Almost Cinderella

Since the social dance on Friday, I’ve been at absolute war with myself.  It was fun!  Really and truly, I loved being there, the music, the disco ball, the people, the connection, the flirtation.  I love dancing.

So I went back on Sunday to consider what it would look like to recommit to it.  Just a little.  But what would that look like?  So much of it appealed to me (ballet for ballroom group class) and so much of it didn’t (competing and technical sessions).  I was truthfully a little shocked by the strength of the opposing sides within me.  And so the battle raged. 

I do love to dance.  And I want to continue learning from dancing the way I used to—femininity, charm, grace, poise.  But I don’t want it to become a serious endeavor anymore.  It can’t be a serious endeavor.  I still don’t know anyone with whom I can dance for the pure enjoyment (meaning not have to pay, not having to work at it), and I don’t want to spend my time and money doing something that can only be done with time and money.  I don’t need another thing on my schedule, and I certainly don’t want any more expenses.  It goes against almost every single one of my core values. 

Except femininity.

I think of the Ballet for ballroom group class and am almost giddy.  I think of the fun dancing with the new guy and I swoon a little.  I smell the cologne of another male dancer I know and I swoon a lot.

Which is why it was so easy to fall face first into the glamour when my own fairy godmother appeared in the form of a dressmaker.  Not any dressmaker, THE dressmaker.  Dressmaker to the stars, dressmaker to the best dancers in the world.  I could feel the magic building just being in her presence.

She took one look at with her sharp eyes, whipped out a measuring tape and began peppering me with the most interesting dialogue:

“You’re definitely not a print person are you?  No, I’d say not. …  Teal, no blue is your color, I think. …  Simple sophistication, maybe a little retro?  Yes…yes…and a plunging neckline … you do have impressive cleavage.  You’d have to wear your hair straight, of course … and long dangly sparkling earrings … gloves?  Above the elbow or three-quarters length?  I think above the elbow. …  Not into sparkle, I know …  but you’ll get over it.  Big ones wrapped in a diagonal spiral, offset by smaller ones all around the upper area.  And lots of movement in the skirt …  but with a slit  up to the bed in thigh.  … “

The drawing was magnificent!  The vision, sublime.  I left the studio on cloud nine, not even blinking an eye at the exorbitant price that was just quoted to me.

Unfortunately, it was all I could think about later. 

I don’t want to compete.   The dress is a competition dress.  It’s not something I have occasions to wear elsewhere.  In fact, I don’t know that other than the one intended event, I’d probably ever wear it again.  Do I really want something that extravagant and costly in my closet? 

Do I really want the kind of guilt and commitment that kind of expense implies? 

My body screamed at me “NO!!!”  It was very clear.

Still I tried to justify it.  I could commit to it again—the pain started in my front right shoulder.  A few classes every week—the weight grew on my chest.  It could be fun to go to competitions—I began to feel like I couldn’t breathe.

I went to bed still trying to justify keeping the dress. 

I mean, when would I ever again have the opportunity to have a custom-made ball gown?  It was every girl’s dream come true, right?  It was all very Cinderella-come-to-life!

[[insert shimmery dream sequence here…]]

I dreamt I was dancing in the dress, twirling around under the lights, stressed and worried about my performance, completely disconnected from the music, armpits sweating, makeup beginning to run.  The music sounded like it was playing underwater.  Was it raining in the ballroom? 

The dress began dripping water, faster and faster.  I kept slipping.  I felt like I was falling so I looked down.  My feet were completely intertwined in the dress, which was turning into the ocean.  I was sinking, falling under.  The dress felt like lead.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t see the lights.  I saw… the green grass and trees and my imagined heaven on Newfoundland’s eastern coast?  That was weird…I could see the porch slipping out of sight, the cliffs seemed sad.  A white wolf sat on the shore watching, helplessly.  I could hear her thinking “Why?  Why did you choose this?  You knew this would happen.”

I awoke in pain.  I sat quietly listening to the rain and thunder outside my window.  It sounded so gentle, so sweet, so calm.

I allowed the peace of it to envelop me and I calmed down as well. 

Then I listened to what the Muses were telling me, what I already knew but couldn’t accept:

I want to dance to find grace and poise within myself.  To feel beautiful for myself.  To explore expressing myself through movement.  Not to impress others, not to test myself, and certainly not to be judged.  Not any more.  I have a new purpose…and it doesn’t involve anyone’s acceptance, except my own.

I walked downstairs and put on the teapot before standing outside in the rain with Theo the dog.  The rain felt refreshing and cool.  I could feel the fright washing away from my dream. 

And so, dripping wet, as if I’d just extricated myself from the ocean, I dug through my wallet called the designer and put a stop on the dress. 

Perhaps it’s enough to just know that once upon a time in a fairy tale that would never be, I had a beautiful blue sequined ball gown designed just for me.

Of mice and men

It’s official.  I’m a mouse murderer.

I feel like I carry with me the doom of the ongoing slaughter that’s going on in my garage at d’Anconia Square.  And I hate it.  Suddenly–even in my house, in my car, in my office in Cincinnati–I find my mind interpreting every sound as a mouse scurrying, a mouse squealing, a mouse laughing.  I find my mind imagining mice having conversations about my cooking, my overall house and car care, my lawn maintenance, the status of my desk drawer filings.  I find my mind wondering if mouse meat is in processed foods…like chicken nuggets or “pressed” ham…

I’m losing my appetite and considering becoming a vegetarian.  And slowly I feel like I’m starting to lose my grip on reality.

“If your grandmother saw a mouse, she’d chase it with a frying pan and kill it with her own hands,” my mom tells me as she tries to reframe the situation from “murder” to extermination…and completely natural if not part of my heritage as well.  I don’t think I could kill a mouse with my bare hands, let alone with a frying pan.  Probably not even with a shovel on the end of a 20-foot pole.  I’ll stick with the fancy mouse traps that keep the grotesqueness of the murder safely confined inside a white plastic container so I merely have to move the trap from my garage to the dumpster behind my house and never see it.

Then…”why don’t you put your mind to better use,” my mom suggests noting the dark circles under my eyes growing like clouds before a storm.

What else could I think about?  I already am preoccupied with many things  (like a couple revolutions, learning languages, rededicating my life to simplicity, Christmas coming…).  But not enough, it would seem, to distract me from mouse-agedon.

Gentle Penguin, I learned early to create stories in my head to distract me from fear—mostly fear of the dark at nighttime.  ”The darkness only contains that which you put into it,” my brother told me once wisely.  The problem has always been that my mind puts lots of things in the darkness.  Why, I could put a llama in a pink tutu balancing on a large yellow and green rubber ball into the darkness if I wanted.  Usually, though, I find my mind creating vampires, and werewolves, and ghosts, and psychotic killers, and chainsaw masochists.

I’ve learned to get a grip and reframe by forcing my mind to imagine different scenarios.  The deeper and more detailed I can get, the less I dwell on the fear…and perhaps at some level, the closer I get to returning to reality.

So with the rain pouring, a pot of tea at my elbow and a blanket wrapped around me in my blue-suede chair, I look out over my yard and decide to give it a shot.

I think of another place…

A porch..with a tin roof…attached to a simple and aged wooden house…on a cliff…overlooking a choppy sea…on the northeastern shore of Newfoundland.  There, I also have an overstuffed chair, a pot of hot tea and a blanket.  There I have no worries of mice…or laundry or cooking or cleaning for that matter.

The cliffs and grass and trees that had been brown and verdant green earlier are now shades of slate blue and silver as the storm mutes the ever-growing twilight.

The sound of the rain pattering around me sounds like applause.  The sound of the thunder in the distance sounds like a train speeding through a short tunnel.

I imagine the rain.  Big, fat silvery raindrops that fall in seemingly slow motion in chaotic lines leaving rings upon rings upon rings in the puddles on the ground beneath my perch.  Perhaps the gutter leaks on this porch—like mine at home.  This string of rain looks like a thick spiderweb strand blowing gently as the breeze moves by.

The breeze also moves strands of my hair as it kisses my cheeks.  I pull the blanket up closer around me.

The smell…ah, the smell!  Can one ever describe the smell of rain in nature?  It’s not sweet as much as it’s earthy.  It’s not earthy as much as it’s fresh.  It’s not fresh as much as it’s the essence of life.  It’s not the essence of life as much as it’s natural.

I imagine myself watching the rain fall on the cliff and into the sea beyond.  The steam of my tea warms my lips and nose, softening my eyes and bringing a new scent to my imagination…chamomile.  The heat of the cup in my hands spread to my entire palm and I note the smoothness of my grip on the cup in that heat.

I hold the image for a while before wondering what else could happen in my fantasy to keep me here.  I want to stay here.

Perhaps the inn owner could step out on the porch and ask if he could join me.  He would be in his mid 40s with chin-length thick dark hair, neither tall nor short, neither skinny nor plump.  Perhaps he has an accent (I’m a sucker for an accent).  He would be dressed warmly in jeans and a beige wool pull-over sweater with a collar and thick dark-brown leather boots.

I would (of course) encourage him to sit and offer him a cup of tea.

He would accept so I would pour out.  My tea cup would be dainty (as my tea cups are ought); his would be sturdy.

We would sit quietly listening to the rain.  A little conversation about the beauty of the area, but it’s enough to just sit there.  Together.

Oh, I could get lost in this daydream.  I could fall in love here with this man who has no need to impress nor be impressed, who understands that time is both a luxury and a treasure, who values the simplicity of living and lives simply, who also aspires to find meaning and purpose in all around him, who understands that a relationship is not just fireworks and fun—nor is it all work and drudgery—but rather a journey that two like-minded people travel together with a common goal.  A man who isn’t afraid of mice.

Yes, it’s time to leave this daydream before I learn this man’s name.

Afterall, I want to be surprised when he crosses my path in reality.

Nicknames and Dream Dæmons

Walking back to my desk after back-to-back-to-back meetings—meetings fraught with difficult personalities, emotionally charged issues and level-setting different expectations—I felt confident and calm.

I knew it would wear off in about 20 minutes or so and I would spend the next half hour analyzing my behavior to see where I might have done anything different…better.

That’s when my right-hand-man began giggling.  ”The Alpha Wolf strikes again.”

“What?”  I pulled myself out of my reverie trying to figure out what he meant.

He laughed and punched me in the arm like a pal.  ”You.  You’re like the Alpha Wolf.  Leader of the pack, but a couple steps ahead and separate, and always concerned first and foremost that the pack is organized, logical and focused on the hunt.”

“What are you talking about?” I began to worry slightly.

He was openly laughing now and elbowing the other gents in our group knowingly.  ”You!  You’re like a wolf.  The alpha wolf.  Taking care of your pups, your pack.  Making sure others don’t take what you’ve marked as yours.  Making sure your pack doesn’t become unruly or messy.  I like it!  We can always count on you to keep the order.  Just one look into those serious eyes of yours, and the rest of the dogs back down.”

I walked back silently as the boys continued to giggle and elbow each other.  I thought I might feel slighted or offended. …  but I didn’t.

Oddly, I felt glad.

“Don’t be mad Mon,” he said knowing I hate to be called “Mon.”

I wasn’t.  ”I’m not,” I replied evenly looking over at the three of them directly trying to keep the glee in my eyes while looking serious to show I didn’t approve of the unapproved nickname but wasn’t upset.

I held his gaze while we walked hoping I wouldn’t walk into a wall or something in the process.

“What?,” it was his turn to feel perplexed.  By my fixed stare.  ”Common Mon.  A wolf is a great animal to be.”

“I agree.” I said shifting my gaze to the hallway in front of me.  ”But let’s not forget that my name is Monica.”

I smiled and parted ways as he opened the door for me.

Gentle penguin, I often dream that I’m an animal.  A wolf, to be exact.

Maybe that’s why I don’t mind so much this critique of my…leadership style.  I admit, I used to dream of the day I’d dream I was a swan or some other beautiful noble animal, but now I wonder if that was just clouds in my coffee.

“…you’re a fool for thinking you should be just an ornament…”

I wasn’t meant to be a swan, my gentle penguin.  I was meant to be a wolf.  Perhaps even an alpha.

Just me

My horrorscope today promised that someone I held in high esteem would fall off the pedestal I’d placed them on…and that I should be gentle and nonjudgmental about it.

Truth be told, gentle penguin, I don’t believe in horrorscopes.  But I like the sfumato that sometimes results from them…and the magic 8 ball in my office.  So I promptly forgot about it and went about my day.

I headed straight to walk-through an event taking place later this week.  The ladies and I stepped through logistics, talked about the tone of the event, then laughed and shared stories of our past few months, catching up in the chilly parking lot.  I let the wind whip my curls as I relaxed into the warmth of these women’s conversation and company.  It was tempting to join them for coffee, but Time was making her demands.  

I joined the rat race and headed downtown for a strategy meeting, which was cancelled while I was enroute.  Good.  I could divert to take care of some legal paperwork and proceedings.  I settled into the hard leather chair across from my business attorney and tried not to act too excited about the fast-paced, rapid-fire negotiation and consultation that took place.  So different from the easy-going, engaging repartee from an hour ago.  And yet, I felt so happy and natural here too.

But Time was calling again.  And so my day—and my personality—flipped and flopped between feminine charm and masculine strength.  

Until around 2:10 in the afternoon.  I’d just spent the last 15 minutes jerking my head violently up out of a growing daze, and decided it was probably prudent to take advantage of the 20 minutes before my next meeting.  I stretched out and shut my eyes.

[...insert shimmery dream sequence here...]

A bunch of us were waiting outside a government building in downtown during an overcast gray day.  Something was obviously terribly amiss and the anxiety was spreading quickly.

I was among the crowd trying to remain calm though my heartrate was racing.  I kept reminding myself that I’d be better able to protect my daughters if I knew what was going on.  So I forced myself to stand still and focus on observing and listening to everything going on around me while we waited.

The large, ornate door of the government building opened and out stepped a nervous man in a cheesy business suit.  He was sweating profusely and seemed to be afraid to step too far away from the doors.

The quiet was sudden and complete.

“Please, everyone just stay calm.  …”  Unfortunately, the more he tried to assure us of calm, the more ominous the situation seemed.  Then, out of nowhere, his fragile stance went rigid and his demeanor changed to rage.

“YOU!” His finger pointed directly at me while his face turned shades of red and purple.  Everyone in the crowd turned to look at me too.  ”YOU should have known better to stay inconsequential!  How dare YOU show yourself as commanding and in control!  How dare YOU not be afraid!  YOU are supposed to be only a secondary or lower!  How dare YOU be inconsistent with this expectation!  How dare YOU speak up with any knowledge!  Don’t YOU know that YOU were only loved because YOU were silent and weak?  That was all we wanted from YOU!  YOU embarrassed us by being smart and strong!  Now YOU don’t deserve anything but my rage!  YOU won’t get anything but our anger!  This is all YOUR fault!”

I knew all the logic in the world would not help these people see that my being me—a sometimes quiet person, but also sometimes commanding, and always supportive and smart regardless—was not the cause of this crisis.

It didn’t matter.  They had their scapegoat, their reason out of logic.  And they were going to crucify me as a result.

I felt strangely strong and calm.

[...end shimmery dream sequence...]

I awoke feeling solid and sure, and as if someone was suddenly reading me my horrorscope from this morning.

Perhaps the person knocked off the pedestal was me.

Truthfully, despite all my praise for femininity, I had been having a rough go at it lately.  Not because of anything bad, but because as my successes mounted (and I seemed to be on a roll), I saw time and again that I was most successful when I played to all of my strengths—both masculine and feminine.  That my femininity, while still also strong, was not the sole source of my power.  Rather, just like everything else in my Libran life, success was about finding and continually refining the balance between the dichotomic sides.

Truthfully, if you’d asked me to choose between coffee with my female friends and a negotiation over political issues…I might chose the latter.

So, kismet, that as I prepared for my next meeting I came across a personality profile prepared for me several years ago as part of a business retreat.

“You seek understanding and fairness making you able to see both sides of even the most charged issue, and even if you have a preference.  Others have a preference too.  So, often,  it’s up to you who gets to make the decisions. You’re certainly capable of taking command or supporting someone else’s command.  And you know it.  Whatever you do, it’s certain you will ensure that all involved face the obstacle, find a solution, make the decision and move.  But remember, once you’ve allowed someone their preference, change is difficult.  This doesn’t bother you, but it often bothers others.  You’re not a creature of habit and you are just as comfortable in both roles.  Just be aware others aren’t.”

I am aware of that.  And mostly I feel badly that it does make others uncomfortable.

But at the end of the day, just like at the end of the dream, I’m sure and calm in who I am.  Just me.  And only I have the authority to criticize that.  Only I have the right to evaluate and ask for change.

And if that means that I only receive anger, that’s fine.  However, just like everyone else who strives to be the best they can be, I’ll always know that I deserve nothing but the best.

Still

It is so quiet and still that I hesitate to break either gift with my laptop luminescence or the clicks of my fingers on the keys.  But I do.  I can’t help it.  So many thoughts press against my mind that it will not stop moving.

Why is it that in the beautiful quiet and stillness of night I find my most powerful sense of purpose?  To write to you, gentle penguin.

Perhaps it’s the sight of the naked tree standing outside my window reaching upward toward the stars, which twinkle like gems in the dark fabric of the sky.  I can see them clearly through my window.  Or the strange sense of light penetrating the darkness of my room from the snow below—a snow that reflects every fragment of light that still exists all around it outside.  Or the rhythmic ebb and tide of my sleeping daughters’ breathing that reminds me of the call of the ocean…a call that becomes stronger every day that I’m separate from my beloved.

I hear a train in the distance sounding like a muffled trumpet as the drumbeat of a truck rolls down my street.  And I suppress the urge to hum.  My crackberry blinks at me.  News, no doubt, of more political turmoil in countries far away where the families and friends of my friends sleep…or perhaps rouse now.  I suppress the urge to read it.

I smell the fresh linen sheets and wish I could snuggle back into them to find the dreams that no doubt await me in its fabricated floral embrace.  I grab my stuffed polar bear and hold it close thinking again of how silly I am to have such a token to share my nights, but how much warmth of body and heart it has provided nonetheless.  I’m not ashamed to claim it as a surrogate.

I think of my daughters toys spread around their rooms, their laundry scattered helter-skelter on the floor, the floor that didn’t get swept, and the tissue box still out of place next to me as a reminder of my recent cold.  Perhaps if I tidied up a bit…

But no…my problem isn’t production or tidiness.  I think through all I’ve accomplished in the day:

• A two-mile run.
• A messaging fact sheet for a CEO who’s about to go on record with the Wall Street Journal over an issue concerning a government agency.
• A come-to-jabeezus meeting with an international client who has not planned for an upcoming event and now wants to rush it, resulting in successful renegotiation of expectations for the event.
• A new client consult.
• Helping with math homework, science fair final report, biology and an in-depth persuasive intervention with my daughter who finds she HATES Dickens’ Great Expectations.
• Wii fit workout with my youngest who is training for her Presidential Fitness test.
• Dinner.
• Laundry.
• Our family homework for tomorrow’s Spanish lesson.
• And a 30-minute ballet workout.

I felt exhausted when I came up to sleep nearly two hours ago.  But in the stillness my energy peaks and my mind seems to come alive with images and stories and songs and joy.  I crave it like my nephew craves chocolate.  And every time I find it, I find myself slightly anxious in it, knowing it’s fleeting and wishing to hold on to it.

Instead I hold my polar bear closer and sink as far into the stillness as I can.  Soon enough, I’ll be still too.

Touch

On Friday I had an epiphany.  For the first time in a really long time, I felt complete.  I mean really and truly happy.  Just me and the girls.  Working, going to school, cleaning house and doing laundry, cooking meals, playing wii fit, running and hanging out.  I really was having a great time!

I didn’t miss romance or romantic interactions or anything like it!  In fact, I hadn’t even thought about romance or romantic anything for a week or two now.  Not to miss it.  Not to advise on it.  Not to seek a fake.  Nothing.  I was so excited and at peace that I celebrated silently with my daughters by having a Just Dance and wii fit competition, in which my body stretched, moved and showed its grace and strength to great advantage.  I went to bed reveling in the happy contentedness that enveloped me.

[insert shimmery dream transition here]

I was on a beach with a married couple who are friends of mine.  They had decided to go play in the surf together while I began to apply my sunscreen, reaching awkwardly behind me trying to apply it to my back.  I felt a shadow fall across my patch of sunshine, and looked up to see a gentleman of age I consider most attractive standing there looking breathtakingly handsome.  My heart and lungs continued to struggle with normalcy when in an undetermined international accent he asked what language my friends and I had just been speaking.

“Albanian,” I choked out before lowering my gaze slightly so he wouldn’t see my shy blush.  He knelt down beside me and took the sunscreen from me as he commenced talking with me about and in many different languages.  I could feel the cold moisture of the sunscreen and the heat from his hands as he began rubbing it onto my back, my shoulders, my sides, the backs of my legs and even gently on my face.  I trembled as he did so, even more so when I peered into his dark brown eyes…

[end shimmery dream sequence]

I awoke and felt more hungry for the touch of a man than I think I ever have felt in my entire life.

What is it about touch that makes a person feel something so powerful as hunger?  And is it really hunger?

You probably already know there’s lots of research to show that human touch is necessary for survival…for example, the horrible baby monkey in a cage experiment that showed even touch by an inanimate object, like a stuffed animal, was more important to the survival and development of the baby than food.

But even more fascinating is the mounting body of research that shows our brain equates things like need for touch with something as physical as hunger.  And the more we feel those physical needs (like if I hadn’t eaten in two days), the more likely I am to equate my mental state with a missing need and crave it (like touch) as well.

My favorite example is one in which researchers gave subjects a survey and varied the weight of the clipboard.  Subjects who took the survey on the heaviest clipboards rated the “gravity” of the subject much higher than that those with light clipboards.

Likewise, subjects given surveys on serious topics in which their clipboard weighed the same as everyone else’s rated their clipboard as heavier than subjects who took surveys on “lighter” topics.  Indeed, this mind-body connection is a “heavy” topic to be sure.

And what does that say about our language affecting who we are and what we experience?  I’m so excited to know there’s research—fascinating research—on that topic too!  Perhaps in other cultures and languages need for touch is more like a thirst or a stabbing pain or even a coldening.

It’s sad to think that there are so many people who feel this loneliness for touch, but I don’t know that there’s ever been a time when I personally have known so many people hungry for companionship.  Or when so many people I know—even peripherally—complain that they have so many encounters with so many lonely singles.

And I wonder, why?

I have my theories of course, but none of which I’m ready to share just yet. I think I need to think and study on it some more before I commit the power of words to the topic of the power of touch…though to be sure, some theories are percolating more than others…

So, in the meantime, I did what any normal Monica would do as I sat there enveloped in my need to be touched and caressed and held and loved.  I shook my fist at the Fates and the Muses for their cruel trick, then laughed with them—basking, even enjoying all the emotions of loneliness that surrounded me, adding them all to my treasure trove of empathy and compassion.

Looks like they’ll be a good one to have on my side….

Dream Log: Library Heist

The library was a magnificent building resembling Greek architecture with its imposing white columns and triangular roofline.  It sat on top a high hill in a pristine park-like environment, vibrant green grass, tall trees, sunshine and birds chirping merrily all around.   Even the roads and sidewalks around the library were spotless—the road as black as newly laid asphalt with bright yellow lines and the sidewalk seemingly white next to it.

I slid up the stairs and slipped inside as soundlessly as my sleep.  Inside, the marbled floors and tall ceilings reverberated even the tiniest sound as I walked down the hall looking for the room where the book lay.

No one was around, so I moved quickly to the room near the back where the ancient books sat.  I knew the room instantly by the smell.  Musty paper and dust.  There’s no smell better!  So I loomed in the doorway just inhaling as deeply as I could while my eyes searched out the specific book I was seeking.

It sat on a pedestal opened to a page that I didn’t stop to note.

I simply shut the book, clasped it to my chest and walked back out of the library.

As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I knew someone was following me.  I turned to see who, but saw no one.

I picked up my pace and headed for the large magnolia tree on the other side of the park.  My unseen follower still tailed me.  I picked up my pace to a run and then sprinted toward the tree.

About five feet away from the tree, a rope dangled.  I jumped and grabbed it with one hand, swinging up to a branch near the top where I sat down holding my book and the rope.

My follower stood at the bottom of the tree contemplating a route up to me.  I couldn’t see him still though I wasn’t too worried about seeing…only observing whether he had begun to climb or not.  Minutes ticked off loudly on my watch.  He did not climb.

I saw him kick something that now lay still shaking on the sidewalk below in the blistering hot sun.  Holding the book tight, I climbed down a few branches, careful not to intertwine the rope or lose hold of its grasp.

That’s when I saw it.  An emaciated cat inside an overturned, empty turtle shell struggling to right itself .  The cat had almost no energy and appeared to be losing what fight it had in the sun.  I slid down the rope to the sidewalk below, careful to unlatch it from its unhidden hold above, then winding it into a neat circle that I slid over my shoulder.

I cooed and spoke softly as I approached the cat-turtle, but to no need.  The cat had lost all its energy and lie there watching me frightened from its predicament.  With so much care and love that it surprised me, I picked up the creature cradling it as I moved to a spot well shaded by my very own refuge—the magnolia tree.

The cat purred gratefully as it rested in the cool shadow. So I stooped to kiss its forehead.

I stood and turned to look at the city and seaside that now lay at my feet.  It seemed that I stood atop a magnificent fortress with brilliant colors and pristine architecture at my feet.

I had won.  I had managed to secure my freedom with this adventure.  Now to do something with it…

Warmth of an Embrace

Having taken my own vow to remain single, I found myself immediately immersed in a series of flirtations from gentlemen who seemed determined to test my resolve.  As each immediately and happily accepts the chance to change my mind, they all try the same tactic—giving advice and making requests on how I could best change myself or manage my life.

“Why is it that people can’t possibly grasp that my life doesn’t require advice or management?” I asked Shrek frustrated after returning home from one such conversation.

“Sweetheart, because their lives all require advice and management and you’d be a gem to provide both.  Therefore, you must require the same in return so to gain your favor, they offer it up.  If you need them, you will come…”

So should a person need another, or just want them?  I struggle with this question as I travel back to NYC for work.  On one hand, needing is such a strong bond that perhaps keeps people together longer and more securely.  But not freely.  Needing somehow seems like slavery to me, and I judge it harshly.

I think about my parents who have been happily married for almost 30 years.  Do they need one another?  Well, yes.  I think if one of them were to die, the other would whither away and soon follow.  But what is the basis of their need?  Their love doesn’t ever present itself as captivity.  I can’t pinpoint it other than to say their lives have somewhere somehow become a single entity, and thereby losing one would be like having your self split in two.

I feel like a puzzle piece is just outside my grasp, but what is it?  I back up to a time before their lives were so intertwined.  Their love and romance was never based on a need.  It was based on a want.  A wanting to go the same direction with each other.  A wanting to build the same kind of life.

This seems too simple of an answer, but yet so profound.

I watch the couples around me in the big city.  I talk to the people I know about their marriages, their relationships, their lives.  I watch the unhappy struggle to control and mold themselves into what they think their others want and provide services they believe their others need.  But the cost—becoming someone you aren’t to secure something not necessarily securable–is almost more than I can bear to witness.

Could it be possible that the simple answer of wanting to build the same kind of life with someone is really all that it takes?

I feel more resolved than ever to remain single as I drift off to sleep high above the bright lights of the city and begin to dream…

[insert shimmery transition to dream state]

Some friends of mine and I are checking back into the hotel here because we find that our work isn’t finished though we’ve had quite the success.  One of the VIPs, it seems, has specially requested that I help him find just the right Christmas gift for his dog—a tiny chihuahua—in return for treasure.  And my client has agreed that I would be happy to help him.  I’m appalled at the request, I’m angry at the client speaking on my behalf without asking me, and I’m determined to decline.

But the VIP finds me.  ”I can never make this dog stop shaking, and it’s so important to me to find something—anything—that will give him comfort.  He’s all I have.  I would give anything for him to be comfortable.  I believe you are the only one who can accomplish this.  I’ve had so many people try before and nothing has worked.  Please help me.”  With tears gleaming in his eyes and his own hands shaking from age and perhaps nerves, I feel my resolve melt and agree.

The dog and I head out into the city looking, trying, testing.  The dog cowers in my arms, shying away from everything soft, cute, cuddly, warm and comforting.  We enter an outdoors store where everything feels cold and harsh.  The store owner, a handsome man of about 45-50 greets us and asks for our help.  I smile and begin to speak—to tell him no, thank you—when the dog jumps out of my arms and runs to a pile of stacked flooring as rough as sandpaper.

The dog amazingly stands atop and begins scratching his paws on the flooring before settling down and falling fast asleep.

I turn to the owner and begin the arrangements for a purchase, but he seems to know what’s going on and grabs my hand to pull me along as we create a simple, but elaborate, nest for the dog.  As we move this here and place that there, our hands touch, our arms cross, our bodies meet and soon we are watching the dog play happily—and shake free—in his new bed, while I find myself wrapped warmly in the store owner’s embrace feeling drowsy and content.

He kisses my forehead lovingly and invites me to rest for a bit.  I want to accept, but more so I want to stay in the moment soaking up the embrace, the warmth, the comfort, the secureness, and the sense of accomplishment that I share with this man.

My conscious brain tugs at me “this is worth waiting for, wouldn’t you agree?”

Yes.  Yes it is.

A dream to build a kiss on.

Give me a kiss to build a dream on and my imagination will thrive upon that kiss.  Sweetheart, I ask no more than this–a kiss to build a dream on.

–Louis Armstrong

There are several instances when I feel most feminine, and almost all of them happened to me today:

• The wind in my hair, the music turned up and the sunshine on my face
• When I’m cooking for and entertaining the people I care most about
• When I’m ballroom dancing, especially the Waltz or the Tango or the West Coast Swing
• And the last, though not least and sometimes in lieu of the real deal, when reading about romance blooming in a book or watching romance bloom in the movies

It’s as if I’m there, falling in love myself and living the adventure as it unfolds.  Until the kiss.  Then, I am explicitly aware of my surroundings–single on a Saturday night, just me and a bowl of homemade popcorn.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not complaining or sad or lonely or upset or desperate.  I am merely aware.

The logical side of my brain pops up brightly, “You are doing as you ought, raising your daughters and staying focused on your responsibilities.  Your business is taking off.  Your house is coming together nicely.  Your daughters are starting to show the benefits of the extra education and culture.  Don’t go getting all weak-kneed over some fiction that you’ll try to extrapolate into real life and mess this all up!”

The emotional side of my brain doesn’t hear a word of it and sighs, “How romantic!  Perhaps on my next trip, a man like that will find me and kiss me so my foot pops, or my knees go weak,  just like in the movies…”

But my most serious romances are in my dreams–surprisingly frequently.  Often it’s the same man, someone I’ve either not met yet, or someone who lives only in my subconscious.  Either way, he meets me on a fairly regular basis, tells me he believes in me as I face a mountain of homework or the most difficult task at work, or he helps me find my way when I’m truly lost, or gives me a piggy-back ride across rocky terrain, or shows me the world, or gives me a firm but gentle warning when I’m being contrary, or…

Always he holds my hand and gently guides me.  He makes me laugh.  He makes me think.  He accepts me for who I am–completely.  The most striking thing about these rendezvous is that he always treats me like a lady, someone to be cherished and protected and adored…as I adore and care for him.  And I always feel exceptionally feminine.

But we have never kissed.

I wonder, when the kiss comes.  Will my foot pop?  Will I go weak in the knees?  Will I finally stop thinking?  I’ve waited for all these tell-tale signs to occur in real-life kisses since I was a child.  To no avail.

But then again, I’ve never kissed the man from my dreams in my dreams.

The logical side of my brain:  ”You are setting yourself up for disappointment.  To expect that the man from your subconscious ordering process during Rapid Eye Movement stage of the slumber process will be real and the same as your manifestation is a dangerous leap.  All this belief in fairies, and muses, and angels, and sprites, and magic and sfumato has gotten to you.  You had better snap out of it soon or else.”

The emotional side of my brain:  ”OOOOO…I hope I dream about him tonight!  I wonder what I should wear…”

When I’m alone with my fancies, I’ll be with you weaving romances, making believe their true.  So give me your lips for just a moment and my imagination will make that moment live.  Give me what you alone can give, a kiss to build a dream on.

Savvy and Style

It was the first time I’d seen my instructor socially…that is at a dance outside the studio.  Like all the other social dances I’ve attended lately, I was more nervous than excited.  Fortunately, I was becoming more and more comfortable with that cocktail of emotions.

I wandered around the edge of the empty dance floor until I found him sitting at a hightop and asked if I could join him.  He welcomed me warmly and chatted with me lightly for several minutes, talking about the unexpected snow we received this morning, the place, and a brief rundown of how these social dances typically unfold.

The conversation was delightful, and I suddenly realized I hadn’t fully transitioned from the intensity of the philosophical discussion I had just left behind me.  I could tell my instructor sensed my intensity and maybe even my nerves.  I silently appreciated this man more as he soothed me into a calm, gentle creature before introducing me around.

“Let’s dance,” he said suddenly and offered me his hand, leading me to the dance floor.

I momentarily forgot what my feet were supposed to be doing as he launched into the Salsa.  My instructor looked at me gently and winked.  “This is just for fun.  It’s okay.”  He definitely sensed my nerves.

I felt tentative, conscious that everyone was now watching us.  He started a series of intricate spins that I’m not sure I’d been taught before, but I followed them well and was rewarded with a big grin.  I settled into my steps and began to have fun.  More spins. My skirt waved up and out as I moved and a few catcalls echoed from the audience.  My instructor smiled and whispered, “you look great!”

I wasn’t sure if it was a commentary on my entire appearance, my dancing or my skirt action.  Really I didn’t care at that point and beamed back.

He led me all over the floor.  I followed willingly embracing the spirit of the Salsa with every step, having more and more fun with each movement.  The song went on and on.  It felt so good to feel so feminine and flirty on the floor.

When the song ended, the audience gave us a loud round of applause and escorted us off the floor with their eyes–a disproportionate set of male eyes I suddenly realized.  A quick scan told me there were only three other women in this crowded venue.  I felt like a piece of meat momentarily, but as I checked the position of my head and shoulders and realized they were relaxed and in place, I felt comfortable.

While my instructor spoke to the waitress, I looked to see what the three other women were wearing.  I always feel slightly out-of-place at these social dances in my tea-length, a-line skirts and fitted, but conservative scoop-necked shirt.  Sure enough, the other women were sporting tight jeans and revealing tops.  I was definitely overdressed–in many senses of the word.

We were soon joined by others.  At our table, two younger women sat down and were introduced.  I scanned their outfits quickly and confirmed my overdressedness.  A brunette in tight jeans and low-cut top and a blond in bikini-styled neckline on a tight-fitted, flirty, above-the-knee dress.  They were instantly surrounded by men–men who graciously allowed themselves to be introduced to me, but whose gaze never left the necklines of my new table companions.

As the blond left for the increasingly crowded dance floor, the brunette kindly, but slyly, told me I looked nice…then suggested a lower-cut top, something that showed more than my collar-bone,  might be more appropriate for this venue.  My instructor looked to me for my response.

I was momentarily speechless.  “I don’t think I own anything low-cut…” I stammered a bit embarrassed that my overdressedness was so noticeable.  “I’d prefer to inspire the imagination of the group.”  I cautioned myself silently not to be defensive.

The brunette smiled kindly–perhaps patronizingly–shrugged and said “ah, I understand.  I’m not sure this crowd will though.” Her gaze scanned the room.  It was largely Hispanic, and indeed the men were all gazing about a foot lower than eye level as they scanned the room for dance partners.  The rest of the women were kindly obliging in their style.  As if to prove the point, the brunette’s chest was promptly asked to dance.

It was then that I settled into the realization that I’d probably have fewer dance partners over the course of the next several hours.  And indeed I did sit more often than my tablemates who were kept quite busy on the dance floor.  The blond moved effortlessly looking not only natural, but flirty when she wanted to, severe when the flirtation crossed the line beyond what she thought was acceptable.

I wondered again, for the hundredth time, how I looked on the dance floor.

After several dances, the four of us returned to the table and began a discussion about the correct hold in dance.  I had noticed that most of the men dancing with my two female table companions held them on their hip or lower.  And both had seemed uncomfortable throughout those dances.  My instructor surprised me by piping up rather directly “well, perhaps the low-cut tops are an invitation to lower the hold?”

We all jumped, slightly startled.  He pointed out  that I had not had that problem during any of my dances.  True, the men held me appropriately on my shoulder blade.  But I wasn’t sure it was meant to be a compliment.

Then again, the men who asked me to dance differed in many noticable ways from the dance partners of my tablemates.  Most were older, most chatted with me throughout the dance instead of staring at my chest, and most led me on and off the dance floor by hand, arm or guiding me using the small of my back whereas my tablemates had to elbow and jostle their way independently back to the table after a dance.

“Doesn’t that irritate you?” the blond said defiantly after I returned from one such escort and thanked my partner as he pulled out my chair for me.   Shocked, I shot her a look as if to question her sanity.  My instructor laughed and elbowed the brunette.  “This will be good!  The feminist takes on the feminine.”  The blond shot a saucy look at my instructor with a confidence as if to say “I’ve got this covered, thank you.”

I took a sip and settled into myself quietly.  “Absolutely not. Why would it?”

“Women and men are equal now a days.  And I can tell by looking at the way you dress and the way you carry yourself, you’re probably higher than him.  Why wouldn’t you want to show you can do it yourself?”

I could feel myself settle even more into a beautiful balance of listening and participating. “He knows I can do it myself.  He also knows I can do it well.  The question is can he do it well?  So I let him show me because he wants to show me.  You saw how he appreciated it.  So did I.  And everyone’s happy.”

The brunette and my instructor shifted their gaze in unison to the blond to see how she would return the volley.

“I was raised that women could be anything they wanted, and to prove it, you’re hard as concrete during the day.  You can be soft as a flower at night.  But you don’t get ahead, you don’t get respect without that concrete.  You have to take control and do it for yourself.  Don’t you know that?”  Her words and body language hardened with each word.  She reminded me of a younger me.

As natural as the blond had looked on the dance floor, I suddenly appreciated that I was as natural in my femininity.  And I suddenly felt beautiful.

My instructor and the brunette turned to me.

“Sweetheart, I DO do everything for myself.  As sole provider and single mother, trust me, it’s highly overrated,” I continued in a calm voice, smiling gently and sitting more comfortably in my chair.  ”There are lots of smart women, lots of driven women, lots of women who are like concrete.  And for some perhaps it does provide success.  I derive my success from understanding and balancing intelligence, drive and femininity.”

“What, are you a secretary or something?” she laughed irritated.

At my elbow, my instructor blurtied out ”she owns her own company for international marketing.”

The blond pursed her lips and looked at my instructor.

I needed to end this discussion.  She would not be persuaded any more than I would, so it was best to understand her viewpoint and close the topic.

Then my instructor continued almost defiantly startling me, my tablemates and possibly even himself, “she just got certified in international diplomacy and etiquette.”

The blond’s eyes widened and she gasped.  “I know you! We’ve met before.” She suddenly looks more friendly.  “You once spoke about Cinderella and how her fairy godmother didn’t exist.  She created her own rise from servant to princess.”  Her words began to rush together as she continued.  “And you talked about how if you’re treated like a flower girl, you’ll be a flower girl.  If you’re treated as a lady, you’ll be a lady.  My Fair Lady. I tell people about that all the time!”

“And so I let men treat me like a lady.”  I let that sink in for a minute with a direct, focused gaze, holding hers until she looked away.  Then I smiled “It’s part of my charm.” I meant her no harm.  I winked and closed the conversation by turning to acknowledge the gentleman now standing at my elbow.

I enjoyed several more dances, catching glimpses of the blond every now and again always noticing both her natural movements and her battle to keep her partner focused on the dance instead of her chest.  Yes, I could show my cleavage and perhaps have more dance partners.  But quantity isn’t what I expect from dancing.

Dancing–for me–is about how I feel about myself primarily, and how I feel about the person with whom I’m dancing secondarily.

I could be concrete and be more aggressive.  And I would end up just like I did Freshman year in college–frustrated, angry and still on the bottom rung.  That’s not who I am, nor who I want to be.

When I returned to the table the clock told me it was after 2 AM.  Time to head home.  I gathered my wallet and looked to see where my tablemates were so I could say a proper goodbye.  The brunette and blond were fighting the crowd to reach the table, but I didn’t see my instructor.  I reached for my jacket and instead watched faceless hands pull it off the chair then offer it to me.  I graciously stuck my arms in it and turned my head to thank…my instructor.

“I’ll walk you out,” he announced to me and the girls as he took my hand in his.

“Hey!  You never do that for me.” The blond and brunette protested somewhere between amusement and irritation.

“You never appreciate it,” he responded simply then turned to lead me to the door.

I silently hope the blond appreciated to how easily I moved through the crowd as my instructor cleared and protected me from their jostling, how graceful I looked stepping out into the early morning darkness through the door opened for me, and I hope she appreciated how protected and safe I felt walking through a dark parking lot to my car.

I certainly appreciated it.