Happy Birthday to Me!

I arrived.

At my big 6-0.

Intact.

Better than intact.

The feeling of exhilaration washes over me. Energizes my being. Good things are in store.

It is an auspicious birthday. The Eve of Chinese New Year. The year of, well, me!

The 'me' in the sense that I have an exciting agenda that is unfolding. Promising to say the least.

And, I feel good. Invigorated. At peace. Joyful.

My dolphin energy abounds.

I am ready for this, my seventh decade!

Finally comfortable with the woman I have become. My inner strengths. My resilience. My playfulness. My vitality.

Gracefully I smile as I face forward and stroll into the mellow sunshine of my future.

Cheers!

It's almost here!

Today we spent a lovely afternoon at a most delightful table by the sea. Not al fresco. No. That would have been crazy in the twenty degree weather. But close enough to enjoy the sunshine sparkling across a flat winter ocean. Gorgeous.

So there we were. My gorgeous Mom, my darling sister, her husband my dear dear friend and my step-father. The only ones missing were my precious Charlie and my sweet sister Mary who is enjoying the warmest of weather in her home on the other coast.

It was my 60th birthday celebration. A little early due to another impending blizzard. Special. And a day that I'll treasure. Imprinted indelibly. A memory maker. A sliver of rich dark chocolate mousse cake adorned with a raspberry glaze and a dollop of fresh cream. Forks all around. Smiles deep and broad. My loves. My family. My treasures.

I am almost there. Oz. The sparkle and contours of my yellow brick road has beckoned these past twelve plus months. Leading me in a most circuitous route through the magic of revisiting old friendships to the joys of making new ones. From reliving prior relationships, to forging forward. Circumnavigating a few rocks strewn not so casually across my path. Gracefully strolling on. My smile glistening. My eyes a'sparkle. My heart open.

I enter my seventh decade with a stronger sense of self. Proud of the woman I have become along the way. Empowered by my successes. Humbled by the hiccups. Liberated from preconceived notions that fastened me to a predetermined set of expectations. Free to be me.

The runway shortens. Yet my opportunities seem boundless. I look forward with the greatest and most sincere joy to what lies ahead.

Cheers to becoming the me I was destined to become. Cheers to my brilliance in imagining the possibilities. Cheers to adventures and discoveries just around the bend.

I am well on my way. Look out world! And it is not even Groundhog's Day yet. Just think!! More, much more, to come.

Wahoo! Almost happy birthday to me ...

Lost All My Baby Fat ...

... it has been over 22 years. And I finally did it. Yep. Shed those unwanted pounds that accumulated when I gave birth to my 9 pound 10 ounce bouncing baby boy.

Wahoo! It took more than two decades, but I have arrived back at my fighting weight.

And surprisingly I feel great. Am not a major biatch. In fact not one at all. Haven't wanted to chew off my leg or arm. Amazing.

Again ... loudly and proudly WAHOO!

So wanted to slide into my sixties with elegance and grace and slender. My old self. Physically and mentally. Shed the excess ... be free. Really free to move forward.

And I have done it. Lost the last five pounds. Doubled. Just to dare myself to be myself again. Lighten the load.

All would be well 'ceptin' my Mama ... in her most honest phase ... did mention that I look fabulous but might need to do something with my neck. So you know what? For the first time ever I am not going to pay her any heed. Sorry Mom! Love you dearly. But this girl's gotta do what this girl's gotta do!

Cheers to shopping in my belt drawer ... and all that jazz!

There's No Place Like Home

Finally after nearly six and a half years I am calling this home. Finally.

Not parenthetically for the time being.

One of my feet or t'other has been ready to bolt periodically since I moved here.

I have teetered on the threshold one step out the door.

That's not right. Not fair. To me. To my family. To my friends.

I live close to my darling, precious Mama. Have the dearest friends and most lovely neighbors. Am active in town and other civic affairs. Am vested in my quaint community village near the sandy Maine coast.

But most importantly ... my home, that I treasure and adore, is my nest.

So without further ado I am going to figure out what it takes to integrate my physical self and emotional being into this one place. To subdue the wanderlust rearing its perky head for the moment. To roll up my shirtsleeves anew and enmesh myself in the fabric of my hometown.

I know that I will continue to travel the world adventuring and connecting with the diverse cultures across the planet.

I know that I will find my life love who together will cherish and protect me and love me quirks and all. As I will him. Together we will share in the bounty of our families and the riches of unexplored experiences. Who will co-imagine the possibilities even if they are slightly askew. And who might balance our lives partly in my antique village home and then his abode ... wherever.

I know that the proximity to my darling Mama was paramount to my relocation to this corner of the world. And I am oh so appreciative to have the ability to frequently share an outing, a read on her porch overlooking the harbor, by the crackling fire watching a DVD and sharing giggles past midnight on one of our beds. She is my bestest bud. My confidant. My precious mother.

Just as I know that moving here would allow Charlie the opprotunity to board at school and begin the rest of his life was critical ... fueling his personal journey.

I am blessed.

And furthermore ... to hell with loneliness ... the one thing that doesn't reside here anymore!

Dancing with Fits and Starts

Greetings from yet another fork in the road!

Okay. By now you are wondering. I am wondering. Where is this going? Where has it been? Why all this jumping around?

Well to be truthful this has been one hell of a wierd and wacky few months. One in. Then out. Another in. Charlie woking in NYC. Then home. Then over the pole. The other out.

Zig-zags. Ups-downs. Those crazy, hazy days of summer a big fucking blur.

So I am trying to get it all back in sync. To follow the journey. Dodge the bullets. Hop over the rocks coming Indiana Jones-style down the hill.

I'm all over the place trying to fill it all in. The open but not yet finished nor published posts. My hopscotch to the big 6-0.

Not so gracefully, but ahead none-the-less. One foot in front of the other ... a hop ... a pas de deux ... puis en solo encore. Déplacement par mon individu. You get the picture.

Thanks for indulging me this diversion. This foray into the what could have been and what is in reality. My loves. Unblemished recounts of the unconventional dance to which I am learning the steps.

Maks, Derek, Corky ... where are you now that I need to become in tune with the melody that is enriching my story?

I, too, want to dance with the stars. I'm dancing as fast as I can ... so don't drop me now!

Safe!

[Image from zazzle.com]

Sliding into home plate. A race against the whizzing ball. Dirt flies. My calf gets hit. A yellow-purple bruise the size of a peach erupts on the underside of my leading leg. The right one. I hit the canvas bag. Hard. Tears sting my eyes. I look up at the blur of the cheering crowd. I am safe. Once again. Home.

BP

Today officially ends the summer of wackos.

Capped. Cemented shut. Gushing no more. The Deep Horizon well. And, me.

Yep. Since spring of this year. BPs loom large. Wreaking havoc with innocence. Casting a pall. Shrouding the light. Science, technology and chemistry run amuk.

BP (British Petroleum): The gulf oil spill gunking up the waters, the shores, sea life for decades to come. Polluting the environment and the economy in catastrophic proportions.

BP (bipolar): Men mucking up my sense of stability. My good natured self. Wreaking havoc with my soul. Their tortured demons spilling into the calm of my sea. My compassionate self swept into their respective storms. One right after the other. Boom. A one-two jab. Sucker punched. Jerked back and fro by my own gullible doing. Their episodes rocking the boat. Capsizing my confidence. My sense of self. My dreams. Another crack in the lens of my once-rosy view.

The well that spewed millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico is finally dead. So is the craziness of the summer. The ups. The downs. The all-arounds. Revived dreams. A make-good. Bringing my best self. Real. Honest. Compassionate. Giving. Loving. Trusting.

So today marks the end. Officially.

A permanent cement plug sealed BP's well nearly 2.5 miles below the sea floor, five agonizing months after an explosion sank a drilling rig and led to the worst offshore oil spill in U.S. history.

A tourettes-like rant out of nowhere, unsolicited, uncalled for, undeserved, devalued my values, intellect and belief system plugged my romantic heart, three hope filled months after being reawakened after seventeen years. Get out of the fucking country. What?! OMG. Jolted into reality. Exactly why it all fell apart twice before. [A girl can hope, can't she? Or, be stupidly blinded. Guilty as charged.]

Dead. Both the deep water oil well and the recent resurfacing of my so-called life love.

I dodged a bullet. Again.

The light filters in. Oddly I still feel that there is something great just around the corner. I just know it. Bring it on. This time leave the BPs out of the equation.

Back to the Future

To say that I am crushed is an understatement. I am overwhelmed that this man, my first real love, could disappoint me for the third time. It is over. Fini. Final.

Once again his inner turmoil, his pent up not-too-far-below-the-surface anger bubbled up. One insult after another. Rage. Battering my intelligence. My values. My belief system.

We are not meant to be. I’ll leave it at that. But this rejection. This pushing away. It manifested in less than a week. A shock to my senses.

Not that he hasn't behaved exactly the same. He has. In exactly the same manner.

But the words he professed. How easy it is to love me. His earnest desire to provide a safe haven. Emotionally. To never hurt me again.

The changes he swore he internalized over the decades. The declarations of love. Of honoring my spirit and protecting my soul. Of caring deeply, profoundly for the woman I became from the girl he knew. He betrayed that confidence. Not only with me. But my darling mother. And, my precious son. He vowed to the three of us that he was back in our lives forever and a day. To honor and cherish our deep bonds that span four decades.

Now he wants me to be just friends. To satiate his codependency. But that I cannot do. I am extraordinarily independent. And, more importantly, I do not trust him. Not as a friend. Nor an equal. I would have to carefully measure each of my words so as not to throw him into a tailspin. So that I am not shut down. Pushed aside. Ignored. It is not meant to be. In any capacity.

I am the fool. I believed. Deeply and utterly. And ... I must let it go. Learn from the experience the richness of what I offer. My boundless generosity. My patience. My serene nature. My exquisite love.

Solo I journey onward with grace. Stronger. Wiser. More loving than before.

To my resilience and inner strength ... cheers!

Legal Eagle or No More (R)egret

I know. I know. We are not supposed to have regrets.

But I do. Two of 'em.

Harbored over the years since my twenties. Both related.

I can do nothing about one of them. Nada. But my son did it for me. So I can live vicariously.

The other? That is another story.

I am about to turn that one on its head. Kablooey. Out of here. Erase that one for all of eternity.

Well kind of.

I have been contemplating the second regret every few years for most of my adult life. Whether employed as a banker, a venture capitalist or entrepreneur ... or not.

Deal doing and contracts are my forte. From the deal side. The business side. I have often imagined how proficient I might have become at negotiating had I accomplished this one thing that I had set out to do in the mid 1970s.

But with rampant inflation (remember President Fords WIN?), high unemployment (double digits ... sound familiar) ... high energy costs strangling the market (compliments of the 1974-OPEC oil embargo) taking the entire Northeast and much of the country into one of the deepest recessions since the Stock Market Crash in '20. Depression economics redux.

I changed direction in media res. Right as I was ready to matriculate with hordes of other recent college graduate Baby Boomers in Bean Town.

Charted a new direction for my undefined career path. Just like that. Blammo!

What, you are wondering (if you are still with me here), is this Steel Magnolia referring to?

I promise you it is not earth shattering. Not in the least. But it did alter the direction of my theretofore strategic dreams. The natural follow-up to a career as a legislator of the highest order leveraging my American Government/Economics degree.

But I couldn't get my arms around it. Nor my head.

The country had been brought to its knees by an unpopular war (sound familiar) birthing the horrid, polarizing derision of public opinion that has entrapped our media, our voices and our citizens today.

There was a glut of students grabbing at anything post graduate to make a living. Young associates were taking showers (I imagine they still do) at work in the glass and steel skyscrapers dotting the horizon on our country's major metropolises.

The practice was so far off that my imagination and creativity and ability to see the forest for the trees might be radically impaired beyond recognition. And that, dear reader, was the deal point. Would have been my Waterloo, so to speak

So I switched gears. At the last moment. Whew!

Okay. Okay. What is this regret that has haunted me for the past thirty-five years?

I cancelled my matriculation at law school. Right before the final drop dead date. At the time, double programs granting professional degrees in both the law and business (the JD/MBA combo ... killer I might add, if you pleased) were not readily offered.

Yes. I have regretted that decision ever since.

In six weeks I matriculate at the same Boston institution of higher learning where I withdrew my place in 1976. Online. A paralegal course leading to certification. Add another arrow to my quiver. And just possibly, a jump-start and new direction to my capabilities and ability to attract new business.

Cheers to my agility and the timeliness of this 'do over' ... and imagining the possibilities.

Skype and the Needle

Horrors.

Me on Skype is no pretty picture.

Deep wrinkles. Shadowed crevices. Furrowed brow.

And I am not even smiling. Nope. No laugh lines or crows feet etched. A straight face. Relaxed.

Scary. Very.

Even Charlie looked amazed. I could see his jet-lagged expression of repulsion when my video snapped into view. Unsure as to whether it was his initial reaction to his pint-sized bedroom overlooking Quarry Bay. Or, a knee jerk expression to the sight of his beloved Mama on camera.

No Meredith Viera here. Imagine an extra ten pounds and the wrinkles of a SharPei. No thank you very much. A big resounding no to my dream of becoming a television celeb. Not too sure how that was going to occur, but it is scratched off my bucket list in permanent Magic Marker.

So this is how I sit now. I have practiced. My facial expression. Position of my hands. The degree of closeup. The angles. The lighting.

Posing and finetuning my position.

Elbows firmly resting on my desk. Fingers not so gently pulling back the sagging skin taut around my eyes, my jowls. The heels of my hands holding up the double chin.

Better. Much.

Pause for thought.

Am I now ready to contemplate the needle? Inject botulism into my facial muscles? A syringe of Botox here? A shot of Juvaderm there?

Hmmmmm.

A woman must have her secrets.

But this one is too broke and a bit intimidated of poison flowing so close to her brain cells ... the ones that survived the college acid trips and way too loud rock music at wigged out concerts, the anti-mosquito pesticides sprayed from the back of trucks rolling throughout our Highlands neighborhood every summer and the effects of nearly six decades of grey matter on overdrive.

But hey ... it is a most definite strategic option for serious consideration. When my ship comes in!

Over the Pole

So much for the magic of technology. Last night was one of horrors.

I walked away from my desk, from watching the arc of the flight route across the Hudson Bay toward the North Pole, my sweet precious love of my life, my Charlie being transported to his new life across the world, when it happened. Three and a half hours after departure from New York's Kennedy airport.

The smooth white and green dotted line careened to a halt. A solid white line veering in a 45 degree angle due south-west. To a point in the Cascade Mountains near Spokane. And stopped. Zero MPH. Zero foot altitude.

Refresh page. Nothing changed. Again. Nada. Same white line. Same ending point. Same stats.

My heart jolted to a screeching halt. A buzzing filled my head. My ears rang dull.

Frantic calls to Cathay Pacific went unanswered. After hours in the U.S. A deep thud in my gut. My boy. My precious heart.

As the sound came back into my racing mind I methodically Googled the FAA equivalent in Hong Kong. The airport there. They would know. Simultaneously I opened the website for CNN and the Seattle Times for news that would at once rock my world and silence my being. Nothing. Not yet. Too soon perhaps.

Phone calls across the globe yielded nothing. No information. No one in a position to know anything. "That is not on our screens. Call so-and-so at such-and-such. Have a nice day."

A software error? Computer malfunction? Out of range? Or, worse?

Panic oozed sour in my mouth. Paralysis gripped my muscles. My head buzzed with a palpable fear. One apprehensive minute after another dripped by slowly. Achingly. For eleven hours in the black of the night.

Ringggggggggggggggg. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. A pre-requested text message arrives on my Motorola RazR. Flight 481 has arrived on time in Hong Kong.

The correct trajectory. The planned flight path followed. An errant glitch in a faraway computer wreaking havoc with me, my sister and brother-in-law. Caused perhaps by a stealth surveillance of another transoceanic flight to Europe with alleged terrorists aboard.

Modern technology be damned. No more following flights moment-by-moment. Never again. Ever.

Of Mice and (Wo)Men

Here we are. Me and my baby sissor. That's Robin. Road trip. Kind of. Driving a law abiding 25 through the streets of Salem, Massachusetts in search of the Peabody-Essex Museum showcasing the most fantabulous collection of Chinese art and artifacts this side of Beijing's Forbidden City and Summer Palace.

When lo and behold out of the corner of my eye a grey image darts up the driver's side of the windshield. Robin is redirectioning her iPhone's GPS. But I know. Immediately. Like one knows the cries of her baby in the navy blue middle of the night ... and whether they signify a wet nappy, hunger or loneliness. That was a mouse.

A mouse? How?

Backstory: Yesterday Charlie and I drove our pewter Volvo V70 wagon the 90 minutes from the coast of Maine to the lovely 18th century saltbox colonial of my sweet sister and Ken for a farewell visit.

Parenthetically, before I go further and to further illustrate how I seem to be able to find the perfect partner for everyone sauf moi ... that's her husband. The result of my yenta-style match making in the early 1980s when Robin sauntered into downtown Boston to meet me for lunch. And right there amid the not-so-attractive metal desks of a dozen bank trainees in varying modes of pre-noon preparations (read: distractions) lightening bolts sparked.

On the itinerary is a day trip to Salem. Home of witches, pilgrims and Nathaniel Hawthorne. But since we have different end destinations ... Robin and Ken back to their home, us to Maine ... we are driving in two cars.

Ooops, I forgot to mention that they reside in the country. The leafy Boston exurbs. And that their dog food (kept annoyingly open in their three-car garage) attracted colonies of teeny mice over the winter. The country one. Brownish grey with oversized ears.

Back to the future: We are driving through the rambling streets of Salem. Robin fumbling nervously as I keep repeating obnoxiously "was that a mouse?"

Approaching the parking garage scary things roll through the crevices of my mind. What if it is a mouse and it jumps in the car while I reach through my window to grab the ticket from the automatic attendant? Or worse, suppose an entire family is nesting under the hood wreaking havoc in the insulation surrounding the engine? Even more disastrous, chewing cables and wires that will render the car inoperable at the worst possible moment?

My head swirls as I head up the ramp. Bravely I lower the driver's window. Just far enough to grab the ticket and hit the up button. No more than necessry. Safe. No mouse jumps in.

Oh ... did I mention that Bailey is curled up in the back of the car? She joined us to visit her canine cousins, the Doodle Brothers. An open sack of her kibble on the floor. Treats, too. Mouse bait. And, it is over eighty degrees outside. Windows must be opened a bit the sunroof slid back to let air circulate.

Up the ramp we drive. Floor 2. Robin is still fooling to align the GPS software with our new coordinates. I am sweating bullets. I slide the car into a space on the shady side of the garage. Steel myself and slowly open my car door. I peer up onto the roof.

There, clinging cartoon-like by every toe on its teensy feet to the edge just below my face, is one very scared large eared mouse. Petrified. Both of us.

I beg with my sister to put down her iPhone (we are at our destination for god's sake). Hand me something to swat the mouse off its perch. She grabs Bailey's leash. What am I? A circus act? Am I going to whip the frightened rodent into submission? No.

I spy the Maine atlas of road maps is peeking from the pocket behind my seat. My weapon! Grab that. Please. Tentatively (and I might add more freaked than our roof top passenger) she cracks her window. Barely. And shuts it so quickly that the map book gets stuck. Hurry. Pleeeeeeeze.

Hunter Alice. Armed with the clumsy, page flipping open atlas I sweep the roof of the car. The mouse darts from side to side and then falls into the channel on the hood between the wipers and the windshield. Eeeks. Is it going to go under the hood? In the dimly lit space I cannot see the color-coordinated mouse. Yikes.

I sweep the booklet one more time. With gusto. And purpose. Bingo! The mouse jumps to safety and scampers along the concrete and steel girders. Far far away from its transportation. Farther from its family and friends. Alone on an adventure in rugged Salem.

My heart pounds. I jump back in the driver's seat. Turn the key in the ignition firing up all cylinders post haste. And screech the car in reverse heading to another floor. God knows that I do not want to vacate my open-sunroofed vehicle. The mouse might just be thinking this is the mothership.

Gheesh!

Underpants

I am always prepared.

It is in my oldest-child nature.

So it should come as no surprise that when confronted with a tornado watch I know what to do, what paraphernalia to have nearby and how to relax (breathe in, breathe out).

You see, I was in a Category 5 tornado. April 3rd, 1974. Around 5 PM. Caught totally unawares. Mom and me and Jason. Freaked me way the hell out. The half mile wide vortex swirling trees, houses, cars and popping electric lines like toothpicks heading my way.

Scared me out of my ever lovin' mind. Swing low, sweet chariot coming for to carry me home. And all. Thought I was a goner. Me and the maids from the apartment complex I was visiting. Huddled in a heap by the elevator doors in the lobby. Knowing that sweet Jesus was headed our way to bring us into the glory. Not me. I'm Jewish. But there's a certain comfort in travelling with a god-fearing crowd.

Over in less than a minute. The sky came tumbling down. But thank the lord not on our heads. Or Mom's and Jason, our epilepsy-afflicted yellow Lab. Him of the golden fleece. Our Gran Torino wagon none the worse for wear. Just some sticks under the tire hubs. Driven in by the raging winds.

So from that point onward ... for around two years ... I always carried a transistor radio and a flashlight in my purse. Just in case. Not too sure how they would help. Or keep me safe, but they were standard fare none-the-less. That and underpants.

Once I went through the phobia clinic at Mass General in Boston I was cured. No longer fearful of white cumulous clouds in a clear blue sky that could turn nastily in a moment's notice into blue-black anvil shaped wall clouds. Now that took some drugs and a bit of Clockwork Orange behavior mod. But it worked.

I even moved proactively to Oklahoma to meet my demons. Tornado Allie, c'est moi!

What does all this have to do with panties? I'll tell you:

The weather radar on television in the New York City area is brillant red. The storms are heating up. Overactive. A tornado watch has alerted the tri-state area of large hail, high winds, microbursts ... and [drum roll] ... a possible tornado.

So I did what any girl in love would do (read: wearing nothing but a gorgeous silk negligee) ...tie a a pair of panties to the spaghetti strap of my gown. To be fully prepared. Just in case the winds should huff and puff and blow the house down and I'd find myself on the lawn bare assed.

And, that's the truth!

Hired Help

Back at the barn.

A shop girl. "Why, Miz Beverly, you are treating me like the hired help. Oh goodness me. I am the hired help."

Eight hour stints. No time to rest. Up and down the stairs. Count this. Straighten that. Fold the mohair throws one more time. I am stuck to the inventory. Beads of persperation glisten on my forehead. I am a mess. Part time seasonal assistance.

Less than a few hundred dollars a month after taxes and other withholdings.

Hardly worth it. But it covers the lawn cutting. Or, the groceries. Not much. But, something.

We're selling nostalgia. Summer cottage schtick. Seashore memories. None vintage. Signs mass produced yesterday in Indiana workshops. Old, new, eclectic eccentricities to the likes of 41's aging bride and their assorted and sundry in-laws, summer guests and name droppin' friends. Nothing real anymore. All picked over.

Busloads of seniors day trip at the port. Drop by. Just to browse. Buy a souvenir. A remembrance. A giftie ... $3 matches adorned with a mermaid or an olden time three masted tall ship. A lobster tea towel. Fake sea glass key chains.

Summer residents from Virginia and Montreal and New Jersey pop in to fetch a pale blue highboy stressed and distressed for their beach house. A Dash & Albert cotton rug for the breezeway. A tin mirror for the entryway. All fake. Otherwise fitting.

The days are hot in this 12,000 square foot warehouse dressed up like a quaint old cottage. Two ceiling fans barely stir the air. The agitating standing fan behind the counter rustles the papers messing up the receipts and faxes. A cool ocean breeze tries to enter the open front doors but is halted by the hot exhaust of the cars in the sandy parking lot.

It is summer by the sea. A few day jaunt for most. A break in the monotonous doldrums of life in Des Moines. A cracked lobster tossed casually on a blue and white earthenware plate drowning in butter. Old fashioned homemade salt water taffy. New England clam chowder with the ubiquitous oyster crackers crumbled on top. Blueberry pie and melting vanilla ice cream drip over the edge of the plate.

Summertime in Maine. I am bored here at the shop. But the sun has been shining. The nights are cool. Walks on the beach in the early morning are delicious. And I have a new-old lover 5 hours away.

Sometimes it pays to be the hired help. This year is one of those times. I am in the weeds!

A Bite of the Apple

There's something about a visit to my beloved Manhattan that sends an adrenalin burst through my body. Tingling my energies. Touching my soul.

It has always been that way. Annual childhood trips to The City from my home in the rolling bluegrass of Kentucky dazzled my imagination. A magical kingdom between two rivers. My Oz.

The pink walls and tables amid tea carts bearing fanciful desserts at Rumplemeyer's across from the park.

Twinkly lights, multi-hued balloon swirls, eggs b chased by Shirley Temples in martini glasses at Tavern on the Green.

The fabulous B's of shopping wonderland: Best and Co., Bendel's, Bergdorf Goodman, Bonwit's!

Skaters wrapped in bright woolen scarves figure-eights over the white ice at Wollman rink, the painted ponies on the carousel, Alice perched high on toadstools watching boats gliding across the man-made pond. Ah ... my Alice statue. Then. Now. Forever my go-to place for solace and the sweet peace of time.

Sophisticated ladies in pencil slim black dresses with fox collars and mink stoles casually draped over their delicate shoulders. Pearls. Dreamlike.

Over the years. My residence for a decade. The venerable Lotos Club my haunt. My home away from home. Impromptu, spontaneous visits planned in the morning for an eight o'clock curtain of a new show. An alto sax mournfully crooning in a blue smoke filled bar underground. My heart races as I cross whichever bridge leading me to this magical island that forever channels my soul. My alternate self. My real self. Where I'd be in a New York moment if only ...

But hey, I am here. My Charlie at work in a glass and steel midtown tower. We'll meet for a regional Cuban supper at Victor's Cafe, mojitos flowing. What could be better?

To the pulsating energy coursing through my Maine-weary veins! Cheers!

Sexy, Sweet and Kind ... Oh My!

I finally heard it. For the first time ever. Words that rocked my soul sending tingles up my spine and a smile deep into my heart. I held the phone away from my ear so I could breathe. Tears of joy.

Sexy and sweet and kind. Oh my. I believe I heard correctly. I do believe. I do believe. His distinctive Boston accent telling me, me (!), what I have waited thirty-five years to hear. That I am attractive and worthy and lovable. Me! Oh my.

One door slams shut. Another opens. Lemony sunshine streams in.

So six months into my journey the thoroughfare on which I am travelling unfolds unabashedly in front of me. Bringing with it the possibility of truly, finally aligning my intellect with my heart. Balance. Leveraging my graceful, generous spirit from those heady early days when my youthful innocence required minimal adjustments. Uncomplicated. Confidence in tact. The sweet naïvité of my youth fast forwarded into the shadows of the Emerald City! Excitedly the yellow brick road, my circuitous path through this sixtieth year beckons. Pointing the way to new discoveries, cherished old friends, enchanted possibilities.

Not solely without a pinch of discomfort. Traversing a slightly uneven landscape can sometimes be difficult on the traveler. Especially when pushing the boundaries. Stepping beyond that secure environment in which I have become complacent. Watch out for the flying monkeys and the fields of red poppies!

To fully reap the richness, extract the last drop of honey, delicately expand my horizon I must bump up against early fears and insecurities. Meet my demons. Experiment with unfamiliar behaviors and untried experiences. Create fresh paradigms. Embrace a changing environment. Shake things up. Surrender a bit of my overly-protected independence.

Yes. It's time. Way overdue. Hey universe, what's in store? The road to Oz lures me from my familiar zone of comfort ... and I'm whistling a diffferent tune!

Dusting Myself Off

R~E~L~I~F~E

Ah, the sweet delicious release. My composure steadfast. As I regain equilibrium, lost momentarily as I stumbled on a pile of stones littering my path. Faltering for a moment.

My backpack rebalanced, a cool drink of life sustaining water wets my parched lips as I carry on with balance and greater insights into the me I have become.

Cheers to the continuation of my journey, this marvelous redefinition of my life well-lived, with renewed vigor, a refreshed store of energy, revived passion as I gracefully stroll with purpose into the lemony sunshine and clear blue skies.

Chipping Away At The Peach Pit

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on the rise and fall of my chest. Inhale/expand. Exhale/release. Shanti. Shanti. Sha-anti-iiiiiiii. Namaste.

Bring it in. Feel at one with it. Let it go. Out into the universe. The negativity. Replace it with joy. Inner peace. My head falls forward. Hair dropping to the floor. Swinging gently. Palms flat. Rise up. One vertebra at a time. Rounding back. Shoulders last. Face to the heavens. Smiling. Fingers touching together over my heart.

Lying on the hard wooden floor which cradles my body. A purple bean bag covers my eyes, a rolled cushion supports my knees. The gentle incantations of our instructor brings me comfort. A peaceful bliss. The knot dissipates magically.

Floating free. Out of body and mind I gather the accouterments at the end of our practice. Folding the twin rubber mats which have cushioned my back and supported my weight. Pulling them back to their rightful place along the wall. The feng shui of it all. I carefully replace the strap which supported my outstretched legs on the rod framing the rice paper ink drawings. Carrying the blocks which moments before pillowed my upper sacrum and base of my skull as I lay in repose. Quietude.

Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. Descend the narrow wooden stairway to the street. Slowly. One graceful step at a time. Capture the essence of the sacred warrior.

Then in one fell swoop it clinches up. My tummy tightens. My smile melts. Dissolves. One word. One frantic thing on the checklist which has come at me all too fast in a very condensed few days as if there is no tomorrow no reason to wait compelled to tic off every last thing blurring whirring until it is completed no rest for the weary no celebration no nothing just one thing after another and another and another until I seize up. Knotted. In a ball.

Seven days until yoga. Seven. It shouldn't be this hard. Not now. Not ever.

Hiatus Explained

By now you have figured out that my son's graduation last week from college coupled with his imminent move to New York City and then to Hong Kong have crimped my stylus.

Cheers to the gods that smiled on my darling son! We have much to do …

(I'll be back soon. Promise!)

60th Year Journey

I am one hundred and four days into celebrating my 60th year with a penchant for surprise. Delight. Discoveries.

For the next two hundred and sixty rotations of the earth tilted and spinning on its axis I will meander happily in and out of my comfort zone ... adventuring precariously to the edge. Pushing the confines of the proverbial envelope. Expansive. Effusive. Awakened.

Come with me. You. You know you want to join in on the fun. And you know who you are. C’mon. Encircle your arms around my waist as we journey to my big 6-0 and beyond in tandem.

What a rush! Pistons charged. Adrenalin flowing. Imagine the possibilities. Our infinite possibilities. Transported from the sparkling white sandy seashore to mountain geysers to distant and ancient lands. And home again. Boundless joy. Boundaryless opportunity.

Fasten our seat belts. Place our tray tables in their locked upright positions. Close our eyes. Hold our breath. We are beginning our ascent. Accelerating. Climbing higher. Soaring. The world takes on a different shape, a swirling blue-green ball shrouded in billowy cotton. A new, longed for perspective. Shared.

Stroll with me into the soft lemony sunshine, cool crisp breeze propelling the journey, our journey, onward. You are out there. I just know it!