Maybe I’ll Buy a T-shirt That Says “Mercury Retrograde Sucks”
I feel like I finally have reason to.
Welcome to the first “official” Triple M newsletter! What you’ll find here: a peak into my journal, information about other current offerings and projects, and a list of what I’m currently listening to and reading. Scroll to the bottom to skip the journal part— I’ll only be a teeny tiny bit offended and I will (probably) forgive you. <3
It is a Tuesday morning, and things seem to be going well. I returned from a trip back to the east coast— where I was born and raised— over the weekend, and I finally feel less jet-lagged. I am settling back into my routine, I feel like I’m back at home.
There is a piece of seaweed on my bedroom floor that I continue to look at but refuse to pick up. When I was unpacking, I think it fell out of the tote I was using as a beach bag for the past couple of weeks back east. I keep looking at it, knowing that I’ll have to pick it up at some point and figure out where to put it. In the trash? A potted plant or somewhere outside? Or should I tuck it away in a jar with shells I collected, keep it as a sort of memento, a reminder of warmer days and friends and family? I haven’t decided where I’ll put the dried and shriveled black strand, but I know this: the moment I pick it up and place it in its new home, my vacation will be over. I will be forced back into real life.
Today I am ready to move the seaweed— to acknowledge the end of my summer— more than I have been any other day I’ve been back in San Francisco. My vacation bubble has already burst, and I don’t see how I’ll inflate it again.
I started today feeling good. I woke up early and felt well-rested. I laid in bed for an hour before I went for a walk, found really beautiful flowers, grabbed a latte, and made it home with time to spare before I had to leave to make it to an appointment.
I got on the train, and then I checked my wallet: no insurance card. I recently switched plans, and I forgot the new card at home. I got off the train, walked a couple of blocks, picked up the card, and called an Uber.
Now I’m running late, and I’m pissed that I can’t take public transit because I’d be even later, but I find it in myself to be happy that the Uber fare is uncharacteristically low. This is still a good morning.
I get to the orthopedic office. I let them know that I am a returning patient and that I’ve been seeing a physical therapist at the same office for a year or so now, so I should be in the system. I hand them my new insurance card and tell them I called my insurance provider and checked the practice’s website to confirm that my appointment would be covered, but within 5 minutes— when the person with my license and insurance looks at me with pity in his eyes— I know this is not the case. We decide I will not be seeing the doctor today and pay out-of-pocket, and I try not to care. Today’s appointment was just a formality, it was just to extend my prescription for physical therapy. But fuck, this means that my physical therapist isn’t covered and now I’m upset because I picked this plan specifically because I need physical therapy and I really thought I hadn’t messed this up, and fuck, fuck, fuck!
My hip is torn, my knee swells, I broke my left ankle when I was in the 4th grade and it sprains easily, my spine has an 18-degree curve which hasn’t really bothered me much but recently it’s started to hurt, and the list goes on! I am Frankenstein’s creation, an assemblage of parts, and after some difficult adolescent years I have learned to love my body but sometimes it doesn’t feel like she loves me back.
My physical therapist is heaven-sent. She has allowed me to avoid invasive surgeries, continue dancing, and strengthen my body in ways I didn’t know were possible. I do not listen to my mother: “Why do you want to dance professionally if you have all of these issues?” Well, because I love it. Dance makes me feel connected to myself, to community, and ultimately to spirit, or the universe, or god, or whatever greater power I think is out there at a specific moment in time, the deep-seated feeling that there’s some sort of magic that compels me to find joy and goodness in life. I quit dance at 18 and was pulled back in different forms by the time I was 19. I decided that dance and teaching dance would be part of my life’s work at 21. I don’t think I’ll change my mind again.
But today I am upset and annoyed and trying to figure out if this means I’ll have to change insurance or even worse, find a new practitioner who I know will not be nearly as considerate or skilled as my current PT, who is also a professional dancer turned friend. I don’t see not going to PT as an option— my guess is that walking would become painful within 3 months, if not sooner.
The elevator down from the 11th floor in the office is taking forever to arrive. I am holding back tears, taking deep breaths. I refuse to cry here. I almost do.
“Wow, this elevator is really taking a while.” I look to my right, where I see an older woman talking to me, and I can tell she is smiling under her mask. I laugh and we commiserate together. When we get in the elevator, I notice that her fedora has a tropical bird-themed band. It matches the parrot brooch pinned to her shirt. I tell her I like her birds, and we laugh together again when we end up back on the eleventh floor before finally making our way to the lobby. I think I love her, that she is a living angel, dressed in all white except for her bright bird-themed accessories. We tell each other to have a good day, and I think that I will.
I tell my best friend I want to cry, she asks if I am upset and I say no— angry. Angry because I’m selfishly frustrated not by my lack of insurance but by my lack of an insurance plan that I like. I am pissed that I and everyone else cannot just go to any doctor when we want or need to and pay little to nothing. I briefly consider a move to Denmark before I remember that I have my laptop in my bag, that it is 10:15 and I have a project due to my boss at noon, and that I need to get to a cafe and get to work. I go to the nearest cafe. I ask if they have wifi and they say no. I text my friend that I am going to scream. She responds “Life always attacks at once.” I find that weirdly comforting, and then I remember that Mercury retrograde is about to begin and I sigh.
I am an avid astrology girl. I have major astrological events listed in my Google Calendar, I pay $13 a month for an astrology app, and when I teach yoga I take into account the current phase of the moon. Yet a mercury retrograde has never really bothered me, at least not that I can recall. Today though I will blame my qualms on Mercury retrograde and maybe the fact that Mars is opposing Neptune, too. I will lean into my quirks and I will be frustrated with but ultimately grateful for the planets. I will curse capitalism.
I eat food that makes me nauseous and finish my work assignment as best as I can considering I’m working from my phone’s hotspot, that the project is a large undertaking, that it was assigned less than 24 hours ago, and the fact that I am not thrilled to be working off-site since I have already exhausted my contracts’ prep-time pay for the week. But whatever, I have to do it, and I’ll reward myself with a trip to the Trader Joe’s across the street. I go in knowing that I want the chocolate-covered frozen bananas. I leave with the bananas, some seltzer, mango, tea for stress (which I grabbed as soon as I saw it), and a variety of other random snacks. I pick up the dill pickle salad, which I’m not even sure I particularly like, but I ate it with a dear friend back east last week. I buy the salad because it reminds me of someone I love.
I make the journey home, hop on the bus and train, and do the dishes waiting for me in the sink. I will make this day better. It will be good again. I draw a bath and am glad I don’t have to go to work later, that everything I need to get done can be done from home. I drink water and my nausea fades. I put on a face mask, light a candle, and sit in the tub before allowing myself to wallow in self-pity, at least for a little. Sometimes I can move on quickly. Sometimes I need to feel bad for myself before I can move on.
I feel bad for myself and act like a bad Californian. I do not think about the droughts when I need a bath, where I will sometimes spend hours. Hot water and Epsom salt are a magic potion, a mixture that makes my body feel better and my brain feel refreshed. Water is symbolic and sacred as far as I’m concerned, and when I can’t jump in the ocean I sit in the bath.
And that’s where I am sitting as I write this now. Entering hour two of my great soak, my rebirth and renewal. My bathtub tray— an “I wish I was kidding but I was not exaggerating when I said I take a lot of baths” purchase recently broke, and so I am balancing my laptop on the edge of the tub. Sometimes I feel like taking a risk and place the computer on my damp knee to reread or retype something I’ve written. I am tempting the universe. I dare you to have me drop this computer in the water. I dare you to make this day worse. But my computer and I make it through. There has been no great fiasco. At least not yet.
The water is cold, so I am about to rinse off in the shower before I get dressed. I have decided to push off the rest of my work assignments until tomorrow. They can wait. I canceled a date— I absolutely do not have the bandwidth to hear about some dude’s career in tech today— and instead, I am going to make that damn dill pickle salad, paint my nails, and sit outside before I do some yoga or take a dance class tonight. I am grateful that my work is flexible and that I have the tools and means to make myself feel better and turn around my day for good. Maybe two or three years ago the stress of this morning would have caused me to lay in my bed for hours and feel miserable. I think to each their own, such a practice helped me at one point in my life, but nowadays I need more sunshine and brightness and pleasure than when I was 19. Maybe sitting in the bathtub for two hours isn’t all that different from laying in bed, but it feels different, and for me, that’s what matters.
This Mercury retrograde feels different, too, but I’m ready to face it. At least I hope I am.
What else is happening:
I’m back in San Francisco and am finalizing my teaching schedule, which means I will be offering in-person movement classes for adults within the next few weeks! Yoga and dance, yay! Watch this space (the Triple M newsletter, at long last) and follow me on Instagram @grace.shaver to get updates. <3
My dear friends and I are in the early stages of creating a collective and making artwork together. We’re calling ourselves soup spoon, and you can follow and support us on Instagram @soupspooncollective. My friends are some of the most talented and wonderful people I know, and I can’t wait to witness the art they continue to create and be a part of the work we create together.
What I’m currently listening to:
Situations by Robert Lester Folsom. This song came on a Spotify radio during my mercury retrograde morning commute from hell, and I was feeling defeated, and now this song is on repeat. I love a little bluegrass and folk, and the lyrics “It’s a situation I’ve got to live with or change” hit home today.
2 die 4 by Addison Rae featuring Charli XCX. Addison Rae is the pop girl we all needed. With its subpar vocals and early 2000s-inspired pared-back production, her new EP is everything I wanted and more. This boom-boom bass IS to die for!
Hill by Dora Jar. I’m dating in San Francisco and this song is very “I date men in San Francisco” coded. But it’s pretty and overall nice to listen to, plus I really appreciate and enjoy Dora Jar’s music and have managed to miss this song. Thank you to my Spotify Discover Weekly!
Ride with Benito Skinner and Mary Beth Barone. Have added this podcast to my rotation and it’s fun and silly and sometimes even quite profound! As is life. I still laugh thinking about the introduction to their August 16th episode, and “Me love” is one of my new favorite phrases.
What I’m currently reading:
I recently finished two library books, one of which I accidentally left back home on the east coast— sorry SFPL! I’ll get it mailed to you! Mr. Splitfoot by Samantha Hunt was a page-turner that I do not have the words to describe. Maybe awe? It focuses on two young women’s journeys and the way they’re intertwined. I think that’s all I can say without giving too much away. The book I left in New York (oops) was Summer Fun by Jeanne Thornton. It took me a minute to understand the narration and how the story itself was structured, but once I figured it out, I enjoyed the storytelling and felt immersed in the world Thornton built. Would recommend both!
Please send me book recommendations!!!!!! I have a stack of non-fiction that needs to be read, but I also need nice before-bed novels, too. Books I can read that don’t require that much thinking but that are still engaging and well-written. Is that too much to ask for?