Out of the mouths of babes…what a fascinating, lovely, intelligent boy. Enjoy
Category: humor
For Alan
Were we old friends? In the very broadest sense of the word, I think. We traveled in the same pack of prepubescent kids, falling over each other and ourselves like puppies, but far too gawky and awkward to ever be considered really cute. In retrospect I see us all as adorable and goofy, hypersensitive and phenomenally clueless, not fully prepared to be accountable for our words or deeds, yet quick to pass notes and judgment on the unforgivable behavior of someone else.
So after forty-some-odd years, I drove into DC looking forward to seeing Alan and wondering if I’d recognize him in a crowded lobby. We are friends on Facebook, so there are some elements of his life that I have seen. His magnificent wife and daughters – pictures posted which require no artificial light for they seem to glow with the richness of love. There is no contrivance or pretense; they look like people I would like to know and more importantly, like people who are genuinely enriched by each other. He has built a successful greeting card company (greatarrow.com – their graphics are really lovely and unique) and is also an extraordinarily gifted photographer. His photos capture the magnificent moodiness of the sky, the sun in fits of pique. He has an impressive collection of Stetson hats and wears them well. All of this is well and good – but how do you find someone in a hotel lobby? I told him to look for a short, blond woman in her renaissance.
Fortunately, the lobby wasn’t crowded – but I would have known Alan regardless. Something about his walk (though the Stetson helped). Bobby used to walk a bit on his toes, Jo’s heels would scuff the cement, Bruce kind of pulled the sidewalk along with each step and Gary had a sort of walk/run. Alan’s shoulders were a little rounded, his eyes looked directly ahead despite the suggestion of the angle of his head and his feet always seemed to touch the ground gently. Our pack traveled in relative quiet – our shoes reinforced with layers of rubber. The cooler kids had metal taps on their shoes – stepping in a perpetual dance with sound and rhythm. Perhaps our development was more muted. It seemed loud to us, though I think for the most part it reflected sounds only we could hear.
Where do you pick up after lifetimes have passed? You can’t really say nothing is new, for to the listener everything is new. I didn’t know he thought I had a great voice, he didn’t know that I thought he had an artistic and thoughtful aspect I always liked. He designed sets for theatrical productions; I performed in them. He went to Stuyvesant (a high school for the seriously smart); I went to private school. We all dispersed for college. So it goes.
And yet after two and a half hours, we still had stories to tell. More than the memories of who we once were, we shared an understanding of those invisible threads – the ones that constitute the preliminary stitches which outlined the design of who we became. He became a warm, loving, devoted, creative man. I chose a career that required decades of performance and appealing to wide audiences.
Alan will return to DC next year for another annual meeting. I hope we meet again same time, next year. Were we old friends? We are older, and yes, I believe we are friends. We share seminal moments in our respective histories, and the comfort to quote Samuel Taylor Coleridge, of “a sheltering tree”.
Just Another Musing
I came across this little sentence this morning (though there was no attribution, so forgive me) – “An ugly personality destroys a pretty face.” Sounds like something my maternal grandmother might have brought with her from the ‘old country’, packed in the suitcase with the two silver candlesticks. (There were some great Yiddishisms that don’t necessarily translate too well, but they’re so evocative – “may every tooth in your mouth rot except one, and may that one ache for the rest of your life”. Who came up with this?) Sorry – off on a tangent. Anyway, I never met her, though I was blessed with her name. I still think I’m too young for the heft of “Miriam”, though it’s a name I have grown to love. True, in the Bible she saved her brother (which one really can’t dismiss, for it was reflective of love and bravery and selflessness and there wouldn’t be a whole lot to write about if Moses hadn’t made it), but she died from leprosy – not exactly a happifying ending for a really nice girl.
Our family’s Miriam – my grandmother – appears in photos as this beautiful, serious grown-up with incredibly wise eyes and lips that remain fixed in a straight line. She betrays nothing in those few pictures – not what she has seen, endured, celebrated or lost. And arguably there wasn’t a lot for her to smile about until my sister was born and I believe that her arrival was her greatest joy, the most affirming, gorgeous, delicious experience she would ever know. I wish there were pictures of her holding Deb, for I think she would have been breathtaking, revealing far more than a stoic image with beautiful features.
And that really is just it – what distinguishes one lovely structured visage from another? What echoes in your soul when your memory constructs its image of a person? The initial description is often cosmetic – the color of a person’s hair and eyes, relative height and overall appearance. Laws of attraction come into play, I realize, which brings me to another one of my grandmother’s great lines – “an owl to one, is a nightingale to another”. I realize that some people are physically more attractive than others, and I am definitely vain enough to want to qualify for the more positive adjectives that can be applied to short women (though I really feel that ‘perky’ and ‘cute’ can’t compete with ‘gorgeous’ and ‘stunning’, but whatever).
So with those caveats, life has also been lived long enough for me to see that with a second look, there is nothing that diminishes or enhances a person more than their core. Some of the most good-looking people I have met are also the least appealing. Smiles that at best are disingenuous and at worst don’t reach the eyes, callous comments and narcissistic perspectives. Too much lipstick and too little warmth; six pack abs and an empty ‘can o’ care’ inside. Eyes that search for the next-thing-that-isn’t-good-enough and never settle upon a magical moment. Hands that are ridiculously smooth because they haven’t held onto anything for dear life. The most beautiful people I know are not indifferent to their appearance at all. They also don’t define beauty too narrowly. I gravitate to the magnificence of an open heart, the delicate touch of kindness, the warmth of an expansive smile. I think most of us do. At a certain point you realize that the reflections of a person’s heart redefine the parameters of attractiveness.
Or as my grandmother used to say “pretty is as pretty does”. Have a great Sunday everybody.
The Second Best Part Of A Vacation
We had a fantastic week away..the weather couldn’t have been more accommodating (with sincere apologies to my friends up north who had apparently located Nemo while we were hanging out in the sun), the only required nod to time had to do with Andy’s scheduled tee times (and he shot an 80 the second time he went out! The first round would have been equally as impressive were it not for the beer after the front nine). I only listened to the music provided by the environment all around me – the leaves from palm trees as they tickled and teased each other in the wind, the ocean playing tag with the shore. Occasionally the riff of laughter extending from one end of the beach to the other. Oh yeah, there also was the occasional, “the drink you requested madam?” That’s fine – call me Madam (sorry I couldn’t resist).
Tuesday morning we spent with the dolphins. The pictures I took were awful (note to self, put on glasses before trying to focus), the pictures the conservation folks took were better (the ones below). Ironically, we hung out with a dolphin named Andy, who apparently took issue with someone else having his name who would not kiss him with a full pucker (he gave a full on Bronx cheer to my conquering hero). I was mesmerized by his eyes (the dolphin Andy, that is) – believe me, these brilliant mammals size us up in much the same way we assess those around us. They pick up vibes, tease, play coy and make their share of mischief. And don’t make the mistake of ticking them off. I also met three new baby dolphins who are first beginning to explore life away from their moms (dolphins nurse until they are almost three years old). Did I fall in love? You betcha.
I suppose this wouldn’t be a Mimi-post without a musing or two (what can I say? I muse a lot). There was one day when the beach was closed. The ocean, with presence of mind and purpose, felt the need to remind the shore that just as it brought it onto the land, it could take it away. And it did. The ferocity of the waves was so intense that the beach chairs, tables and umbrellas were washed out to sea, some returned in pieces and left as the detritus of the ocean’s pique. It was loud and magnificent, boastful and confident. I watched for hours, realizing that no two waves were the same, no two sounds exact replicas, no sea foam frothing in circles and eddies that were similar. If you looked with little sight, you might think it was just a relentless pounding and abatement. If you looked with your eyes wide open and your ears tuned to the right station, no two notes were alike.
And so it is with our days, our minutes, our seconds. Regardless of how many we have, no matter how they may seem at times to fold into each other with nothing easily identifiable to distinguish one from another – no two moments in time are the same. From this perspective, it’s almost impossible to imagine how rich life is – with possibilities, choices, magic. No two moments that are the same. What we choose to do – how we look upon our time – that is what it’s all about. I decided to accept a challenge posted while I was gone by davidkanigan.com at Lead.Learn.Live – to begin with three days of finding the goodness in others, and censoring the less kind thoughts I may have in a moment of impatience…ultimately extending this practice to a year (if I can do it). I’ll screw it up of course, though I have promised myself that when I do, I’ll get back on the board. The truth of the matter is, I don’t really think a lot of nasty stuff about people and there are very few for whom I reserve really unkind thoughts. I realize that I give them too much of my sacred time by according them much attention. With that as a backdrop, I think I can do this – and enjoy the waves as I ride them. It’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to surfing anyway.
And so the second best thing about vacation is absolutely coming home. Anticipating the delight of seeing my kids, having Sir Teddy share my chair as I write this and Archie asleep on my Ugg slipper, the laundry spinning in the dryer, and the glorious knowledge that on this day, I got to write to you. It’s good to be home. I could choose nothing better than this one moment.
I’m Listening – What Do I Hear?
Russ Towne (russtowne.com) who pens the glorious “A Grateful Man” was prompted by a friend to respond to a question that grabbed my attention. “What do you know for sure?” His responses were pure Russ, written with candor and beauty, simplicity and reflection. And I began asking myself the same question – and would submit that it’s a reasonable query to pose to ourselves from time to time. I will admit that my answers didn’t arrive with the same eloquence or confidence; nor do I know if this represents an all-inclusive list. Nonetheless here goes..
– I know for sure that I still love loving my husband. I also know for sure that he drives me crazy sometimes, while I on the other hand, I never affect him in that way. I know for sure that he is the anchor to my kite and were it not for him I’d probably be getting stuck in the trees like a wayward balloon.
– I know for sure that my adoration of my children knows no bounds and I know for sure that they know it and probably don’t fully get it. I know for sure that parents screw up all the time, and children grow up in spite of us and not because of us. To reflect tremendous self-congratulatory aggrandizement for their successes as fantastic people is folly and a little narcissistic. This is their time. And I am grateful to be along for the ride. Let’s remember that I’m the sap who cries when we say good-bye to each other despite living ten minutes apart.
– I know for sure that at different times in my life I have let disappointment and anger have more power over me than I realized at the time. And the only person who suffered from its toxicity was me.
– I know for sure that my life continues to be enhanced by the people who enter my world – and also those who exit. Some people need to stay for a little while, and that’s ok. Some people will be here forever and that’s a gift. Last I looked, one can’t suffer from having too much love in their life – for however long.
– I know for sure that I’m at a point in my life where I’m wondering what my next contribution will be. I need to listen harder to my heart, for it’s definitely speaking. We don’t spend enough time paying attention to its messages.
– I know for sure that if there hadn’t been a black-out at the Super Bowl last night I wouldn’t have fallen asleep and missed the best part of the game.
– I know for sure that the silence that announces the arrival of snow always makes my eyes fill. It is one of the most peaceful calming sounds in the world.
– I know for sure that I want another puppy (honey are you reading this?).
– I know each day offers me the chance to say ‘Thank You’ – for the ridiculous number of gifts that are in my life. And I also know I don’t say ‘thank you’ enough.
– I know for sure that for all the articles about leadership, for all the seminars I’ve led on management, motivation, employee engagement, etc – none of it means a damn thing if a person loses his/her character. Save the HBR studies for another day – as you shimmy up the food chain, hold tight to your sense of integrity and honor. You will be remembered for little else.
– I know for sure that I can out-happy dance anyone I know. Not because I’m such a good dancer, but because I have lost enough, found enough and love enough to know how to celebrate all of it.
And finally, I know for sure that there is nothing I can be sure of – except this moment in time. And this moment in time – in the quiet soft rhythmic beating of its longing – is perfect.
The Returning Conqueror
Today the Prince returns – victorious from his infamous weeklong battle against the baseball diamond. But for a mild muscle pull here and an inexplicable ache there, he emerges unscathed with the loving attention of the locker room trainers still warming his skin. His feats will soon become the stuff of legend – his remarkable batting and fielding stats, his control of the lands around second base. There is no need for a moat when the Prince is there to protect the kingdom of baseball.
With a visit to see his parents before camp started, it’s been ten days since I’ve seen the Prince – and it’s time for him to come home. I need no proof that I enjoy my own company, no test to see whether or not I can manage. Been there, done that – and it was fine thank you very much. But in order for this house to feel at peace, it needs the Prince. This is where he belongs – whether he’s zoning out playing some game on his iPad or napping on the couch. He needs to be here so I can make him laugh so hard he snorts. So he can dance with me in the kitchen. So he can reach the top of the garage door, because it’s stuck. Because I miss hearing, “Hi doll girl” in the way that only the Prince can say it. I will not go so far to say that I miss hearing his a cappella “King Of The Road” (but thinking about it makes me smile).
And I want him to go back next year if that’s what he wants to do. This annual flight of fantasy gives him feelings of delighted anticipation, and the reality has yet to be less than all he imagined. So go ahead Andy, sign up for 2014 – you are well on your way to being a legend in your own time.
On My Own
Well, the King of our castle is off to baseball camp. Over the next week Andy will be in the field and up at bat, he will pitch and catch, spit pumpkin seed shells and talk it up in the dugout. He will have Yankee trainers rub his shoulders, ice his knees and disingenuously marvel (while appearing completely credible) at the athletic prowess of these campers-of-a-certain-age.
Andy left with a suitcase filled to capacity. Two baseball gloves; cleats; Yankee swag from his prior camp days – baseball hats, sneakers, long-sleeved t-shirts, short-sleeve t-shirts. For all I know there are Yankee socks and underwear carefully folded in his suitcase along with dress shirts for their special bonding dinners, jeans for those casual evenings of drinking at the hotel bar, etc. You want to make sure you’re one of the cool kids at camp – sartorially as well as athletically. His carry on? A Yankee bat bag, of course. The amount of testosterone which is now coursing through his body is exponentially greater than it was a week ago. Buh-bye sweetie.
So, for the past couple of days I have been on my own. The palace has been alive with frivolous pleasure and impetuous pursuits. I really hesitate to share it with you, lest you think less of me as a result. A wanton woman, with a fickle tendency to move from one amusement to the next.
I have organized the pantry, the shelves of spices and the linen closet. A new featherbed sits atop our mattress. Two books finished; new music filling the house with the volume high enough that it can be relished in any room. In a moment of cheeky adventure, I scoured Whole Foods for some highly caloric delight that would normally never make its way past my lips. I ended up with sesame seed seaweed wraps and a bag of Good ‘N Plenty from the drugstore. C-r-a-z-y, huh?
I know what you’re thinking. If I’m cavorting with such abandon so early in the week, how will I manage to maintain this pace until the weekend? Stamina my friends, I have stamina. And a somewhat perverse definition of having fun. Breakfast at the diner with my kids – goofy and fun. The sun offering gorgeous shadows and prisms in the kitchen while the dishwasher hums and the Sirs grab a mid-morning snooze – delightful. Knowing that my husband is having the time of his life – it’s fun for me too. Happiness need not shout its presence to me, I hear it loud and clear in this moment – right now. The week will unfold however it will, with bitter cold weather expected and an abiding warmth at the prospect that I need do nothing differently in order to feel happy. It really is ‘all good’ and I challenge any umpire to tell me that I’m not ‘safe at home’.
And On Deck…My Husband
It may be winter here in the US, but it’s already baseball season in my husband’s heart. Truth be told, it’s never not baseball season in Andy’s heart. He has been a Yankee fan since he was in utero (his mother is an avid fan and I have no doubt he was listening to Yankee games long before he ever greeted the world). This is no fickle affection – you can say whatever you want about the team many people love to hate – there is no logic to this love, there is no reason to this rhyme. He is besotted. Retrospectively, I clearly was a contender for his marital intentions because I’m from New York and as such an unlikely enemy to the team. I am no longer jealous; I am amused. I have met my competition and our understanding is mutually acceptable.
The Yankees can have him.
Honestly, they can – and they will – starting next Sunday when Andy heads to Yankee Fantasy Camp. This will be his third trip to sleep-away camp, and the excitement in our house is getting a little out of control. He’s been hitting the gym with brio, practicing his swing at the batting cages, and yesterday he got a new glove (he will be prepping it appropriately over the next few days). The Yankee swag is re-appearing as the anticipation of packing begins. Later this week, I will also make sure he has ice packs, the newest in knee braces and an appropriate complement of ace bandages and Tylenol.
I visited Fantasy Camp last year, met some aging icons of the team – most of whom are bloated, arthritic, charming and well past their prime. That said, on the last day when the ‘pros’ play the ‘campers’ at Steinbrenner Field, they can still impress. True, each amateur team only plays two innings against the pros, but that’s still about ten innings for the pros. David Wells was one of the coaches for Andy’s team – funny guy with a belly that prevents him from seeing his toes anymore – who can still throw heat and intimidate by his sheer size. He quickly surmised that I was the ‘wiseguy’ in the family, and spoke of my husband as if he was a cute little boy who was giving it his all. Andy was beaming – and for one moment I thought I was attending a parent/teacher conference. He also wasn’t alone – all these boys/men gazed upon their idols with a sense of proprietary adoration, each hoped to hear an ‘atta boy’. By the end of the week they were all thisclose.
There’s lots of bonding that goes on – from comparing pulled muscles and experiences with the trainers to shouting support and butt-patting. Spitting in the dirt. It gets a little infectious. I yelled out “Go Two!” (Andy had chosen the number 2 for his jersey) and as all these men looked over in my direction, my father-in-law gently pointed out that such encouragement could be directed to half the team, since a lot of them were also thinking of Derek Jeter when they selected their number of choice. Ok, my bad. I just thought that shouting “Go honey” was a little lame.
By the end of the week, all of these middle-aged men have lived their most replayed childhood fantasy. They’re playing with the pros. In Yankee uniforms, on Yankee turf. Their names announced over the loudspeaker – not by someone’s dad – but by a legitimate-sounding announcer. It all gets pretty heady I think. I wonder whether there are emotional group hugs as the buses prepare to head for the airport, with promises to write every day and strains of “See You In September” playing overhead. I do know that the only pictures on Andy’s Facebook page are of his athletic prowess as a pseudo-Yankee.
At the end of the day, there’s little I enjoy more than seeing my husband and/or kids happy. That kind of happy that makes you smile from the inside out, prompted by a sensation that is impossible to describe but feels a little like bubbles. And there is little if anything that makes Andy happier than getting to play ball with icons from his youth. To hang out with guys who totally ‘get it’ and still have the capacity to delight the kid within. I hope we’ve all been there and continue to go there whenever possible – I have and I do. When I screamed “I LOVE YOU JAMES” at the Garden a few years back when James Taylor and Carole King were on their ‘Live At The Troubadour’ tour (I say with all humility that I’m sure he heard me and was looking directly at me while he performed. My row and seat number? Is that really relevant??). Or when I pretend I’m Ray Lewis entering a football stadium (it is f-i-e-r-c-e let me tell you) or ‘Vogue’ in the kitchen a la Madonna. It just kind of bubbles up inside and you have to just play.
So, put him in Coach – he’s beyond ready.
The Magic Of This Moment
I’m easily amazed. Others who know me might suggest that I’m ridiculously gullible (my beloved comes to mind). When I was little, I would watch my dad pull grapes from my friends’ ears, I believed in Tinkerbell with unshakeable conviction and I knew with certainty that when I went to sleep each night, my toys came to life and had a party. As I write this, I’m not exactly sure that the last sentence should be written in the past tense. I’ve not changed much.
I don’t define magic as the mastery of optical illusion, the sleight of hand that can be explained by a slo-mo instant replay. Magic is bigger than that. Magic belongs up there with miracles, faith, love…Magic is what allows you to see two cardinals playing tag even though your heart is breaking. Magic is the sound of a baby’s belly laugh. Magic is in music that can lift you up and carry you to places you didn’t even know you could create. There’s magic in the silence of the early hours of morning. Like no other silence, it is protective and intimate and comforting.
Though I’m no magician, there is a spell that has been woven between us that draws me to this connection time and time again. I can’t explain how these friendships have formed, why these conversations are often more enriching than those that occur in face-to-face dialogue. I leave it to magic – for magic allows for that which should remain inexplicable, fantastic.
How do I define the child that dances in my soul and escapes so I can play air guitar in the kitchen (I am really good at this by the way), use my brush as a microphone and turn my bathroom into a concert venue? Magic. Because Dahl was right – there is truly something magical to be felt in each moment that is heeded. Each connection holds a bit of wonder that defies logic. So, today I hope you suspend logic for a little while. Catch a ray of sunshine and hold it close for minute. Feel the magic.
A Bird In The Hand – for $19.99
“Right now I’m having amnesia and deja vu at the same time. I think I’ve forgotten this before.” — Steven Wright
My challenges with sleeping are the stuff of family legend. I fall into the arms of Morpheus every night, so exhausted that I don’t even remember that this is exactly the state in which I found myself the night before. Ah well, there’s a lot one can learn at night – or not. When I turned the tv on Saturday morning, I realized that absolutely nothing has changed since 1964. It was kind of like ‘Groundhog Night’.
You can still buy Ronco knives for $19.99. And though K-tel is no longer offering records that are requisite for any connoisseur’s collection, Time Life can send you a complete set of Motown cd’s for one low price. They’ll even send you ‘The History of Time Life Books’ for free!! But there’s more (the night is long my friends). Want to make the perfect omelette? They’ve got one – and as hard as it may be to believe, you will never serve a wilted, torn omelette again. It’s also ideal for crepes and grilled cheese sandwiches, though not at the same time. Apparently, there’s no need for scrubbing when you’re done either, just rinse (cleanliness is a concept open to personal interpretation). How I have lived without this gadget, I’ll never know.
I saw infomercials for hair removal systems, hair growth systems, wrinkle reducers, lip enhancers, shapewear that eliminates bulges, shapewear that provides bulges (if you want or need certain areas, um, pumped up shall we say), ten minute work-out programs which absorbed twenty-five minutes of air time, mini veggie choppers, a multi-use colander which can also serve as a deep fryer or convenient cooked pasta remover (you’ll never have to haul the heavy pot to the sink again). Personally, I think it also could be used with home highlighting kits – put it on your head and pull the hair through the holes. Learn yoga, another language and how to be a better lover (perhaps with the organization system on sale, you can do all of these things at once). Lose the weight that has settled around your mid-section, gain the six-pack worthy of Adonis.
The best part about these products is that if you order immediately, you get a second one free (plus shipping and handling). I guess that’s fabulous if you have hoarding tendencies, like to layer your shapewear or just have $20.00 that you’re itching to spend. Given that these come-ons haven’t changed since I was a kid, I wonder what it says about us? That we’re so easily seduced by consumerism that we’ll buy anything? That we really do believe that one can click their heels three times and have magical results? Perhaps we’ve never fully resolved our child-like naivete?
Or maybe, it’s just that programming in the middle of the night has always been – and will continue to be – just awful. My new approach to early, early, early, mornings? Pick up “War and Peace” and hit myself in the head.
Testing The Waters
The Sirs…my fur-kids. They look adorable do they not? Sweet and docile, playful and affectionate. I love them, spoil them and they reciprocate in dog-kind. Wherever I go, there they are. As I write this, Teddy is sharing my chair, fast asleep despite the fact that half of my body is no longer on the seat. It’s ok – he’s comfortable and I think it’s cute. Archie is snoring with his head on my left foot. True, my foot fell asleep about twenty minutes ago, but why disturb him? In my efforts to live in the moment, this is one of those times when my attention is drawn to the comfort of their presence, the clickety-clack my nails make on the keyboard, the hum of the dishwasher. It’s all good..
Without defining it as a New Year’s resolution per se, I have decided that I need to be more conscious of being in the moment. Anticipating the future and re-assessing the past are exercises in mental frustration, and frankly leave no part of me more firm and toned as a result. ‘Shoulds’ and ‘coulds’ permeate my internal running monologue, punctuated with “what were you thinking?”, “what are you going to say?”, “are you crazy-stupid or just crazy?”. The absolute, breath-taking awesomeness arrives when I invite myself to shut up and just notice the moment in which I find myself. And on the rare occasions when I do, I feel really, really good. So I’m trying – which includes those times when trying just doesn’t work…
I usually bring the dogs into the bedroom when I take a shower. Archie comes into the bathroom and wedges himself between the toilet and the wall (don’t ask me why for it involves a lot of grunting and contorting on his part) and sleeps, well, like a dog – from the moment the shower spray is turned on through all other activities until the moment when the hair dryer is turned off. Sir Theodore sleeps on the bed (I usually put cnbc on for him, for it could put the most alert being to sleep after a while). Such machinations buy me peace, for if Sir Archibald is in repose, he does not see the leaf blowing by the window which elicits excited, contagious barks. Ted starts barking too (though he doesn’t know why). Typically they’re not big barkers – but when they see something that has the potential to be transportive, forget it. We’ve got a cacophony of headache-inducing proportion.
But yesterday was such a quiet day, and I was feeling so out of sorts (have you ever wondered what ‘in sorts’ means? Sorry, there I go again), I just turned the shower handle all the way to ‘hot’ and waited for the heat and steam to ease the chills that were alternately visiting my body after the dripping sweat cooled on my skin. “A perfect moment”, I thought to myself. “Just take in this delicious sensory experience, the feel of the water on your skin” (hot enough to feel like pin pricks but not so hot to be considered pin pricks of torture), “even if you can’t smell your shampoo, enjoy the luxurious lather on your hair – go ahead and make a mohawk”…I was getting as into the moment as a flu-infected person could. I even began to sing “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do”. The acoustics are fantastic.
And then all hell broke loose.
Archie fought his way out from his self-imposed wedge and charged downstairs barking as if he was the welcome committee for the Martians who just happened to pull into the driveway. Teddy, less intrepid but definitely supportive of his buddy, began jumping all over the bed (after all, it is far safer to bark from a reasonable distance until you determine if whatever-it-is is friend or foe). To paraphrase a different song – I had let the dogs out.
“Let it go Mimi, be in the moment”, I insisted. Archie was bordering on the apoplectic – whatever was there, it was big. In response, I opened my eyes just as a cascade of shampoo fell into my eyes. Teddy came running into the bathroom insisting that without my intervention the world as we know it would cease. “Breathe deep..if this was Andy he wouldn’t even notice – take your time.” My heart began to beat more quickly. I began racing to rinse my hair (an impossible task), scrape the razor across my knees (don’t try this) and complete this soothing experience which had quickly turned into a clip from a Three Stooges movie. With blood dripping from my leg, eyes abraded from shampoo and a chorus of enthusiastic barks telling me to hurry up, I grabbed my robe and tore downstairs leaving a trail that would make it easy for CSI to figure out what happened when they ultimately found me sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.
UPS delivered a pair of sneakers. The box was left in the garage.
Of course, the boys settled down as soon as I retrieved the package. They resumed their original positions and were blissfully dreaming in puppyland before I pulled myself back upstairs. “Ah Grasshopper”, I thought, “You blew this big time”.
So the universe brought me a lesson along with my new sneakers. Keep the canine distractions locked in the room with me? Well, duh. But more importantly, if you really want to be in the moment you have to work at it. You have to keep your eyes closed when shampooing your hair (which is another way of saying that a moment is best savored when you don’t disturb it). And you really do have to acknowledge that serendipity, UPS delivery people and happenstance can test your best efforts. Don’t let it deter you – give the present it’s due and if you get distracted, you might as well laugh and try again.
In First Gear
Well, it’s good to be back behind the wheel – even if this is the second time I’ve backed out of the driveway since I began this little adventure a year ago. Let me tell you how clueless I really was when I pulled into the service center – and how clueless I remain now that I’ve left. Were it not for my son Paul, there would be no new iteration of the Karma Truck, for over the past two days I have managed to mangle two different themes, download another background entirely (which exists somewhere in a zip file that I have not been able to find, unzip or download). I cannot begin to describe what I did with the darn widget-things, all I know is that at one point, there was no room for text unless I chose to write one word per line. I have written frantic messages to my technically proficient friends who with their characteristic grace and patience, felt my pain and offered me a couple of paper bags to breathe into (except for David who has been highly amused).
And then I came down with the flu.
And tomorrow, I was going to fly to meet an adored friend of mine in warmer climes. Not according to the doctor who insists that I am grounded until the 15th.
So far, I’d say that 2013 is starting with a big, fat raspberry.
Far be it for me not to find the humor in this though. It does seem to be my proclivity to get all the yucky stuff over just as the New Year presents itself – no celebratory gestures here. I save those for later in the month, when everyone else is still recovering from their revelry. Perhaps this explains why my exuberance in late January is often viewed derisively. I have terrific rhythm though I am clearly not in sync. The upside is that I can provide the enthusiasm when everyone is struggling with the ennui of a season that feels endless, as the dearth of three-day weekends extends to unreasonable lengths. Never fear – I’ll be perking up around then.
So before I reach for more tea, grab my tissue box and dive head first under the covers, I thought I would show you the new and improved Karma Truck, and assure you that though the body may be spruced up a bit (with massive appreciation to Paul), the interior is exactly the same – it’s still just me.
Waiting for the Karma Truck 