Issue #45 — This is my last full weekend in LA for who-knows-how-long. And it’s finally starting to sink in. At dinner with a close friend on Friday, I felt my throat tighten up every time I looked at her for more than a second.
Most evenings lately have consisted of packing up and trying to eat our way through the fridge and pantry.
It’s not so difficult — our fridge leans to the understocked side, except we always have too much sliced bread, and spare cheese of questionable edibility. The pantry is a selection of canned beans, half-cup portions of rice and quinoa, and random shelf-stable vegetables our friend bequeathed to us when he moved. What to do with a small can of sliced black olives?
This endeavor means we have to get creative with meals. And we couldn’t go fill our usual bag of veggies for 10 bucks at the farmer’s market, a ritual that’s brought me immense joy — not to mention nourishment — these past months.
On our most recent trip to the market, we got our usual, very rotund breakfast burrito and sat at a fold-up table in the sun to eat it with lots of tomatillo salsa. The jazz band was playing covers. It was a perfect scene, except for an issue unfolding behind us: four or five cops were following a woman out of the library. She was yelling, clearly upset they were tossing her out. I wondered what had happened to summon so many cops for a small woman in her 60s. It was evident she was probably homeless, but the library is typically the one indoor place people without homes can hang out for hours on end.
After a few minutes, the exchange seemed to cool down, and the woman picked up her oversized tote bags and towering wedge sandals, and walked over to the jazz band. I got worried things might devolve again. Instead, she teetered into her sky-high heels, put her bags down and started to dance.
To the bossa nova, she tip-toed and swayed. To punchier sections, she snapped her fingers and bounced her shoulders. She turned and performed for the people seated at tables, listening to the music — smiling, with such glee. I laughed, because it was so relatable: all I ever want to do when I’m around live music is get up and dance with abandon, but I don’t because I’m too proud and shy and self-critical.
I immediately felt bad for having cringed at her a moment earlier. I’d been preparing for something uncomfortable and instead been surprised by joy.
This happened again at a dive bar. We were sitting at the sticker-covered bar on a low-key, rainy night. The place was mostly empty, but a few local bands were set to perform. As the second performance started — an interesting marriage of big band jazz and bouncy punk music — a buff middle-aged man walked up to the stage. He asked the band if he could perform a blues song with them. “I’ll give you $100,” he said. “Just play along, I have my own lyrics.”
Now, living in LA, self-promotion is to be expected in any environment. But this guy had a vibe like a retired Mr. Clean who spent his free time lifting weights. He was not the picture of a convincing blues singer in his bubblegum-teal T shirt. I cringed. The music started.
And then this guy whipped out a harmonica, leaned in to the mic and tore it up. He was incredible, puffing and directing the musicians and growling out with deep conviction a song about a woman he loves. He was committed, and convincing.
In the end, the musicians said he could keep his $100 because it was so fun. And I felt, again, like: Damn, I wish I had that kind of nerve.
Ross Gay wrote about secondhand embarrassment as a kind of wound, and I think about this idea constantly (that may be as a form of self-soothing, since I have younger relatives who find many things I do and say cringeworthy).
To be embarrassed for someone else is usually nothing more than a longing pain, according to Gay. “…In witnessing someone’s being touched, we are also witnessing someone’s being MOVED, the absence of which in ourselves is a sorrow, and a sacrifice,” he writes in The Book of Delights.
At the market, she was moved. At the bar, he was touched. And at both, I was just sitting there.
That’s why my personal in/out list starts here: Cringe is in. Performed coolness and disinterest is out.
What else:
In: Bare nails.
Out: Press-ons, manicures of any kind (especially this kind).
*
In: Foot care. Lotion, sole support, comfy socks.
Out: Pedicures. Giving myself ingrown toenails.
*
In: Writing by hand, playing around with my handwriting style, like in grade school. Snail mail. Pen pals. Who knows? rummaging might become a physical newsletter.
Out: Typed journals and letters. Using email language (“Thanks for following up,” “Flagging,” “Floating,” “Circling back,” etc.) outside of work.
*
In: Caving to the demands of the cloud so I never have to think about data storage.
Out: Expert-recommended storage habits, like external hard-drives, copies of stuff.
*
In: Embracing my sameness with everyone else, and being comforted by that.
Out: Pop self-help that pushes new, and pseudo-scientific labels for things that are actually a universal experience. Therapy language.
*
In: White jeans.
Out: White sneakers (I will still wear them because I own them and they are comfortable, but I’ll tie them on with chagrin until spring).
*
In: Tiny lamps.
Out: House plants. Every time I’ve moved, I’ve had to figure out what to do with the plants. Only one — a 20-something-year-old pothos that belonged to my grandma — has remained through it all.
*
In: Thee Sacred Souls.
Out: …Silk Sonic. Paak is great, but SS as a group just doesn’t have TSS’s texture.
*
In: Almond milk. If burnt, it’s rough. But a well-done almond milk is delicious in coffee.
Out: Oat milk. I’ll admit a series of terrible stomach aches last year led me to cut oat milk, and it helped.
*
In: Eating something before coffee. Preferably a banana!
Out: Waking up and instantly swallowing caffeinated acid (see above).
*
In: Eclectic, lived-in, imperfect spaces. It was a relief last weekend to leave Southern California and buy a cappuccino that came in a 12-oz. Costco to-go cup, served by someone’s sweater-vested grandfather in a café with clashing, faux-fancy decor. And then to sit at a table outside (there was nobody else out there) and watch the stone water feature leak into the seating area. That’s real.
Out: The sterility of airspace. If you claim to be a coffee shop but your minimalist, architectural seating forces me to bend at odd angles without lumbar support, I wish upon you the full force of the county’s health inspection office.
*
In: Bugs. Let’s get into entomology, besties. This week I learned the spider on our stoop (the one I felt too bad to squish) was a black widow. That’s good information!
Out: Birds…lowkey, and with all due respect.
*
In: Ponchos, especially knit ones.
Out: Dresses. Just not feeling it right now. Give me the swoosh of a creased pant leg, a baggy jean, even an ankle-brushing skirt. Nobody should be able to scrutinize the skin of my knees in February.
*
In: Having one friend over for dinner.
Out: Resentfully planning a night out (resentment at the fact of needing to plan and follow through when I’d rather be cozy at home).
*
In: Improv comedy. I recently laughed very hard while watching The Groundlings’ late show. I recommend if you’re in LA.
Out: Comedy open mics. This one is evergreen! My field work in this arena has found most open mics to be dominated by unfunny woman-haters and the lowest hanging fruit imaginable.
*
In: Sleeping at least 8 hours.*
Out: Depletion. It’s been five years since 2019. Think about that. I refuse to be bedraggled, exhausted, less-than-refreshed. The late-20s is showing, I think. There’s nothing like a fun evening of eating, dancing and laughing with friends, and then returning to bed by 1 am.
*Candles remain lit for the new parents, overnight workers and menopause warriors among us.
*
In: Being in love with friends, telling them you’re thinking of them, sending them letters and flowers and gifts. Tacking their photo to your cubicle wall. Giving them little kisses on the cheek and forehead. Praising their successes, and saying how much you admire their wonderful qualities.
Out: The you-don’t-owe-anyone-anything argument. What are we doing if not grinding and crawling our way toward understanding? If not opening our hearts to each other, even if it means discomfort, loss, pain? What are we if not forever indebted to and in deep need of each other on this spinning blue marble?
One more thing.
Rummaging turned a year old last week! It’s been a fun 12 months. Thank you for reading, sharing, commenting, and talking about it. I love to hear through the grapevine that some of you look forward to the newsletter every week.
In celebration of this birthday, I’m opening up paid subscriptions. If you so choose, you can devote some of your hard-earned coins to sustaining this little home-cooked publication. To sweeten the deal, here’s a special bday offer: 40% off your first year if you subscribe by Saturday, Feb. 10.
The core of rummaging will remain free and open for the foreseeable future. But I’m cooking up some subscriber exclusives for paid readers. Stay tuned.
Talk soon,
Isa
You convinced me that I need a Pothos. Sending you warm hugs ! Congratulations on leaving Los Angeles, I must keep it New York one hundred. Haha !! Love you
I love this every time. I think about a lot of things that caused me to experience secondhand embarrassment or cringe. And it is often due to me thinking "How will this situation resolve? I don't know how to respond." And it is a tension between wanting to be a person who would be able to competently intermediate, and being a person at peace with the behavior of others as distinct from my own. And being caught between the poles is a strain. I love your tips, especially the last, as I want my friends to know they are valued. That they are lovely and worthy of love.