maybe we could at least make folks smile…under those masks

“Once plague had shut the gates of the town, they had settled down to a life of separation,
debarred from the living warmth that gives forgetfulness of all.”
“If there is one thing one can always yearn for and sometimes attain, it is human love.”
Albert Camus, The Plague

No you’re not having a case of deja vu…I just had a thought that piggybacks
off of a recent post.
Plus I still love that little meme…
‘looks like plague’s back on the menu boys…”

Cracks me up it does…and I think I need some cracking up—
in fact I think a good many of us could benefit with a good crack up,
chucke, chortle, laugh, or at least a smile.

And so do you remember a couple of weeks back when I did a bit of a history lesson on the
plague doctors of the Medieval and Renaissance ages…those physicians tasked
with dealing with those suffering from the plague, otherwise known as The Black Death?

Remember they were the ones who donned those elaborate bird-like masks and cosutmes
that were intended to protect them from the deadly vapors thought to be carried on
the winds, especially the night air.

(Paul Fürst, engraving, c. 1721, of a plague doctor of Marseilles
(introduced as ‘Dr Beaky of Rome’).
His nose-case is filled with herbal material to keep off the plague.)

Here’s a link to that post:
https://cookiecrumbstoliveby.wordpress.com/2020/07/28/miasma-once-again-we-are-afraid-to-breath/

I mused that maybe I should get such a mask and use it when I was venturing out into
contagionville, aka our everyday world.

(Venetian Plague doctor mask worn at Carnival / pintrest)

And pondering over this mask business, I had a new idea.

I really hate that we are now having to constantly wear masks.
I miss the smiles.
We are in isolation even when we venture out…
a sad reality.

I was on an elevator Friday with a family with a little girl…
she looked up at me and I told her how much I liked her cherry decorated mask.
She thanked me but I couldn’t discern a smile.

I follow the rules.
I do it.
I wear them.
Mine are not fashionable, just practical.

Doing as I am told and instructed…
I’ll admit that in the very beginning, before mandates, I confess to defiance…
but not now, as I’m not willing to die on this particular mountain,
as there will be other mountains soon that will require my allegiance…
I will adhere to the “mandate.”

So we know that I’m not being like those defiant ones who still venture into stores
where signs are all over the doors clealy stating that all who enter must wear a mask.

There are even those freindly little voices over the loudspeakers reminding all customers to wear
their masks and to follow the arrows as how to traverse the aisles…
‘follow the green arrows, don’t cross the red X’
And yet there are those who just can’t seem to follow directions.

I taught a lot of those kind of folks.
Directions, to some, just don’t come naturally–we simply say “bless their hearts.”

I have noticed that those who do wear their masks have issues with darting their eyes.
Quickly diverting their glance should another set of eyes make contact.
All other worldly really.

It makes shopping no longer very enjoyable.
The ‘mask fog’ on glasses makes seeing darn near impossible and yet maybe one plus is that
you can now tell you should do a better job brushing your teeth or yes, you do need mints.
Perhaps a blessing to those who use to be near you as you spoke.

And how about talking muffled?
Repeating over and over what you’re attempting to ask for until the
poor clerk finally can discern your words.

It seems that we all benefited from looking at faces for clues and discenment

I miss that.

So after looking over some old pictures, it dawned on me.
We’re about the start seeing those halloween festivities in stores.
What will costumes be like this year, what will trick or treating be this year?

So I found this picture when the Mayor was just a baby and we were strolling through
Target and I put on this halloween mask to give the baby Mayor a giggle.

And so now I have it.
Let us don the masks of the season to illict some most welcomed giggles and laughs!
Lord knows we need them.

By the way…the Mayor has been most puny. It seems she now has the Sherrif’s viral infection…
a high lingering fever.
Not Covid thank goodness…just a good ol childhood virus…so I’m off to go give care.

Be back soon.

A joyful heart is good medicine,
but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.
Proverbs 17:22

O Lord, I need to laugh. . .

A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.
Proverbs 17:22

(image courtesy the web)

With the weight of winter crushing down on this weary mind and body, as our schools are closed once again for a snow day with nary a white flake on the ground, ok maybe there’s a patch of black ice or two here and there, what with the nightly news doling out ominous warnings upon grim and dire global stories. . . it has dawned on me that I am in desperate need of a good dose of humor, laughter, joy!!!

Some people wrongly believe that God is without a funny bone—that He sits about playing, well, God, exacting punishments while issuing the squadrons of the “serious police” as He sends them down to nip any and all fun, humor or even joy in the bud. . .I for one know that is far from the truth.

Now I’m not talking about vile, malicious, sick or twisted humor that comes at the expense of any one of us—as I find much of the “humor” that our entertainment industry rolls around on the ground over as sophomoric, stupid and belittling–possessing no redeeming value.

So this morning as I dutifully journeyed to the dark, cold, cavernous basement in order to engage in my hour of servitude , I mean healthy regime of weights and bobbing up and down on the elliptical, I found myself pondering the need for some laughter. . .

As if standing before some imaginary crowd, I found myself raising my hand, with the childlike exuberance of “pick me, pick me” as I have volunteered, taking one for the team, as I to try find you and I a little something to, if not laugh over, at least enjoy a good chuckle, guffaw or chortle.

I picked my brain over what we could laugh about.
As humans, our usual go to area of prosaic conversation, when we find nothing at hand to actually discuss, is of course the weather–but truly, I think we are all certainly over the weather. . .

I then moved on to current events—again, over that. . .

We could discuss health. . .that’s a topic we all tend to like to discuss especially as we age. . .as in my 86 year old dad seems to relish in telling me things that scream of TMI–too much, way too much, information. . .with me wailing “Daaaaaaddddddd, please!!!”

And whereas I don’t think I really want to chat about IBS, sinuses, osteoporosis, hormone replacement therapy, or any other malady plaguing this aging body of mine. . .I continued to pick my brain in search of the elusive idea of humor on this wearisome cold, grey winters day.

Looking around, taking in my duty-drudge filled “workout” area of the basement, I decide I’ve finally hit upon something of interest.
I have decided that compression tights are what we shall discuss today as they are now my go to in the wardrobe department.
“What?”
Yes, compression tights.

(image courtesy Nike)

Please note that this is not, I repeat, not my body—only in my dreams. . .

You know, the black things people put on to run or work out in. . .
But why should we stop there. . .at merely something to put on during exercise and physical activity?!
Forget spanx or other “suck um up” undies, compression tights are where it’s at.

I can remember as a little girl seeing my mom’s girdle sitting on the bathroom counter wondering as to what in the world this torturesque contraption was that my mom counted as part of her daily dressing ritual. Was I too to look forward to donning a girdle one day, I fretted as I imagined myself passing from childhood to training bras, eventually to girdles. . .As the idea of women forcing tight contraptions onto their bodies, or actually forcing their bodies into said contraptions, as in a need to suck up, reign in, tighten up and conceal, seemed to be a centuries old issue and quest that was now sadly staring at my 8 year old self.

(vintage Montgomery ward advertisement)

Fast forwarding back to the current moment at hand, I now faced my own issue of sucking up and sucking in, as I stared at my tights. My mind suddenly racing back to the scene in Gone With the Wind with Mammy cinching up Scarlett’s corset as Scarlett was bound and determined to sport that girlish 17 inch waist of hers both before and after pregnancy.

(before said pregnancy)

(after said pregnancy)

Now mind you, I don’t ever recall having a 17 inch waist. . . but my thighs, well, they’re a different story. . .And sadly I fear, these thighs of mine are certainly bigger than 2 of Scarlett’s waists put together, or so it feels. . .hence this new love of tights of mine.

Have you ever put on a pair of compression tights?
These are not your run of the mill average pair of hose, stockings or tights. . .these are serious when it comes to compression–meaning a decrease in volume. . .as in the volume of my thighs. . .

You start by putting on one leg in at a time, because that’s certainly all you’ll have strength to lift up, one leg at a time. . .
Working the tights up over the ankles is a piece of cake, the calves are also fairly easy. . it’s just past the knee cap where the trouble begins.

Twisting, contorting, hopping, jumping, falling over, pulling up while pushing fat down–precariously placing the second leg in the 2 inch opening. How can a 36(which in now more like a 38), 26 (which is now more like a 30), 36 (which by God better still be a 36) fit into a 2 opening? Have you ever found yourself falling over, half naked onto the cold bathroom floor, with your legs hopelessly trapped in the confines of a pair of tights–tights that were made for the likes of either Twiggy or a Barbie doll?! You find yourself hoping that you don’t suddenly die so as to ensure that no one should ever come home finding you dead, with your bare bottom exposed pointing upward as your head is plastered on the cold tile floor while both legs resemble a large black pretzel. Somehow I’m thinking a 55 year old woman is not meant to contort her body in this sort of fashion.

Now pulling up with all of ones strength, doing good not to hear any sort of tearing or popping, you begin attempting to get your butt pushed down, while continuing lifting the tights upward. Up and over your bottom, squeezing and wiggling while you now work to squeeze your stomach into the ever shrinking black spandex on steroids fabric.

Once in, you proceed to push and pull, adjusting the areas that are now pinching every ounce of said body fat. Not one to ever think thong underwear was a good idea, I get a sudden uncomfortable feeling that the crotch area of the tights is now going places it is not normally meant to travel. Pulling and adjusting a bit more, I finally think I’m all in as nothing has split, burst or popped open.
WHEW! I now attempt to breathe.

There!
I am heard to triumphantly exclaim to both cats as if I have just accomplished some miraculous feat. Somehow their blank expressions do not match my feeling of jubilation.
Pausing to look in the mirror, I joyously think that I am now a lean, mean, slim and svelte fighting machine. Take that Scarlett O’Hara!

Which now leaves one question begging to be answered. . .were does it go? The fat. I mean, where does all that excessive me go, where is it pushed and squished off to???
This lingering thought as I suddenly wonder if I’m not looking a bit more buxom than before—hummmm.
Then as if a ton of bricks, it hits me, the urgent calling to the loo. . . I think I need to go the bathroom otherwise I’ll be wetting these freshly pulled on tights of mine.
UGH!
Remember women of a certain age have less than trustworthy bladders. . .one allergy ridden sneeze, one croupish cough and me and these tights are one wet mess!

Which brings me back to the thought of our needing a good laugh- – -at this point, it may not be advisable for me to offer up said laugh as I wish to remain dry as I am now poured into these tights—which means, our quest for laughter may have to come later, as I am once again reminded of those immortal words of Scarlett O’Hara, tomorrow is another day. . .