Oreo Cookies...

When I was at the check-out counter at Walgreens the other day buying shampoo and cards and stuff, a man came up and put his items down on the counter to be served next. Instinctively, I looked down to see what he was buying. I was intrigued by his choices. He had a package of double-stuff Oreo cookies and an economy size box of condoms. That's it. Nothing else. No wine (although not possible in our state - Walgreens doesn't sell liquor), no lube, no flowers, no musk cologne. Nothing. Just Oreos and condoms.

I immediately began to wonder what he had in store for himself that evening. Did he know his partner so well that he knew that foreplay for her was a package of double-stuff Oreos? Was there some sort of unknown aphrodisiac in Oreos that warranted the economy size box of condoms? Would he be getting lucky for hours on end? Were Oreo cookies the poor-man's equivalent of Viagra? Perhaps they were for him and not for her?

Or perhaps he was going to attend an orgy/potluck dinner that evening? And perhaps he was running late and didn't have time to bake his famous chocolate chip brownies; but he knew that all the participating women loved oreo cookies so he substituted that instead. That would explain the economy-sized box of condoms.

But then I was back to my original thought about him getting lucky with his lady and foreplay consisting of a package of oreos. What a mess with all those cookie crumbs getting stuck in various crevices! And then having to change the sheets immediately after due to the crumbs so ants would not migrate and set up new colonies in the bed. Goodness! How do you manage the wet spot?!? Yuck! And then I pondered when does a woman start to desire a package of Oreos as her aphrodisiac rather than a bottle of wine? And then I said a quick prayer to every heavenly body I could think of that there would be a big, flashing, neon warning sign if I ever started to get aroused after eating Oreos. I even asked them to also blow a fog horn at me (in case I was so blinded by the afterglow of the Oreos), so I could turn quickly and run in the opposite direction. I also said a little prayer of thanks that at least there were two souls who were going to be having a little 'happiness' that night. It didn't really matter what the means were to achieve the end.

However, I can no longer look at Oreo cookies with the same innocence I once had. And I will be very, very suspect of any date who shows up with a package of them....

Forgetfulness... I've got it bad.

"Can you hear me?" I asked my youngest as I struggled to hear him through the crackling of the cell phone connection.
"Yes" he replied.
"Good. Did you get all your homework done?" I inquired.
"Moh-om it's the weekend."
"I know it's the weekend. I just wanted to make sure if you did have any homework that you got it done," I continued.
"Tomorrow is Monday, Mom" he said in his exasperated six-year old voice. "I won't have any homework till after school tomorrow"
"Honey, I know tomorrow is Monday. I just wanted to know if you had any homework over the weekend."
"Geez Mom, remember, I just told you tomorrow is Monday?" I could see his little eyebrows raising and his eyes getting wide at me driving home his point through the cell phone.
"Yes William I know tomorrow is Monday. I guess you didn't have any homework to do over the weekend then?"
"No and tomorrow is Monday," he paused. "You know Mom you really have a hard time keeping track of things don't you?"
Trying not to laugh out loud at his insightful (although not entirely accurate to this conversation) statement, I responded, "Well yes you are right. Thankfully I have you to help me remember things."
"Yep you sure do." He replied smugly.

I admit it. I do have a hard time keeping track of things. Is it because I'm over 40 now? Perhaps. Is it because I am raising three children by myself? Perhaps. Is it because I drank too much beer/wine/rum/tequila/vodka in my 20s and 30s? Perhaps. Is it because I find myself easily distracted by other things instead of what I should be concentrating on? Perhaps. Is it a combination of all these things? Perhaps. And perhaps even more.

I don't know.

I try to stay 'on top of things' with a daily planner, a calendar posted in the kitchen, calendars on two computers, post-it notes to myself, voicemail messages left for myself at the office or home and recently my daughter has started to text message me reminders. However even with all this 'help', there are times when I just forget. Even when I get into the minivan, I have to remind myself 3 and 4 times before I have exited the driveway, where exactly I am going on that trip.

It used to really bother me if I forgot something. I would berate myself and feel stupid for not remembering and mentally kick myself in the ass while apologizing profusely. However, now (and I guess this is a result of aging and wisdom), I simply apologize to whomever was slighted by my forgetfulness, shrug my shoulders and mark through that entry on every calendar with a big, black Sharpie knowing that this won't be the last time I forget something so it's no use getting upset. It's just my life.

Pretty is as pretty does...

Why is it that when I look the prettiest, I don't dance as often? Why is it when I don't get all dolled up, I don't have any time to sit between dances? Why is it when I look my best, men shoot quick glances my way but never come to speak to me? And why is it, when I happen to go out with no makeup on, I can't seem to walk one block without a man stopping me to talk?

I don't know how to explain this. This has happened to my sister too. We just shake our heads and shrug our shoulders because we prefer to look our best, but it seems we would be dating more frequently if we dressed down more. Hmm... this is gonna be a hard habit to break. But is it worth it? Do I want to be with a man who is afraid to talk to me when I look my best? Or do I wait for one who can talk with me when I am at my prettiest? But then I ask, will he accept me when I'm without makeup or dressed down? I don't know the answer. We have only recently been able to track this phenomenon within our lives. More experimentation is needed. But don't worry, dear readers, I'm still planning to continue trying to look my best.

It's okay to touch, I will not break.

I need to be touched. I know this. I accept this. Everyday I need to have physical contact; it is essential to my survival. Sometimes it is satisfied while cuddling on the couch with my children as we watch our favorite television show or movie together. I wrap my arms around them and bring them close to my heart. There is a sense of peace and comfort that envelops all of us. Occasionally I will fall asleep while my kids remain awake. And sometimes, they drop off while encased in my arms. Whichever it is, it is good.

We kiss each other hello, goodbye and good night. It is just how we are and how we operate. In the morning, if we are rushing and don't get in that kiss goodbye, a frantic "I love you" is hollered as they run to catch to the school bus and a "I love you too!" hollered in return. I am comforted in knowing that if today were our last day together, the last words spoken were of love. Same at bed time, the last gesture towards each other no matter how stressful the day is one of love.

For the last several years, this contact with my children has sustained me. However, a few years ago, I began to realize that I needed more physical contact than my children are capable of giving. It really came to the surface when I began swing dancing. I found myself energized instead of exhausted after a night of swing dancing. I sought out more opportunities to dance, to experience that exchange of positive energy between me and my dance partner. I added Argentine Tango to my dance repertoire about a year later. I naively believed that I danced it because I loved the music and the dance. But I quickly began to understand that it was the touch, the embrace, the intimacy that I craved and that I loved in the dance. It became very important for me to find ways to satisfy the craving. A blissful week was when I could dance tango three to four times!

I'm not referring to this need to be touched as a sexual desire. Sure, I have those too, but this was more basic, more integral to my well-being than the occasional romp in the sack. It is the fulfillment of connecting with another human being without words - through movement and music. I am happy when wrapped in my lead's arms with my head resting on his; my soul fills with peace and calm. Energy is exchanged and I feel refreshed. But I also know that dancing tango is just one avenue for me to satisfy my need for touch.

Touch is very important to me in my romantic relationships as well. And this has been the most difficult need for me to reconcile. My experiences have consisted of wanting more touch than my partner either knows I want or is capable of giving. And again, I'm not talking about sex, necessarily, but rather, the small everyday touches: holding hands, light touch on the cheek, a caress of the arm, a hug that lasts 60 seconds or more, gently stroking the hair. These touches say to me that everything is okay. It is a subtle yet extremely powerful reassurance to me that I am loved and desired. And I find that I want to give those touches to my partner. I want to give him the assurance that he is loved and all is okay and there is a sense of peace between us.

Just like I cannot dance swing nor tango by myself, I know that I cannot be satisfied with being the only one to give the physical touches or assurances. I need it back. And I can't compromise on this - it is as vital to my well-being as oxygen. And until I have the lover who can give this to me, I will keep dancing.

Congratulations! You've been promoted to ...

“No, no go on. I don’t need you.”

“Are you sure? You don’t need me to walk you to your classroom” I asked my youngest as we stood outside the school office. He waved me off and said “No, go. I’m good.” “Okay” I said and turned slowly and in shock towards the front door. I didn’t even watch him walk to his classroom. He had made it clear that he did not need me. With every step towards the door, I felt the air leaking out of my familiar mommy balloon. Should I be happy that he doesn’t need me at the same time that I’m sad he doesn’t need me? What does this say about me as a mother?

I slid into the driver’s seat of the minivan and thought how my role was changing relative to all my kids. My previous clearly-defined role as mother, provider, protector of my children was warping and changing. I didn’t know how to act. When you are younger and in school, you have to learn and to master certain aptitudes and then you get promoted to the next grade level. You know what is expected of you in the next grade; you hear from those who have gone before what to expect; your path and role as a student is clearly defined.

But it’s not as clear when you are a parent. I remember when my teenage daughter turned 1 year old. I marveled at her as she worked on walking from point A to point B; as she picked up toys and put them in her mouth; and as she giggled when the dog ran by her. I had done a pretty good job keeping her alive, I thought. Then it hit me, oh my god, I am responsible for her brain too! I had spent her first year keeping her fed, dry, happy and that was the easy part. I was comfortable with that role. But on that day I realized that her intellectual and her emotional development as well as her memories sit squarely on my shoulders. I looked around for my Parental Report Card to double check that I had been ‘promoted’ to the next level. I couldn’t find it but I knew it was there.

So I embraced that new role of the mother of a toddler and then a pre-schooler. Then along came her little brother. Ah ha, I thought – back to what I’m familiar with and have already proven capable in. I know this. I can do this.

This was normal, commonplace territory for me – a baby, a toddler, a pre-schooler. I even managed to navigate having an elementary school student. They still needed me to help them, guide them. Why did I think it would go on like this forever? When my youngest was born, his brother was a pre-schooler and his sister in elementary school. I knew how they needed me. I knew what to do. But now, I have no baby only school-agers and a teenager. I feel lost. A huge part of my life, what I did with my time for the last 14 years is over. Again, I looked around for my Parental Report Card to see just when, exactly, had I been promoted to the next level, and I couldn’t find it. But I knew that whether I liked it or not, my role, my involvement, my importance to my children was changing. They didn’t need me to hold their hands and walk them to their classrooms any longer. They didn’t consider though that perhaps I still needed it.

Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen, Hello Love

We were driving on our annual trip South. Grooving to iTunes Tango, boys watching the 2nd of many movies on the minivan DVD player. My Ladybug sitting in the passenger seat talking and talking and talking. She is telling me about what happened yesterday, what she feels about whichever topic floats into her brain. These are special moments that we share. I treasure them just as much as I treasure the times I sit in the passenger's seat and tell my mother what happened yesterday or how I feel about whatever thought floats through my brain. Even as a 40-year old, those are special moments. (However, instead of listening to Tango, it would be Broadway Show Tunes for that is part of my mother’s soul.)

I let Ladybug talk as my mother let me. I know Ladybug wants to share her soul with me and by listening, I learn even more about her. She is in (from what I remember) an awkward transition time – no longer a kid but not quite a woman yet. She wants to be both but is not entirely comfortable with either role. However this ‘phase’ (which clinicians and doctors and esteemed academicians refer to as puberty, but I, the Minivan Philosopher, refer to as “OMG, OMG, my va-jay-jay kweefed!”) is temporary. Soon, in what feels like a blink of an eye to me, she will shed the trappings of childhood and fill out her womanly curves. It will feel more natural to her.

Have I adequately prepared her for womanhood? Have my theories and philosophies about raising her proven to be true? Will she thank me when she’s older or spend her life savings on therapy complaining about me?

From what I can tell so far (and we’ve not even made it out of Missouri yet on our trip), I think I’m on the right track. She’s a pretty amazing stuck-in-the-middle-of-all-this-physical-and-emotional-change person. I feel in my heart she’s going to be phenomenal!

Structure

When I started writing The Minivan Philosopher, I waffled back and forth. Is it a journal? Is it a diary? Does it have to be chronological? When I realized that for it to be any of those things, I would be assuming that I know where I'm going or where my minivan is taking me. And I really don't know. I'm clueless as to where I'll end up. I have never been good at developing a five-year plan and sticking to it. The only life timetables I ever followed appropriately were completing my BA and MS degrees and when I was pregnant. However even in those instances, I was able to customize my experiences. The only thing that I do know is I will continue to get older and that I have to pay my taxes every year.

So, no, dear readers, this will not be like a diary or a timeline. Instead it will be an accurate (well as accurate as I want it to be - because, you know, some customization will occur here too) representation of the thoughts in my mind and situations that accompany them. It may not be rational, but who said the minivan philosopher has to be rational?

New Status Update

We live in a fast world. This is not new information. We zip, zap, text, tweet. We don't stop long enough to breathe. Why? Do we even know what we are missing? Do we behave this way because of environmental conditioning? Or, are we afraid of what we might see, or, better yet, feel if we slowed it all down?

The other day after working in my yard, pulling weeds from my modest flower bed, I was sitting on my front porch drinking my ice, cold --yet all the ice had melted -- water when, I saw a small insect hovering over my bright, yellow, potted marigold. Initially, I thought it was a mosquito and went to swat it away. But I looked at it more carefully and saw that it was a very tiny bee. Perhaps it was a baby bee as I've never seen one that small before. I watched it suck the nectar from the flower. I thought about the lifecycle and activities of bees. I marveled at how the bee's wings were moving so fast, they seemed perfectly still (which then reminded me of the pianist who moved his fingers so fast they too seemed to be perfectly still). I watched the baby bee drink and drink. I could have remained there entranced by its activity, but my phone buzzed and I stood up to read the text message. When I did, the baby bee zoomed away so fast, I couldn't tell where it went. It was just gone.

How did getting things done replace connecting with people and the world around us? Many times I'll be heading out the door, hurrying to get someplace important, and I'll see my neighbor out and even though there's a million things I'd like to tell her about, I usually only have "time" for a quick wave, a smile and a hello. And she returns the greetings. It's like we are both on automatic pilot. She probably feels just as busy and rushed as I do.

Why do we live in this bullet-point world? Why do we narrow our lives down to 'five key messages' or the '30-second elevator speech'? We send countless status updates via Facebook or Twitter. We text seemingly meaningless and erroneous information to those who want to know 'wassup'. But what do these 'facts' actually reveal about our lives?

• "I'm excited to go on vacation."
• "I ate at the best Italian restaurant last night."
• "I ran 3 miles in the rain, am I crazy?" "
• "I walked my yappy dog."
• "I saw a movie. I danced tango. I'm going to bed."

These bullet points reveal my actions but not my soul. The actions allow my friends/followers to develop an image of me. And likewise, I can draw conclusions about them and their lives which keeps me from having to actually ask "How are you?" because I'm so busy, you see.

But I'm a writer and a philosopher and although I don't intrinsically like operating in this bullet point world, I play along. I do it too. I know I should stop and ask more questions. I know I should interact more on a human, face-to-face, landline to landline or voice-to-voice and not a keyboard-to-keyboard level with the people in my life. I know I shouldn't rely on those status updates and tweets to tell me how my dear college friend really feels about not having children or being a stay-at-home mom, or getting married or divorced or anything. But I do. It's funny even though, I've never experienced that wonderfully happy, satisfied feeling after spending a few hours with my laptop reading status updates, I still read them instead of calling. Nor have I ever received a text from someone that said "Last night's tweet was great. Let's do it again real soon." I know I need to do better.

I think I'll update my status to say so...

And a one and a two and a three, turn!

Listening to Dreamgirls loudly throughout my house – I Am Changing – seems appropriate for me right now – yes I’m changing…taking back my life, my soul, my heart – this song is from my past, my youth so the images that flood my mind and heart are of dancing, pulsing to the music and working hard to get the body to do the choreography, some of it easier to accomplish than others – much like life – some stuff you have to work extra hard at, pushing and pulling, molding, shaping, stuffing, fighting to put it the way it should be and then whatever was resisting finally gives and it sorts itself out. Other times life comes together so easily it’s like you’ve never had to spend hours working on a particularly hard dance step. But in each instance, the dance at the end is still beautiful.

Having a hard time with titles tonight...

Was musing the other day about the difference between a blog and a journal.  I think a journal is a more intimate journey for the writer and the reader.  Blogs can be great information sources, can be entertaining, can be good escapes but blogs are not journals.  I haven’t come across a blog yet where after reading an entry or two or three where I say – I know him or I know her, what makes them tick.  Every blog I’ve read so far keeps things on a superficial level.  Who are these people really?  What gets their passions up?  What saddens them, what brings joy?  Why do they all try to be so clever?  It’s like we’re hiding behind cleverness instead of truth.  We build up layers and layers of skin,  masks to who we really are.  Are we afraid of revealing ourselves to the world or more importantly are we afraid of revealing ourselves to ourselves?  Are we afraid of our own rejection?  Can we reject ourselves?  Have we already?  Is that why we walk on by when we see pain, why we turn our heads away from the homeless man on the street but cause traffic slow-downs (if not crawls) when passing the scene of an accident?  Isn’t there pain in both situations?  Why do we choose to look at one and not the other?  Is it because in our insulated cars, we ‘feel’ as if we’re watching a movie or television show – but the homeless man sitting on the sidewalk asking for help looks you in the eye and there is no ‘monitor’ or glass between us – just humanity.  And why do we walk away from our humanity? Why do we cover our own needs up with cleverness, humor, makeup, anger, bitterness?  What is so scary about being at one with yourself?  When we open our hearts, lay them bare for the world to see, for our own eyes to see, we often see a child.  Our inner child, the pure one, the innocent one, the one who hasn’t learned to hate yet and we often see that child sad that he/she has been put away and ignored for so long.  When I opened my own heart to myself, re-examined things in my past, acknowledged decisions, and forgave myself, my ‘inner child’ cried with joy because she hadn’t been free in decades.  She had been pushed down, I often thought I had to be something, someone other than me.  I wished so hard sometimes to be just like someone else I admired – that I lost myself.  I wanted all the qualities I admired in others to manifest in me.  But I thought mistakenly that I had to relinquish my own essence to grasp those qualities.  Instead of just reaching down into my soul and releasing those qualities.  Because they were always there, just buried under a concrete wall and levee that even Hurricane Katrina wouldn’t have been able to penetrate or breech.  But who or what finally broke through my walls?  You would think that it would have been someone else but no, the architect of my walls was myself and I was the destroyer of those walls as well.  My soul, my inner child kept chipping at the stone for years, kept working its way toward my heart until I could no longer suppress my self’s desire to be free and to be loved for who I am.  And not loved by someone else but loved by me.  I had rejected my very being for the better part of my life and it was time to celebrate my self.  I can’t say that it was an easy process or that I’m done and all fixed now so that I’m overwhelmingly fabulous.  The process is/was/always going to be hard and that fabulous though I am, I can be ever so much more fabulous to myself.  I do welcome each day I’m blessed with with much more excitement than in years past. Each time I figure out something new about myself I get excited at the resulting clarity in thought.  I have had so many “ah ha” moments and with each subsequent layer or concrete block being removed, I experience not a feeling of vulnerability at the loss of my protective shield but a feeling of strength and dominance, my shield is my truth and acceptance of myself.  No one can change that.  Only me, and I don’t want to build concrete walls, levees or nuclear bomb shelters around my heart and soul.  My world has been so much richer these past few years I don’t want to go back to the way it was.  I like it as it is now.  I like me as I am now. 

Untitled for now

I reached out to find a cool spot where he once laid his head.  My hand patted the sheet and stroked the empty pillow.  My eyes still closed, I breathed in through my nose and his scent lingered about me.  I smiled, a satisfied and happy woman.  Sometimes I would just pinch myself to make sure it was all real and not just my imagination.  Yep that hurt.  It’s real.  He’s real. We’re real. Many had questioned me why I was involved with him, wasn’t I afraid of getting hurt, wasn’t I afraid of him leaving me at some point?  Wasn’t it easier to be alone and not love than to risk all the pain that comes with loving?  I used to think like they did.  I used to have high concrete barriers built around my heart.  Those barriers had served me well, too, for many years.  I did not allow myself to get close to any man longer than a couple of hours at a time.  Men served a purpose but not in any sense of growing my heart and my capacity to love others.  I had been in love once before.  Or rather, I thought I had been in love but now with the power of hindsight vision, I had been in love with the idea of being in love.  I had married young.  I had children.  I had made a home but was empty inside for many years.  I busied myself with my work, my children and their needs, my home; I kept busy so I didn’t have to answer that nagging voice inside me that kept saying “There’s got to be more to living and loving than this.  Come on, this isn’t what you signed up for.  How much longer are you going to ignore me and how miserable you are?”  I had gotten quite good at ignoring my misery.  I managed to suppress it for seven years.  But one day, it was all over.  My husband left.  That was it.  Twelve years together all came down to the simple act of taking the house key off his key ring and placing it on the entry hall table.  His wedding ring had come off many months earlier.  I had been too busy to notice that.  But watching him place the house key on the table, I noticed everything.  Through my tears I started to see the vibrant colors around me, I breathed deeply and felt the cool air enter through my nostrils and fill my lungs to capacity. I exhaled, tears streaming down my face, and the weight of so many years of resignation lifted off me like magic.  My heart was filled with hope again.  The last time I had this much hope and excitement for my future, I was 10 years old and dreaming with my best friend about what we would be when we grew up.  I began to dream again.  It was a bittersweet moment when he put his key down and walked out of the house.  I was sad that it hadn’t worked out for us like we thought it was going to but was also relieved that it was over.  No longer did we have to suffer under the weight of a marriage that was not meant to be. We had given each other the best gift that day, the opportunity to love and be loved.

I didn’t know then how much work I would have to do on myself before being capable of loving and being loved again.  I didn’t realize then how many memories from the past I had to let go of and to forgive myself for.  I didn’t realize then how much damage I had done to myself by suppressing my identity, my passion and my soul.  It had not been an easy journey.  I had been cautious.  I clung to past hurts with two clenched fists.  I got angry at the world for putting me in this tough predicament.  I moaned and complained about how hard my life was and how it was not fair but at the same time I could not even fathom the idea of returning to my previous existence.  I just wanted the healing to be done and over quickly.  I didn’t want to face the darkness and the sadness inside me.  I wanted to busy myself with someone else like I had done for all the years of my marriage.  But there was no one else to take the focus off the work I had to do.  So I plodded through it.  I cried, I laughed, I prayed, I “offered it up” time and time again.  I never thought I'd see the light again; I never believed I would ever be happy again.   However slowly and steadfastly, with every little step forward, I shed pieces of my iron armor that had held captive my soul and my passion.  And that hope I felt the day he put the key down came rushing back in and filled my heart.  I began to smile more.  I took deep breaths.  I found myself enjoying life.  I had embraced myself and finally understood the necessity behind the journey I had to make on my own.  My heart was now ready to love and to be loved.  It was just a matter of time.  And then he entered my life.

Halls: Great Ones and menthol ones

“I just wish my nose would stop running. Shit! Here comes that tickle in my throat. Oh no and now the cough. I just want it to stop! I am so tired of having this cold or allergy or whatever it is. Maybe I’m allergic to work?” I thought as I sat in the large, hallowed conference room with dark wood trim around the windows and heavy large doors waiting for the next person to come interview me. Her heels clicked on the wooden parquet floor that has been cleaned and polished to impress anyone who enters the room.

Cough. Cough. Cough. I turn my head to see who has entered the room. It is the head of development for the university. She is a little woman, probably mid to late-40s, with graying hair. I wonder how this interview is going to go – not well if I can’t keep my eyes and nose from their full-on assault.

“Hi Michelle, I’m Peggy Lundstrom.”

“Hello, Peggy.”

"So glad you could wait for me. I apologize for the delay. So how are you feeling? I remember you telling me the other day that you were a little under the weather” Peggy continued.

“Well I’m on the tail end of this cold. It’s sort of just dragging on and on. I sound worse than I feel” Okay so I’m lying through my teeth. I’m just trying to drudge up some sympathy here and to explain away the inevitable onslaught of snot and tears…

“Well I will take it that into account during our discussion," replied Peggy.

“Thanks” Score! Maybe she does have some sympathy for me?

"So why do you want to work here?" she inquired.

God I hate this question. Should I just answer truthfully – “because if I work here, my children’s college education is guaranteed and I have to do my best for my kids since my ex-husband is too wrapped up in his own ‘affairs’ to save any money for college” or should I answer “because I value the work of the university and wish to contribute in my small way to strengthen its ability to continue to provide quality education to the young energetic minds who come here searching for answers?”

Instead I answer

“Well as a development officer for a small not-for profit, it is an honor to have an opportunity to work here and to learn from the premier development group not only in the region but one who carries a fabulous reputation nationally.”

Peggy smiles and says, “Well you’re right, we do have a great national reputation for being able to raise substantial amounts of money from our alumni base.”

I couldn’t hear anymore what she was saying because my throat began to get all dry and itchy and I knew that I would have to break down and open my old standby, the cough drop, in order to get through the interview. My eyes started to water furiously; I began to “ahem and ahem” in an attempt to clear my throat while trying to appear interested in whatever the director was saying. I fumbled for it and then grabbed the cough drop from my purse all the while smiling and nodding my head as if in total agreement. I unwrapped the cough drop and popped it into my mouth. Ah relief…I reached up toward my eye and delicately wiped the tears with the side of my finger praying that I would not smear my makeup any more.

“And this position would be responsible for connecting with 7-10,000 alumni annually. So do you have any questions for me?” asked Peggy.

“Well” I pause, “ how long have you been here and what have you found to be the most rewarding aspect of the job? “

God, what an awful question, I sure hope she hasn’t already told me this but I really need her to continue talking because my eyes are welling up again and I think, oh my god, I think I’m going to sneeze. Inhale. No. That crisis has been averted. Maybe if I just turn my head and cough I’ll be able to get this damn tickle out of my throat.

Peggy continues talking. I hear words like, “it’ll be ten years this spring since I joined the university…. I was also at a small not-for-profit…”

I can’t bear it anymore, I must do something about the tickle, the tears, the snot just welling up in my head before I completely implode.

I slowly turn my head and cough ever so gracefully (at least I thought). And the cough drop comes flying out of my mouth and crash lands on the beautifully polished and scholarly floor. I squeal “oh my god!” Peggy stops and says “you okay?” I laugh in a sort of shock and disbelief and I say “yes, I’m fine but….” And I get out of my chair, laughing and walk over to where the cough drop has landed. I pick it up and quickly walk it to a trash can. I can’t control my laughter. Only me on a very important job interview…would spit out a cough drop! I walked back to my seat and I didn’t get any more tickles the remaining five minutes or so of my interview.

Guess what? I didn’t get the job either. But it is pretty funny.

Heartfelt Gifts

They were the loveliest red roses that I had ever seen . I was overwhelmed when they gave them to me because I knew it was a tradition in their family to mark special occasions with roses. But I never expected to receive roses; I was touched deeply.

An ornate jewelry box designed and created by The Artist and a beautiful red necklace and earrings inside the box from his wife, The Piano Teacher. I was speechless. I just shook my head "no" saying, "What generosity, oh my."

A few days after I received the ornate jewelry box and flowers, I told The Artist that I couldn't believe they had given me such lovely gifts. I told him that they had already made me so happy with just the flowers, but when I saw the box that I was overcome and then to find the jewelry simply rendered me speechless. I said to him, "You shouldn't have. It's too much."

"Why?" asked The Artist. " You don't think you're worth it?"

I stammered "Uh uh well, no... I guess I don't?"

"You are." He said and waved me off as I tried to say thank you again. He had stated his truth. There would be no more discussion about the gifts.

The Dancer met me one night at a local studio so we could dance tango uninterrupted for a few hours before he moved away. It was beautiful, lyrical, sensual, joyful and more. I kept thanking him for the generous gift of his time and his dance over and over.

The Dancer tried to thank me back for the dances, but I kept deflecting his thanks because I felt that surely he was only dancing with me as a favor, not because he wanted to as well.

"You don't think you're worth dancing with?"

I stammered, "Um, well no I guess not?"

"You are. You are a lovely follow and very fun to dance with. It was my pleasure too."

I blushed. This was the second time in as many weeks when I admitted that I didn't think I was worthy of the gifts people were giving me.

In the following days, I thought about this difficulty of mine to accept that people would want to do things for me just because I am me. Why was it so hard? Was I always this way? I tried to remember a time in my childhood when I didn't think I deserved any of my birthday or Christmas presents. Fortunately, I could not find one time. As far as I can recall, I deserved them all.

So what happened between then and now? Was it the years of being married to someone who only gave me something when I either asked for it or he wanted something from me? Was it the years of constantly giving to others who just continued to take and take? Was it because after living as a non-significant other, I internalized that I was not worthy of kindness from friends or strangers? Was it a result of being divorced with three children and having to do everything for my family, that made me feel uncomfortable receiving help from others for fear they might judge me? I suspect it is all of these and more.

The Artist, the Piano Teacher and the Dancer – who knew that their gifts would be me?

The Reader

She has always been an insightful, compassionate, smart, funny little girl. One night when she was four-years old, she announced to her father and I that we were not living our own lives but the lives in a story. I asked her to explain and she said, matter-of-factly, that someone was reading a book and we were the characters in the book and when we went to sleep at night that was when the reader closed the book. I was amazed at her imagination and couldn't wait to hear what my budding philosopher would think up next.

So, from then on, to get my daughter to bed at a reasonable hour, I would remind her that the reader was getting tired and would close the book soon and she didn't want to fall asleep standing up, now did she? She would shake her head no and scamper off to her bedroom.

And I would look forward to what the reader would read next.

When I Grow Up

"You know what I want to be when I grow up?" My youngest asked me while riding in the minivan.

"No I don't, " I responded looking at him in the rearview mirror. " What is it?"

"I think it would be great to be, I don't know what you call it but someone who works where the trash is..." he said. I could see him looking at the bottom of a plastic water bottle searching for the recycling triangle.

"Oh? Really?" I paused at this revelation that my youngest wants to work as a garbage man. "I think that's called a 'Landfill Manager' " At least I could dress it up with my words, I thought. "Why do you want to work with trash?"

"Oh I think it would be cool because then you could see what people had for dinner or lunch and see what they do in their lives from their trash."

'How wise!' I thought and smiled. He wasn't interested in being a garbage man... he wants to be a sociologist studying people's garbage to gain understanding about our society.

And I was afraid he was going to tell me that this way he could find ALL the balloons in the world.

Balloon Quest continues

He keeps looking. Last night the children were able to pick an Easter Egg from the basket as part of the end-of-the year celebration. He was absolutely thrilled with what was in his egg until he saw that the other prize was a balloon. He spent the next 90 minutes searching for an egg with a balloon. Several times he came back to me to complain that he couldn't find one and that he really wanted a balloon. I told him that I understood but that all he could do was look for the eggs with the balloons. He sighed, disappointed I could not help him, and left to continue his search. However, he was not successful last night. And every time one of the 'lucky' kids would pop their balloon, I would see the heartbreak in his eyes. As we walked to the car, he slipped his hand in mine and repeated how much he wished he had a balloon. I told him not to worry that there are many balloons in this world and one of these days, he'd have his own balloon again.

And one day I will have my own balloon too.

Running to Stand Still

Sometimes my “ah-ha” moments hit me at the strangest of times. I was jogging in the park when mine smacked me upside the head. When I run, I think. I think about how my day went, my kids, my future, how my legs hurt, why my butt gets tight going up hills and my thighs tense on the way down. I wonder about the idiot that didn’t pick up their dog’s mess on the trail; and agree with myself that U2 is the best band EVER for jogging. Running is my tranquil time. And since I don’t run fast I am able to maximize my peace.

I have been running for a long time. When I was in high school, my dad and I used to go out for jogs through the neighborhood. Since we lived in the desert, our route was not very green, could be quite windy and we always had to contend with a few hills on the course. Dad was always in the lead until the last ¼ mile when I would give a little extra effort and finish first. I loved our runs. I have gone jogging with my own kids a few times; but, I am looking forward to when they are a little bit older and we can run more often together. I know they will finish first, too.

I was in a good groove this particular afternoon. The fresh air filled my lungs; my feet hit the path in a good rhythm, arms swinging along with my beat. I was a fine-oiled 38 year-old machine. I was in a running trance listening to my breath inhale and exhale. Thoughts, observations and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my future ran through my mind.

Then my brain called out “Abandonment.” My heart said “What?! Hush!” My brain said louder (to be heard above the heavy panting that was my actual breath) “Abandonment. Abandonment. A-ban-don-ment!” I stopped running. There it was, so clear. My fear! All my observations, thoughts and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my experiences were all part of my subconscious to avoid ‘Abandonment.’

My curvaceousness. My relationships with otherwise “obligated” men. I had devised a pretty successful subconscious mechanism for protecting my soul from feeling the pain of abandonment again. I didn’t want to be rejected for being me so I kept on a few pounds and I chose men who were in no position to reject me because they couldn’t truly have me.

I continued walking on the path. My breathing returned to normal. I began to pick up the pace. I mulled over this revelation. Yes I was afraid of abandonment. I was afraid of feeling that pain again. I had made it very easy to not experience those feelings again. I had managed to build into my life a set of easy, fall-back excuses when things didn’t turn out as hoped or planned.

So why did this revelation come crashing to the surface and demand to be acknowledged? Why? What was I supposed to do with this new-found self knowledge? I was already exercising and watching what I ate, although the weight wasn’t exactly coming off. I was already refusing additional ‘otherwise-obligated’ male companions, although I hadn’t exactly sent the others back to their obligations. I was still only going through the motions of healing from my loss. I wasn’t really getting any closer to being able to be open and vulnerable to another person. And yet, that desire for surrender and intimacy with another person was pushing its way through my shield. It was saying to me “look, until you quit manipulating yourself with mind games, until you quit hiding behind your well-placed, convenient and strategic excuses, until you quit acting like such a scaredy-cat (well it actually used a bit harsher language there, I think you know which one), you will NEVER again experience the love that your soul is craving.”

“Yes, I know.”

Tears streamed down my face. I finished my jog and walked back to the minivan absorbing the fact that I was about to head down an unfamiliar and potentially painful path. But for some reason, I wasn’t nearly as afraid.

Water-colored Lenses

Everytime I pick up a glass to take a drink, I clink it on my new glasses. And everytime it happens, I remember that it happened the last time. I haven't resorted to removing my glasses everytime I want to take a drink, yet. (Okay sometimes I lift them up off my nose.) Instead I just keep feeling like an idiot. Would there have been a training session for those "new to life with glasses", I would have signed up. Instead, they showed me how to clean them and sent me on my way. And in my innocence and ignorance I thought that was all I needed to know. But I am learning slowly and seeing things awash through my water-colored lenses.

Il Bacio

I have a picture called Il Bacio that hangs in my dining room. It shows three children. Two girls and a boy. The boy is sitting in the middle of the girls and is kissing the cheek of one little girl and the other little girl is scowling at him. I bought the picture because I identified with the scowling little girl. I wanted to be the one who got kissed but the boys always seemed to choose the other little girl instead of me. One day when my daughter was about five years old she looked at the painting and exclaimed, “Mommy! Look at that!” She pointed at the picture. I responded, “Yes?” She continued, “The little girl getting kissed is wearing SHINY SHOES!” She was right. That little girl was wearing patent leather shoes and the scowling one had on ratty sneakers. My daughter identified with and focused on the attributes of the girl getting kissed. I promptly replaced my ratty sneakers with patent leather shoes. I rarely scowl anymore.

Growing older, not as much fun as it seems sometimes...

Sometimes it sucks to grow old. And I’m not talking about just the physical changes you go through that indicate you are moving past your prime. I recently had to get my first pair of reading glasses. That sucked but now I don’t get headaches from too much computer work or reading. I noticed in the mirror that I have developed what I call “old lady skin” right at the top of my cleavage. That happened overnight! One day I had really nice, lustrous, soft-as-a-baby’s-bottom cleavage skin. The next day, it was gone. I don’t’ have to describe it to you, you know what old lady skin looks like. And, I’m not talking about how when after a nice couple mile jog through the park, your knees rebel as if you’d just finished a 100-mile hike through the mountainous wilderness. No, the physical changes are well documented and are not really all that shocking when they happen. They are not necessarily welcomed but they do not shock you.

What sucks about getting older is that death becomes a larger part of your circle of experiences. In my 20s, it was a time for attending weddings, college graduations, baby showers and baby’s first birthday parties. I remember attending two funerals in my 20s and those were for elderly relatives on my husband’s side of the family. I had never met them. Their deaths were just events and didn’t affect my outlook on life. Death still seemed very far away.

However in my 30s and now 40s, the occurrence of death among people I know is becoming more frequent. I told my daughter that is what I hate the most about getting old, attending more funerals than baptisms. And with every funeral I attend, it brings into a sharper and crisper focus my own mortality. I don’t want to acknowledge that I will not live forever. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I won’t be here to laugh with my kids. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I will no longer be able to dance tango or to love another person with my body and soul. I don’t want to acknowledge any of those things. It hurts too much.

A friend called me today with news that a friend of hers had died yesterday. Her friend was young and left behind three kids. My friend is in shock. Although she knew her friend was sick, she still was in shock. Death of a family member or friend no matter how prepared you are still seems too abrupt.

When my grandmother died this year, it was too sudden. She was 94 years old and had been having issues with not eating enough food, not being able to see well, not having anything to ‘live for’ anymore. I visited with her one Sunday afternoon and we just sat together on her red velvet chaise lounge. I held her hand and we talked. It was harder for her to talk because she couldn’t find the words as quickly as she wanted to. I could tell she hated that. She sighed to me that she wished it was all over. That she was ready. I held her hand and pleaded in a whisper “but I’m not ready for you to go, Grandma.” She squeezed my hand and said “I know.” I was not ready for her to leave me and not be a part of my life. I still wanted her to be happy for me when good things happened. I still wanted her to smile as she listened to my stories or saw my kids. I still wanted to hear her tell me about growing up and how she was so smart that she skipped several grades in school and graduated high school at 15. I still wanted her to tell me about being the first woman on the executive payroll when women were supposed to be staying home raising their kids. I wanted her to still be able to take us to the swimming pool and watch me jump off the high dive. I wanted her to still be able to play bingo with us. I still wanted to be able to hug her and smell her cologne. I didn’t want her to leave me. I was not ready.

We had a difficult few months trying to get her to move into another apartment or assisted living facility. Well, difficult is an understatement. It was an emotionally draining, frustratingly painful, hair-pulling, eyes-rolling, no roll-over minutes left on my cell phone couple of months. And it hurt. It hurt to fight to keep her alive when she was ready to go a long time before. It hurt because I didn’t understand why my grandmother would want to leave me, to leave us. It hurt because didn’t she know we were only doing what was in her best interests. It hurt. It just hurt.

And then on one Saturday afternoon in November at 3 p.m, the call came. Grandma had died. What? My sister repeated herself. “Grandma has died.” It took several minutes to sink in. Grandma had been in the hospital. My aunt was holding her hand and told her it was okay to go, that daddy (my grandpa) was waiting for her in heaven. And Grandma took three breaths and died.

And that was that. She was gone. And I’m here still wishing she were with me. Still wishing I could hear her sing “Meet Me In St. Louis”. Still wishing I could hold her hand.

Instead I have to heal from the loss. I have to go through all the steps of the grief cycle. I have to get older, accept it and grow up. And that sucks.

That Flippin' Bird!

Have you ever had to endure that phone call from another parent informing you of some error in judgment committed by your child? And you are stunned because you had not been told about it by your own kid and secondly because of the superiority transmitted in the voice of the other parent? Where you know that parent is making judgments about your parenting skills, your education, your class, your child’s worth? When you have to fight the urge to lash back at that parent’s arrogance and want to tell them that perhaps they have sheltered their child for too long and that it can be a big, mean world out there and when someone is feeling like they are being ganged-up upon, they usually lash out? And you know that your child has a good heart and is a kind kid and is going to grow up to be a fine adult? But that this parent is going to use this opportunity to declare to others how much better a job she is doing raising her children than you are? When all you can do is say thank you for bringing this to my attention and assure her it will be dealt with?

No? I didn’t think so. Me neither.

28-day Storm

I survive a 28-day storm every month. It starts out barely visible off beyond the horizon. As the days turn into weeks, the storm builds. My normal, staid focus becomes increasingly erratic with new thoughts arriving the instant another leaves. I begin to fill up inside with stories and ideas and philosophical ramblings. I am prolific in my output. I have to get it all out on paper. The storm rages on for another week and I’m riding it, exhilarated. I’ve got my mental surfboard in the rushing waters and we are taking every wave. I like what I write, what I think, what I see. I feel like there is no end to my abilities. I’m in my groove and it feels good. And then, suddenly, the storm ceases. And I’m left standing there wet, with my surfboard in hand and no waves to ride. And I can’t force any stories to come. I am empty, sad. I put my surfboard away and watch the dry horizon for any sign of the next storm.

Lost In Reality

Where is my map? Where did I put it? Do you have it? Do you know where I’m supposed to be going? I look for signs everywhere that I’m on the right path. I consult the astrology books in the supermarket checkout lines. But until I read one that says “Quit chomping on that Snickers bar, fatty, because the man of your dreams is sitting outside with a sign that reads Will Work For Food,” I can’t really take them all that seriously. They are just too vague. It’s the same thing with the “Magic 8 Ball”. What is so magic about it? I keep asking the same questions over and over, and the best it can come up with is “Reply hazy, try again.” Of course it would say that! I know that my life is hazy! It is supposed to tell me if I am on the right track or not. Reply hazy, please!

Maybe those stalwarts are just too outdated, not technological enough? Perhaps a personal GPS system is a better tool? Kind of like a really miniature version of C3PO. Do they sell a GPS system for your life? Wouldn’t that be cool – just attach a 4 -inch screen to your wrist and have it tell you – “Turn left here.” Or “you’ve gone too far, turn back NOW!” Or “I would not advise putting all your money in that fund; it does not show up on my radar.” Maybe they could even make it able to detect good eggs from bad eggs like in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory? You could be thinking this guy (or gal) is pretty cute or funny and you are interested in him (or her). As you begin to get closer, your GPS system could give you an alarm that said “Mayday! Mayday! Danger ahead!” (Of course if he is really good-looking, you can always ignore it and go ahead with all your own devilishly good plans. I’m not here to judge.)

Alas, there is not a personal GPS system for me. And the astrology charts and Magic 8 Ball don’t tell me anything. I’ve even looked for direction reading the placemats at Chinese Restaurants. Nothing. And fortune cookies are only fun to read when you end all their statements with the words “in bed.” But so far my life plan hasn’t materialized. I have had to get where I am today on a combination of hard work, good mentors and sheer luck. And the next segment of my life will pretty much follow that same plan. However, I have gained a bit of wisdom over the years; perhaps I’ll employ that too.

Some things I have learned....

Some things I’ve learned:
If you smile pretty, the sales guy at the Auto Zone will put on your new windshield wipers for you at no charge.
There is a big difference between organic chicken and that other stuff in the stores. Organic chicken actually tastes like chicken.
It doesn’t matter if I do one shot of tequila or 12 shots of tequila, I’m gonna throw up.
Children under 6 are brutally honest even when it is not requested.
No one is going to show up on my doorstep with my dream job on a silver platter; I actually have to go out there and get it for myself.
Houses do not clean themselves, no matter how much I twitch my nose back and forth.
I’m not ready to dance with just one man.
Floss.
You can’t orgasm when you’re dead. So you might as well have as many as you can while you are living.
Carrying around guilt and shame that is 20 years old is like burying yourself alive.
When they say to take ibuprofen with food, they really mean it.
I do not have to be unhappy; I can change my circumstances.
Dancing tango is like being hugged for three hours.
No matter where I have traveled, people are the same. We cry, we laugh, we get married, we have families, we dance and we die. Oh and the sun shines everywhere not just here.
Having children does not fundamentally change who I am, they enhance my life.
White wine or red wine, it doesn’t matter, as long as I’m sharing it with a friend.
I cannot live without passion in my life.
Sometimes I have so many thoughts rushing around my head that I just have to get it out on paper. And sometimes, I just want to dance.
Our hearts have an incredible capacity for love and that it really is better to have loved and been loved even if only for a short time than to have never felt it.
Not to give up on hope. Having once lived without it and after reclaiming it, I will never let it go again. It is too precious.

Space needed...

A Proposed, no, Preferred, Stall Management System

I used to wonder what the appropriate ladies' restroom etiquette should be. But now I'm just going to say HOW it SHOULD be. Ladies, because we don't pee standing up, we get these nice stalls in our restrooms. Thankfully. However I'd like to recommend that when going into a restroom that has more than two stalls and one of those is already occupied that you choose the stall one stall over, not directly beside it. And conversely if you enter a restroom and there are more than two stalls, choose one that allows someone else to not HAVE to enter right next to you. It boggles my mind each time someone enters a stall right next to me when there are plenty of others (empty) they can choose from. I am thankful that we have stalls and door locks because otherwise they probably would march right on in to use the one I'm using. And don't get me started on those women who don't bother flushing or washing their hands!!! Where are you from? You're too busy to wash your hands but not too busy to spread disease?!

(Please know that I understand this stall management system is moot when all the stalls are occupied such as at concerts, sporting events, etc... but if we all start to employ it, public restroom usage won't have to feel so 'public'.)

Delicious Ambiguity

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity. - Gilda Radner

I wanted the perfect ending too. I wanted to have the perfect life. I wanted others to envy my life like I envied theirs. I was jealous of the happiness that seemed to be everywhere but in my soul. So I mimicked. I tried to replicate what I saw others doing. But no matter how I succeeded in following the paint-by-numbers direction, no matter how ‘beautiful’ I made it all appear, I was not having the perfect life nor the perfect ending. The happiness eluded me. And I cried, quietly and softly, inside for years. With every attempt to renovate failing though, my tears got less and less and resignation set in. My heart’s desire to be happy extinguished. No use continuing to try to appear perfect or to strive for that perfect ending I saw everyone else having. Life for me was always going to be gray with the occasional fleeting bursts of sunshine. Because no matter how hard I tried it wasn’t working. Why were others happy and I wasn’t?

My first memory of trying to manufacture or manipulate happiness was back in high school, I successfully stepped in and filled the shoes of a beloved classmate whom everyone loved. She had it all, I thought. She was blonde. Vivacious, outgoing, happy. She made you feel that the moments she spent with you were as valuable to her as it was to you. I wanted to be her. So when she moved, I did all the things that she did. I did the same activities. I even ran the same sport in track. And it worked. At the end of the next year, a boy, whom I had a crush on, commented to me that I reminded him of her. And I was thrilled but also sad because even though I had succeeded in becoming LIKE her. I still was NOT her. And I NEVER would be. I would always be Michelle. I couldn’t ever be anyone different. So I decided that I wanted people to like ME for who I was not for whom I made them think about.

(You might think that was the only lesson I needed to learn about manufacturing happiness. But no, I need multiple lessons before brilliance sets in.)

So for the next 20 years I didn’t try to be anyone but myself. BUT I followed the instructions laid out for me by many previous generations and influences in my life. I tried to amass those things that were necessary to make me happy to give me the perfect life, the perfect ending. Where people could look at my family’s photo and think, “Wow. What a great looking family! They look so happy!” I graduated high school (with grand hopes for my future), went to college on scholarship (still hopeful), got married (cause that’s what you did and everyone else was doing it and they seemed happy), went to graduate school on scholarship (having multiple degrees means you’re smart which if you’re smart, you have to be happy), had one baby (because people who were happy had children), started creating my career path (earning money naturally makes you happy) , bought a house (a mortgage means you are grown up and grown ups are happy), had another baby (mothers with multiple children are, naturally, happier than those with just one), got another job (earning more money had to bring me happiness), bought a bigger house (I had to live on this one particular street because every time I walked on it, everyone there seemed so happy), got a dog (pets are important for happiness, I read it in a magazine.), got laid off (oh wait, what about the money equaling happiness part?), saw less and less of my husband (oh wait, I’m raising two kids basically on my own. I’m still not feeling happy and now I’m getting angry), got another job but on a different career path (I could make everything right again if I were employed; life would have to get easier and happiness would then come), had another baby (another child would be the perfect antidote to the misery that was enveloping my life; the child would make me happy), and I began screaming and raging inside because my ‘perfect life’ was far from it and I didn’t want that ‘perfect life’. Happiness had eluded me at every turn and at every attempt so far. I woke up from my years of resignation and knew there had to be more to life than I was getting. And I was determined to change my path. My perfect ending, my perfect life was not what anyone else could describe or plan out for me. It was inside me the whole time. I had just been afraid of living it. I didn’t know where it was going to take me but I knew that it was going to be perfect… for me.

Walking the Dogs

Why have I spent so many years going around and around this park? I asked myself. Always on the same path. Oh I might change it up and start out going left instead of right but I never really veered from this path. And each time I went for a walk the experience was less and less of a joy and more of a burden. I followed all the others who moved in a circle around the park. All of us moving clockwise or counter-clockwise not thinking about why we are there; we are just doing it. Living in our gray world, walking on the black, marked path. And I hated to take the dogs on a walk with me too. They barked at everyone. They ran back and forth across the path. My shoulders and hands hurt from trying to reel them in and make them walk quietly and peacefully around the park. Not to disrupt the flow of the walkers and runners. My ears rang from the high-pitched bark and my soul hurt from the stares of others who judged me with their questioning looks of “why can’t you keep your dogs quiet?” I hated every moment of those walks. So I began to walk less and less. I left the dogs at home. We just couldn’t conform to the status quo. We couldn’t be ‘good circle walkers’. I couldn’t take the stares anymore. Then the vet said – the dogs NEED exercise. So guilt overtook the shame I felt walking us in the predetermined circle. I laced up my shoes, grabbed the leads, the dogs and took a deep breath.

When the three of us got to the park, I froze. I wouldn't budge. The dogs tugged and tugged on the leads to get moving. But, I didn’t want to walk the circle. I didn’t want to just move around like everyone else anymore. So instead I stepped off the path and extended the lead for the dogs and we trampled through the green space. We investigated the lakes, the underbrush and chased squirrels. We didn’t step on the path once. We went up hills and down trails. The dogs raced back and forth and didn’t bark. They just bounded happily. And then, it hit me. I have spent so many years just going around like everyone else and wondering why I haven’t gotten very far and why it hadn’t been very enjoyable. But I made that one small change to walking the dogs and suddenly the experience was much more enjoyable for all of us (even for those we would not see on the path).

It is time to make each experience mine no matter the form it takes. And when I walk down MY path and follow MY heart, the experience is so much more enjoyable. I'll do it again and again because it is so much fun! Time to take the dogs for a walk!

The Lottery Ticket

Timing is everything. I try to maximize my dollar investment by timing my lottery ticket purchase to include the most number of days between purchase and the posting of the numbers. Because really, buying the ticket, is about dreaming of the endless possibilities of what you will do with the money. Contemplating if my family members will be upset if I give them only $1M each; what improvements to the house will be done while the kids and I leave to travel the world for at least a year; on what island will i buy a second home; will I quit my job or stay on part-time for benefits? These questions and more are asked and plans are drawn up in my head. And it is such a lovely time living in this lottery-induced daydream that it seems silly to buy my ticket on the day of the lottery - that only gives me a few hours to daydream and feel genuinely hopeful before they call out the numbers and I have to get to sleep so I can work in the morning. No, if I am going to play the lottery, I have to buy a ticket as soon as I can after the calling of the numbers. Anything less than that is a waste. After all it's about getting the most value out of my dollar for me.

She ignored me...

The Tooth Fairy came last night. She shunned my pleas as a mother to leave him be. She mocked my sadness and took his little tooth with her leaving behind two shiny new quarters. He was thrilled the next day. I was not. I do not like the tooth fairy anymore.

Your ex-husband

"So, you know, your ex-husband is getting himself a new woman?" inquired my youngest as we sat on the couch watching the premiere of Dancing with the Stars. I looked at him and said "yes I know." Then, he said "Well? Are you gonna get back with him?" I shook my head 'no'. He put his little arm around my neck, looked deep into my eyes and asked "What happened between you guys?" Many thoughts ran through my mind about what had happened to end our 12-year marriage but I settled on "Well we just didn't love each other anymore and you really need to have love when you are married." He sighed, "oh" and turned his head back towards the television and exclaimed, "now she's hot!" And I laughed.

The Balloon

He loves balloons. He always has. If we go to a restaurant and they have balloons, he wants one to bring home. Or if we are at a party, he must bring home a balloon. Wherever we are and if balloons are there, he must have one. He loves them.

Loving balloons is not easy. Balloons never last. One moment they are full of air, their vibrant colorful sphere bouncing through the air attached to a thin ribbon clutched by him. His smile radiates across his entire being. He plays with that balloon. He giggles and laughs out loud as he alternates between keeping it up in the air and holding it in his arms. This enjoyment can last for minutes or hours, sometimes it has lasted days. But in an instant the balloon inevitably pops and with it the magic is gone. He comes crying to me holding the remains of the latex in his hand and asks with tear-filled eyes, why? Why did it have to pop? Why did his joy have to end? I tell him that sometimes it just happens. There was nothing he did, exactly (unless it was a matter of jumping up and down on it or poking it with a pen) that caused its demise. He weeps for his lost balloon. He weeps for the fun that is now gone. I hug him and tell him its okay to be sad. I tell him he will be okay and someday there will be another balloon. We take the balloon's remains and put them in the trash. He wipes his eyes, takes a deep breath, pauses then bolts out the back door to play. He is okay.

And, regardless of the number of times he endures the loss of his balloon, it doesn't prevent him from loving the next one that catches his eye. He is my inspiration for loving fully no matter the heartache that may come.

How I found tango...

I have been on a quest to replicate a dance that I did not know the name of or how to do it from 20 years ago. When I was a cocktail waitress in college, I worked at a lounge that catered to the older, business community in the town. They had live music (a man on keyboards and a man on bass guitar) and dancing every Thursday through Saturday. I would love it when I danced with one of the bar’s customers. His name was Robert. I loved dancing with him because he would hold me tight and move me all around the dance floor. He would navigate around the floor so that we had criss-crossed and touched every corner several times during the song. It was heaven for me – moving and walking to the music. I tried, unsuccessfully, to teach my then boyfriend, (who later became my husband, who later became my ex-husband), how to dance the way Robert did. My ex-husband could never do it and he gave up trying.

Fast-forward 20 years (well that’s how it feels anyway). I began swing dancing and really enjoyed it. I learned a lot from swing dancing on how to be a good follow and the importance of the connection between the dance partners. However, I still had not been able to replicate the dance that I did with Robert.

Then, about eight months ago, I went to my first tango lesson and milonga at a quaint, local wine bar. I learned to walk, pause, rock step, and ocho along with the others taking the class. I was enjoying myself but still no “Robert-dance”.

That is until I danced later that night with an experienced tango dancer. He wrapped his arm around my waist, held my other hand in his and pulled me close. He then moved me gracefully, rhythmically around the dance floor and for a brief moment I thought I was dancing with Robert again. I knew then that my search was over. I had found the dance and I wasn’t going to let it get away from me this time.

Women in Comfortable Shoes

Remember the scene in Good Morning Vietnam (1987) when Robin Williams talked about women in comfortable shoes? I was thinking about it the other day when I was walking to lunch from my office. I had gotten behind a group of twenty-somethings also going to lunch. Two boys and a girl. The girl had on a tight-fitting business suit and these really high heeled shoes that made an awful clop, clop, clop sound on the sidewalk as she walked. She was trying so hard to keep up with the boys. It did not look easy. In fact, my feet hurt just watching her awkward stride. I started to reflect on my own footwear. I remember when I used to wear shoes that hurt just so I could impress others. By 2 o'clock my feet hurt so much that I would cringe if I had to walk very far around the office. But I wore them anyway because they "went with the outfit". However, now I consistently wear three pairs of shoes and they are all comfortable shoes. I asked myself that day on the sidewalk... when did I become the non-lesbian woman in comfortable shoes? And what does that say about me? After a long lunch with my feet up I determined, that as I have matured my tolerance for torturing myself has grown very thin. I am secure in my footwear choices. They don't define who I am or what I like. They make my feet happy and therefore, I am happy.

Not sure I want the tooth fairy to come this time.

He is so excited about his loose tooth. He rushes over to me so I can feel it move back and forth. I smile for him but my heart aches as I touch that little tooth and wobble it to and fro. He is my baby. This little loose tooth has rocked my soul beyond what I could have ever thought. In fact, I never even gave it a thought. He is growing every day; he is learning to read; he is riding a bike. These milestones came and went like rare spring weather in the middle of winter; I enjoyed them but knew we'd be right back to winter the next day. But you don't go back to winter after losing your tooth. You get a whole mouth full of permanent teeth and you no longer reach out to grab my hand as we walk together in the store or across the parking lot. We no longer sing silly songs at the top of our lungs or play for hours with balloons we brought home from the restaurant. You no longer draw me a picture showing me how much you love me. I no longer pick you up and toss you in the air.

I don't know if I expected my baby to not grow up. Or maybe I thought we'd have more time before he began to 'cross-over'. All I know is we can't go back now that there is a loose tooth. It's a matter of days now, the clock is ticking loudly. But maybe, just maybe, I can strike a deal with the tooth fairy so she doesn't come take him away. I'm just not ready.

The only thing that matters is the heart

I hear the music coming from the ballroom as I walk down the elegant hallways of the Ritz. My step quickens as I draw ever closer to my Sunday night heaven. The weariness of daily life, the frustrations and anxieties disappear once I step into the ballroom. I am surrounded by warmth and love. I see the smiling, happy people who come to this retreat every Sunday as well. And for four hours, we hold each other in our arms, moving rhythmically across the dance floor, turning, walking, wrapping our legs around each other, and sliding our feet from one side to the next. Daintily tapping our feet, holding each other close so that we can hear each other breathe while simultaneously releasing our embrace to where we can see each other’s smiling face. Every dance, every embrace brings us all together in our own space. Who you are, what your job is, where you live, where you went to school, what you drive is immaterial on the dance floor. The only thing that matters is the heart and connecting with your dance partner at the most basic human level, with love.

Riding along the waves of the beautiful music floating through the air of the Ritz is kindness and beauty. The ballroom’s elegance is matched with the elegance of the human spirit gathered to dance the Tango. Every couple on the dance floor is creating and re-creating their story with every side step and circle of their legs. He stands tall protecting the beautiful woman in his arms guiding her safely around the dance floor. She stands close, draping her arm across his neck and shoulder and placing her hand tenderly into his. She presses her face next to his and relaxes in his arms. He holds her close. For the next several minutes they listen to each other not through speech but through the embrace. He indicates where he’d like to go through his chest and she accepts that lead, moving how he intended. The music flows into their souls and they dance the dance that resides in their hearts. Every dance is unique never to be danced in the same way again no matter how many times they may dance together. The conversation is never stale.

As I finish my last dance and remain in his embrace long after the last note played, soaking up as much love to last me till the next Sunday, my heart and soul are filled with the beauty of life. I know how lucky I am to receive this love from others and how lucky I am to give it back. This love is in its purest form, there are no expectations, no baggage, no heart-ache… just pure love to give and to receive. I change back into my street shoes and put my coat on. And give one last hug and kiss to my dance partners as we wish each other a good week and commit to seeing each other again the next Sunday. I walk back down the hallway away from the ballroom and the anxieties, frustrations and weariness of daily life stay far away from me because my tango memories insulate me. And I begin the countdown till the next Sunday night tango.