Yvonne Battle-Felton

Maybe it’s the winter.

For some reason—and I doubt it’s a flattering one—something about the sunless, cold mornings, the dreary days or the bitter nights, reminds people of me.

And, not in a flattering way.

The deeper the snow, the lower the temperature, the icier the air, the more texts, instant messages and emails I get from men who for whatever reason, I chose not to pursue relationships with.

I have never responded with, ‘while you weren’t good enough then, I’ve recently lowered my standards…’

That they think the cold temperatures might drive me to desperation is either a fault of theirs or one of mine.

That I think, ‘hmmmm’…. when I receive these unwelcome e-memories is a fault of mine. I have—but do not suffer from—selective memory. Still, each time I get a text from an unsaved number that I seldom recognize as a deleted number, I typically resist the urge to respond, “who are you?”

Because, I know.

While I may not remember the name, the face, or the exact reason. I know for whatever reason, I didn’t like the way I felt when I was with the person, or the fact that we didn’t share the same definition of ‘single,’ or that we did not then (and presumably still don’t) want the same things from life, relationships, experiences.

I understand, not because the media tells me so, but because I know, that dating is challenging right now. I know that we all have varying definitions for attractive, funny, single…

I know my standards will change, grow and adapt.

I also know they won’t lower, I can’t afford for them to.

So, before you send that ‘am I good enough now?’ text to someone you weren’t quite compatible with last year, just anticipate the response.

Silence.

Translation: No.

Posted by Yvonne Battle-Felton at 01:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

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Lately, I have been trying to communicate more. With friends, family and colleagues, I have a tendency to communicate in doses.

So, when I decided to join the community of blogger—about a year after I started blogging—it was somewhat cautiously.

I started by commenting on other writers’ pieces on Open Salon. Most writers there are a lot better at reading other’s posts and commenting, it’s really a community. I dangle along edge.

After a few comments here and there, I was ready to comment on a few other sites. Yet, not all sites were ready for me, or ready for me to comment that is. For some, you either had to register, create a profile, or otherwise commit in order to comment.

I see the benefit of ‘Hi, I’m (insert username) and I (insert comment here). But, I prefer the ease of posting a comment with less effort. I don’t mind supplying my email address as a sort of guarantee that I stand behind my words. What I mind is the assumption that I have the time (or inclination) to provide my address, subscribe to a newsletter or feed, or otherwise commit to the content (other than my comment).

Still, I prefer the e-antics of registering over the silence inspired by sites that don’t accept comments at all. While their blog posts inspire bloggers to write responses and post them on our own blogs, they don’t inspire communication.

And, isn’t that the point of communications?

Posted by Yvonne Battle-Felton at 01:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

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2 feet of snow.

Outside of my back window, icicles slowly drip, snow glistens, trees bend. Occasionally a squirrel—a reckless naysayer no doubt—rushes up a heavy branch.

Out front, my children, neighbors and I have piled two feet of snow into treacherous mounds of four or five feet, packed behind cars, along narrow parcels, squeezed anywhere so we can all get out—when they plow our small cul de sac.

At 1:45 AM, a bulldozer beeps, light shining as if it is not 1:45 in the morning, up my street. Accidentally, the small truck knocks over a mound of snow as it turns. It is not so much plowing snow, as making tracks over it in some areas, through it in others.

By morning, my street is more clear than it will be in 24 hours, but today, I am on vacation.

When I think of vacation, I think of warm sand, blue waters, music. If I think of a snow vacation –and I rarely do—I picture skis, a cute bunny suit, and warm cocoa.

The State of Maryland is under a state of emergency.

Two days and two more feet of snow later, I am on vacation again.

Baltimore City is in a Phase III emergency. Bulletins warn residents to stay off the streets, even walking them, unless it is an unavoidable. Essential employees, police, fire fighters, must report or are on standby. Four feet of snow has a way of putting careers in perspective. Even the self-declared-self-important, must stay off the streets.

My children are restless, bored, easily agitated with one another: we are in a house of emergency.

This is not how I would choose to spend my vacation.

But, I can’t afford not to.

To be paid for the days off due to snow, I must use my vacation time. Millions of Americans do not have company paid vacation time. Across the country, in other state of emergencies, non-essential employees are forced to attempt to trek snow and ice covered streets because their employers cannot or do not offer paid time off.

And so, I sit in front of my window waiting for a stalactite-like icicle to drip off the side of the house attempting to enjoy yet another day of vacation.

Posted by Yvonne Battle-Felton at 01:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

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