Strut. Don’t Fret.

Yep, I’m bored. There, I said it. 

I have read so many blogs and news articles about all the wonderful projects and learning opportunities people are seizing, and I laugh. Oh, I’ve kept plenty busy with projects, cooking, reading, writing, and learning. I haven’t just sat and pined over the loss of my Peace Corps journey or lamented job market woes, but there has been some of that, too. I just haven’t allowed my lamentations to consume me, nor have I become the next Renaissance Woman taking every online class and certification program on the internet. 

So, what have I done?

I read…a lot. My favorite book so far is one that reviews warned me was controversial. Even the author, in his preface, warned me that I might find myself offended or aghast. He was right. The reviewers were right. But I also learned to think about genetics from an alternate vantage point that I hadn’t considered. Oh, the book. You might want to know what genetics masterpiece I read: A Troublesome Inheritance by Nicholas Wade. Masterpiece was meant as a joke, in case you missed that jab. It was not even close to that level of inspiration, but, as I said, I did learn something. 

I took a genetics course at Durham Tech when I was completing my pre-requisites for nursing school. The instructor was quite good and, if I remember correctly, had spent his professional years working as a criminal geneticist helping to solve crimes and then moved into education as a retirement gig. Whatever his story, he opened my mind to genetics and I fell in love. Since then, I have spent much of my reading pleasure learning more about genetics, especially virology and evolution.

Now that you know that bit of my history, you’ll understand why I decided to read A Troublesome Inheritance. It walks us through evolution and how genetics helped forge cultures around the world. But, even better, how culture helped shape evolution through the types of genetic expression that were prized enough for a trait to be purposefully perpetuated. I always thought about genetics from a Darwinian perspective where the best genes are preserved through natural selection. That different vantage point I discussed earlier highlighted how various cultures value traits differently. 

For example, in an egalitarian culture, individualism might not be prized, so expression of behaviors that result in aggression or other individualistic behaviors that encourage competition will not be celebrated, so the individual will have difficulty finding a mate to perpetuate those genes. However, in a culture that prized competition and maybe even a bit of aggression, those characteristics would be desirable traits in a mate and, so, they would be passed down to subsequent generations. I had previously thought about genetics in much more general sense wherein the best traits were universal, which now seems ridiculous.

However! And this is a big however. If you choose to read this book, approach it with an open mind that can also be selective in how it processes information. This book can easily be bent to nefarious idea generation. Read it with this warning in mind. And like I said, the author also offers warning, even if he does then too quickly and prematurely defend his case against folks who will find his genetic interpretations offensive.

The book I’m currently reading is about menopause. And, yes, it’s a genetic cultural perspective, because why go through something as wonderful as menopause and not choose to understand it at the primal and genetic level? It isn’t enough to just endure hormonal changes and logically know that I’m not really pissed off, telling myself it’s just those damned hormones without understanding how they work and why on earth we women go through “the change” in the first place. I mean, I get it. No woman in her right mind would want to remain fertile until the end of her life, but, geez, do we have to spontaneously combust from the inside out several times a day and almost need to physically restrain ourselves from beating the refrigerator to death because someone drank the last Coke?  And, no, I haven’t murdered the refrigerator. But, yes, I did consider it, and, yes, it was due to the last Coke having been consumed and not by me.

I haven’t yet even gotten to the halfway point of the book yet, so I’ll keep you apprised as to what, if anything, I learn. So far, I only know that menopause occurring at midlife is an evolutionary manifestation of a female’s value to the society past her childbearing years to imbue latter generations with her wisdom to help younger females become better mothers. But, hey, we ladies already knew that. I once had a biology instructor, who just happened to be male, tell us, tongue in cheek, that women must be higher evolved than men, as evidenced by their mostly hairless bodies while many men still possess the fur of their predecessors. 

Do audio books count as reading? I sure hope so, because I “read” quite a bit of those, as well. My latest favorite is The Skeptics Guide to American History one of the many topics offered on Audible from their “Great Courses” catalog. We are living through history in the making right now, so I thought I should brush up on the past to help me understand the present and prepare for the future. I feel that I received a better than average education from the Orange County School System, but even so, I am learning quite a bit I didn’t learn, or more likely forgot, when I was student. I’ve even uttered a wow or three as points have been made and now I want to know more. I had forgotten that I have a minor in history from my first undergraduate experience, which meant I must have had an early appreciation for the past. But as long as we’re being honest, I’ll go ahead and admit that I also had a crush on a history major, so I tended to like the same history courses he was required to complete. 

Before I travelled to Botswana to live for 27 months, I had begun to delve into cooking, spending my only day off, Sunday, learning to bake bread. My cooking skills improved substantially in Botswana because, not only did I have time, I did not have the luxury of spending that extra time at restaurants, so I learned to cook the foods I loved and missed. Since coming home due to this God-forsaken pandemic, I have continued to cook, read cookbooks and blogs, and create my own concoctions. Since I don’t walk everywhere now, those loaves of bread, decadent desserts, and cheesy pasta dishes are sticking quite literally to my abdomen and my, ahem, hindquarters. Yes, I have a type of muscular dystrophy that results in atrophied core muscles, which produces a protuberant abdomen, so I would look pregnant even if I wasn’t overeating. But perhaps I could look suspiciously pregnant rather than unquestionably pregnant if I didn’t love to eat everything I cook. However, if there’s one lesson I keep trying to learn, it’s that life is short. Shakespeare said it best: “We strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then we are heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” In other words, buy the damn shoes in all the colors, eat the cake, and stop worrying so much. You’ll regret the things didn’t do and the cake you didn’t eat more than the things and the cake you did…in moderation, of course. Because if I ate all the cake, my end-of-life regrets would come to fruition much sooner than I would prefer. One cooking masterpiece I’m still trying to actually master is the perfect loaf of soft bread with a crunchy crust. My bread is darn good, but just not quite where I need it to be to feel accomplished. 

Jobs, jobs, and more jobs. Actually, that should say applications, rejection, and more silence. How cocky was I to believe with three university degrees and 20 years of marketing experience that my professional dance card would be full. Nope. I’m the wallflower sitting in the corner waiting to be asked to dance. But, hey, a small house and modest living enabled me to save money and leave the paying work world for two years, so I’m doing just fine sitting with my bruised ego eating too much bread and reading genetics. My old fallback passion is whispering in my ear…school. So, yes, if the job gods don’t answer my prayers, then that doctorate I planned to pursue as my retirement gig just moved to the forefront of the second half of my professional life. I am considering applying for the Doctorate of Nursing Practice. I’ve just enrolled in a nursing refresher program to get back into healthcare and since school has always been my thing with the dream of adding doctor to my title, the DNP is right up my alley. 

I’m also one lucky woman. On the days when the hormones light up my insides and manipulate my brain into calling me lazy with no direction, my Frank reminds me that I look beautiful with my faux-pregnant belly. “Here, eat more bread. There will be more of you to love.” He reminds me that I work pretty darn hard. “Dear, we came home to the worst economy ever. You’re not superwoman.” Oops, in my arrogance I always sort envisioned myself as a superhero. You mean, I’m not?

I’ll keep reading about the royal family to make myself laugh. And I’ll keep learning genetics. I might even go back to school. But I refuse to be positive every moment of every day. Is that even real? Look out refrigerator, I’m coming for you fist bared the next time my estrogen hits rock bottom. Oh, and things will work out like they’re supposed to. They always do. And when I lay my head down at night, dogs prancing beside me to find the their perfect spot, each night knowing tomorrow is another shot until it’s not, my hour upon the stage expired and, God, I hope I spent it strutting more than fretting.

Peace!