But the shoes. Charlie's precious shoes. The ones ordered from Brooks Brothers in November made it in time. The nick of time, I might add. But in time. Thanks in part to the diligence of his lovely chestnut haired Mama (c'est moi) and the ubiquitous brown trucks and planes that fly through her hometown in the deep blue grass and whoosh ... across the earth. Made a special compensatory nod to Charlie's dilemma, and delivered them with hours to spare. Around the world in a nano-second. So he could dance, Fred Astair had nothing on my boy, into 2011.
The jolly bearded man in the red suit belted with a wide black cinch belt and spiffy high top black well polished boots looking oh so courant could make the trip around the circumference of the globe in the twinkle of his eye and a twitch of his pug nose.
But not the FedEx-express. Nope. It's UPS all the way from here on out. No choice. Not unless requested specifically by the recipient.
I should be so lucky. To travel from the east coast of the United States, through the rolling hills of Kentucky, pop up to Alaska, over the Pole and then wend my way to southern China and the new Hong Kong home of my darling son.
But ... ah ... I am. Fortunate. I, too, will be following that route through Newark, over the pole (hey there Santa, pooped ol' man) and into the booming island metropolis where my sweet Charlie has taken up residence.
In February! In celebration of my 60th. Wahoo!
Cheers to safe travels ... to me ... dancing shoes ... and the new year!