency!)
Counterweights:
Celebrated my bestie-since-age-15, Sarah, turning 50. Three of us did a legit spa day, in which half a mimosa caused me to traipse absentmindedly through the bougie spa barefooted, then accidentally (nicely!) gaslight my aesthetician when I couldn’t find my slides after my facial. (I left her an excellent tip!)
Flew to Yale University in CT to be part of a gathering of faith leaders and scientists to discuss how best to merge our worlds in online spaces.
Ran into an old neighbor friend as I was walking home from work. I haven’t seen him in over a year and he looked so healthy, I didn’t recognize him. That’s what “housing first”1 can do!
Dusty
Last week, an emotional ailment fell upon me in the stupidest way, ruining my day before 8 a.m. I discovered that someone who I find brilliant and cool might not feel the same about me. I’m no stranger to the reality that I am not for everyone. But for some reason, this one sent me on a tiny spiral. Had I said something to offend her? Am I completely clueless about how I come across? Dear God, had I looked like a “pick me?” Did I seem smug? Was my terminal awkwardness just too much, as I’ve often suspected?
I did what I could to shake it loose. I told Cory and confessed to a friend, who reminded me of alternate explanations beyond “she hates me and probably everyone else hates me but they’re too polite to admit it and I’m too dense to realize it.”
