Confusion

What is the difference between pain and fear, between shame and guilt, between sadness and sorrow?  I would normally turn to a dictionary to find out, but today as I feel some mix of these things, I turn to my heart.

I had a date last night, attending a dinner party with strangers and friends and someone I like very much.  I had a GREAT time!  Probably the best time I’ve had in a long time.

But the entire event has created some deep confusion.  To start with, while I was trying to figure out what to wear I discovered that I like to wear clothes that make me feel confident and badass — but also that tend to blend in with the background.  That isn’t how I wanted to feel on this date.  I wanted to feel beautiful and maybe even sexy.

But confidence is beautiful, right?  And yet, perhaps my confident is more like an armor.  So maybe what I really wanted to feel is attractive and a touch vulnerable.  What does that look like?  I did my best to find that outfit, settling on a bright top that moved gracefully around my skin and ballet leggings with a bow on the back that felt lovely to me…but in the end, I think my outfit still ended up more on the side of armor than I intended.

Why?

I found myself easily enjoying conversation with my date and the other people of the evening.  I’m a sociable person at heart and perhaps have always been a bit chatty…with a tendency toward deep topics.  This is who I am, and yet, throughout the evening, I kept feeling like I was standing out too much, talking too much, BEING too much.  I even found myself APOLOGIZING for it to my date and to the host!

Why?

My daughter tells me this makes everyone uncomfortable, and that makes me feel worse.  Worse?  But I had a GREAT time!  Why do I feel bad and worse?

This morning, I can’t stop feeling a bit upset about it all.  I didn’t do anything wrong.  In fact, people seemed to really like me as I was…enough that two of the couples at the dinner party suggested we do it again sometime.  My friends who were there told me they were happy to see me so happy–in fact “happier, that we’ve seen you in a long time.”  And my date said we would definitely get together again soon after he kissed me goodnight.

And then I had the thought…”Maybe I don’t like myself.”

That’s ridiculous!  Until I realize, it’s true.

I have this vision of the “perfect” me who is quiet, and gentle, and responsive to others, who doesn’t stand out, who is easily forgettable and generously supportive to everyone who crosses my path.  Except, I don’t think I’ve ever had a quiet volume setting; while I can be gentle, I spend most of my time studying martial arts and tend toward directness sometimes to the point of harshness; I’m not one to follow the crowd,  so blending in doesn’t really work; and I’m sufficiently unconcerned with doing things the “normal” way which tends to make people remember me.  As for generously supportive…well, I can be generous, but have recently discovered that might be armor too.

So that “perfect” me isn’t me at all.

A wise sage whose teachings I value said recently “[Enlightenment] is about connection not perfection.  Perfectionism always leads to individualism—as if the individual could ever be perfect.” (Father Richard Rohr, Daily Meditation Friday, Feb 7, 2020) And this in turn makes me think of my favorite philosopher, George Lucas “The First Order wins by making us think we’re alone. We’re not alone.”  (Poe, The Rise of Skywalker)

In searching for the accurate wording of that quote, I find another of Lucas’s gems that seems to leap off the page at me “What makes you unique makes you strong.  Yourself you must always be.” (Yoda, Forces of Destiny)

So maybe to clear up my emotional confusion I need to stop asking the questions “who am I?” and “who do I want to be?” — because I already know the answers — and instead embrace myself…or as George Lucas would say “In a dark place, we find ourselves.  And a little more knowledge lights our way.” (Yoda, Revenge of the Sith)

Equinox

The weather hasn’t changed yet outside, but suddenly sitting in a coffee shop working today, I feel the change happening.

The coffee shop is absolutely charming!  Renovated from an old store front in a still largely depressed part of town, it is lit with a hundred old-fashioned-style light bulbs with visible yellow filaments hanging from wood beams and metal rings scattered throughout.  The hardwood is original, and all the furniture pieces are a deep mahogany brown to match the floor, including the leather chairs and copper rocking chairs.

Behind me, a young couple reads the Bhagavad Gita aloud — he with long blond hair hanging freely to his waist, she with a shaven head. Their sing-song tone lulls me into a deep calm so much so that I get up to refresh my coffee to help keep me awake while I work.

The barista-cashier is a very tall young person with a wrist tattoo that reads “Protect Trans children.”  I’m not sure of this person’s gender, but who cares when the smile is so warm and genuine!

Back at my table, two women have just claimed the long table by the window.  They greet each other with formal handshakes and introduce themselves.  Then they spend the next 15 minutes sharing names of connections they think the other will know, and why they might want to meet them if they don’t know that person already.

The older woman (slender in TIGHT mid-calf blue jeans and nautical style tank top showing off her very tan skin under her bleached blond hair) tells the younger woman (pleasantly feminine showing through despite her floor-length denim skirt and long-sleeved flowered blouse) about her gender transformation surgery.  She used to be a man.  And her voice sounds so much like John Travolta as Edna Turnblat that I have to keep peeking at her to make sure it isn’t John/Edna.

I SOOOOO want to join them…but my Slack and IM and email and phone keep flashing reminding me to stay focused on the tasks at hand.

But how can I when the older woman tells how along the gender transformation journey, she discovered she had shamanic gifts.  She regales the younger woman (and unknowingly, me) with stories about her training, her teachers, book recommendations and rituals that might be helpful in times of confusions or depression.  She lightly beats the table to imitate a drum circle beat and for awhile it matches perfectly with the Gita recitation behind me.

I close my eyes and feel my body floating.

When my phone buzzes and I open my eyes, I see another group has joined us in this space.  Three elderly people take seats in the copper and leather rocking chairs to my right and begin talking about their plans for a Bible study at this weekend’s church service.  They pray to Jesus, their Savoir, and then fill their individual cups with so much creamer I worry they will spill when they drink.

Another person with backpack and laptop sets up at a table in the corner.  The table is a  converted desk from a sewing machine stand.  He puts on earphones, I guess to drown out the pulsing tango-esque music playing in the room.  I focus for a minute and feel the pulse through my feet in the floor, my arms resting on the table and see it in my laptop screen gently vibrating as well.  Why would he want to drown that out?  It’s as lovely as the drum beat and chanting that just wrapped in our shared space.

I miss tangoing.

A young woman sits down at the table vacated by the Gita reciters and begins to apply henna to her arms and hands.  It is beautiful!  My hands look dull and boring in comparison.  I wish I had some lotion.

An older woman in a business suit zips by outside the floor-to-ceiling windows on a rented electronic scooter, and crossing her path, an even older woman in bicycling attire turns onto the road to join the car traffic flowing by.

Another woman, dressed stylishly in leopard print and bejeweled flip flops sits down at the leather love seat and opens a romance novel.  Between flipping pages, she carefully breaks off pieces of a poppy seed muffin with her long blood-red-painted fingernails.

A young black couple, both dressed in tie dye t-shirts, walk in and while they wait for their tea, talk about about design school assignments, and how to find a good bagel in town, and where to buy the best goat meat nearby.

Which reminds me, it’s past lunch time and goat meat sounds wonderful!

Before I pack up though, I take a moment to enjoy the fact that my working on project plans and corporate spreadsheets is the abnormal activity of this moment and location.

Where am I?  I’m surprised as you might be to confirm that I’m still in my tiny spot of Earth in Midwest USA.

Change is definitely the path we’re on.  And I’m so glad!

Seduction

I am being seduced by the sun.

I, who own more turtleneck sweaters than tank tops, find myself peeling off clothes with fervor so nothing is between him and my body.  Lingering in his hot embrace until sweat pours down my skin like a lovers touch after an intimate encounter.  Stretching catlike with a glass of wine to just listen to my heart beat while I watch him set out across the Western horizon, maybe even feeling excited anticipation once he’s gone knowing that now even if I wanted him, I have to wait.  Rising at his early arrival willingly despite heavy eyelids and half-dreaming.

Yes, I’m talking about the glowing orb in the sky who life really does revolve around, and not a mortal man.  But maybe you, who are still dedicated to The Art of Femininity, can help me explain this change.

Perhaps it’s because for the past 12 months the sun has been hiding behind a curtain of clouds over the little spot of Earth I have called home…and in traveling, I have encountered him anew.

Perhaps it’s because as my daughters have now left the nest, my role has shifted from mother back to woman, and like the Sleeping Beauty in a new telling of the old story, my inner Maleficent has decided to awaken the passionate woman I had promised to be.

Perhaps it’s a result of changing my eating and exercise habits.  Or I’ve been reading too many books about Norse and Greek mythology where seduction is a norm for both gods and mortals alike.

Or maybe I’m like Caeneus after his chariot accident on the island of Lemnos and my protective masculine-like personality has receded leaving me feminine once more.

Or it’s hormonal.  Or magic…

Regardless of reason, I wanted you to know.  I’m back.

Return to Femininity

Where have the past four years gone?  Well, for me, it went to masculinity.  I think I became a man.

No, not physically.  But definitely behaviorally, and possibly emotionally too.

Fortunately, for the past six months (or longer) I’ve had a recurring dream that a man was strangling me.  At least once a week I awake scared, tired and out of breath.  When I finally tired of being tired and scared from it, I sought help.

Help found me laying on sun soaked boulders high above crashing waves on a remote island that was once dedicated to the goddess Artemis.  I saw her standing there watching me, and I felt at peace.  As I surrendered to exhaustion, the dream started again.

The man wanted my money.  He wanted my energy.  He wanted to enslave me and silence me.  He gripped my neck tightly.  I could feel my oxygen being cut off.  And just when I would normally awake sputtering and coughing, I found myself relaxing in my dream.

Still asleep, I lifted my head and looked him in the eyes, gently.  I put my hands on his, softly.  I said “it’s okay” quietly.  And he let go.  We held hands for a few minutes simply looking each other in the eye.  He was me.  And I was she.

In those moments, I saw myself as a single mom, running my own business, volunteering in my community, and trying to fulfill the expectations of everyone around me while I held everything together, paid all the bills and tried to be perfect.  I see that the mask of masculinity was a gift to help me survive.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped taking the mask off because it was easier …or safer.

Now I see that mask has been suffocating me, probably far longer than just the past four years.  But, what—I wonder—does it mean to be feminine?

If I take the mask off, who am I?  What does it mean to be a feminine me?  Is she strong enough to survive?

As I ask myself these questions even now, sitting in a coffee shop near my spot of Earth, the little girl running around let’s out a squeal of delight.  She is wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt.  She stops at my table, touches my hand and smiles at me.  Behind her, someone on the staff is hanging a large painting of two women selling bread.  She turns, and I see her name is Artie.

And just like that Artemis is here too.  “It’s okay,” she says quietly.

Soundtrack at an airport

Dear Gentle Penguin,

I have to admit something rather silly. I enjoy sitting in airports. I enjoy watching people walk by wondering where they’re going, where they’ve come from, what purpose drives them.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that sInce I’m in the airport, it means I’m going to and coming from somewhere too.

I admit to another secret—a guilty one. I usually have my earbuds firmly in place and enjoy the soundtrack the music gives to the motion around me. Like conferring stories upon everyone. And giving me a secret power of insight into life.

Josh Groban tells me to not give up, that I am loved as a cranky 20-something, tan, muscled kid berates an over-obliging waitress with too many tables. Perhaps she needs encouragement. Or he has been jilted by his first love.

Al Stewart tells me about the dubious year of the cat as a young couple quarrels over something the gentleman obviously doesn’t understand…or will not grasp. She yells, rolls her eyes and gestures dramatically while he looks beaten and desperate.

And Karen Carpenter explains away my growing sense of isolation and loneliness by reminding me that Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

…Nothing is really wrong, feeling like I don’t belong. Walking around, some kind of lonely clown…What I feel has come and gone before. No need to talk it out. We know what it’s all about.

Silent tears stream down my cheeks. They are not logical in the least. And I’m well aware. But it doesn’t matter. They fall anyway.

This will not do. I wipe them off and decide to move around. Children run and squeal in the passage way. Teenagers show off their tans in seemingly indecent locations on their bodies. Men talk on phones; women text.

I am accidentally pushed into a store by a speeding golf cart with elderly passengers brandishing canes. And I find myself face to face with a tri-striped ring reading “True Love Waits.”

“You wish to buy?” asks a small, elderly woman at my elbow. I startle. And she takes advantage of my silence to press the ring on my finger. Not the traditional ring finger, but the middle finger next to it.

“There! It’s a perfect fit,” she says as she moves to the cash register as if to say the deal is done. I slide the ring up and down several of my fingers thinking of both practical matters as well as romantic ones.

The soundtrack changes and I listen to see if it offers me guidance. I have almost 2,000 songs on my iPod. I trust it’s direction.

You won’t admit you love me, and so, how am I ever to know. You always tell me ‘perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.’ A million times I ask you, and then I ask you over again. You only answer again ‘perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.’ If you can’t make your mind up, we’ll never get started. And I don’t want to wind up being parted, broken-hearted.

Quite frankly, that doesn’t help.

The ring that easily slid up and down several of my fingers moments ago seems to be stuck on itself. I look at it more closely to see if I can unravel it.

“Waits” reads clearly on the outer ring.

“Come, you know it is the right ring for you,” the old lady persists from the counter…smiling sweetly. I love old ladies. And she looks like trouble, but I find that makes me only love her more. I decide to buy the ring to please her. Why not. My moonstone ring was destroyed in a pool-side chaise-readjustment accident earlier this weekend.

The soundtrack changes.

I know just how to whisper. And I know how to cry. I know just where to find the answers, and I know just how to lie. I know just how to fake it, and I know just how to scheme. I know just when to face the truth, and then I know just when to dream. I know just where to touch you. And I know just what to prove. … And I know the road to riches, and I know the ways to fame. I know all the rules, and then I know how to break ’em, and I always know the name of the game.

My head swims, and I see a parade of men. Good men, bad men, misunderstood men, smart men, sick men, ambitious men, men with dreams, men with practical views, real men, fairy tell men. Men I knew yesterday. A man I knew today. A man I dreamed of once. Men that may only exist in my dreams. I feel dizzy. I feel lost and more than a bit sea-sick.

’cause everything I know, well it’s nothing till I give it to you.

The old lady reaches out her hand staring deep into my eyes. I fell like I’m caught in Kaa’s hypnosis. I hand over my money. She hands back a bill and a handful of change, some of which drops to the floor and begins rolling around.

The old lady is laughing. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does. The trance is broken. I stoop in my dress to start gathering up what I can. Several other heads have disappeared among the racks and shelves around me.

Pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters. They’re everywhere. A pair of a gym shoes blocks me from the last coin,

“Here,” says a slightly perturbed voice in an Irish accent belonging to the gym shoes. It’s the irritated, tan, overly muscled kid from the Josh Groban part of the soundtrack. He places the coins in my hand and notes the string bracelet I always wear. “Cool,” he says pointing at it.

I smile and thank him. He shrugs, turns and leaves just as Tears for Fears tell me he, like everybody, wants to rule the world. I laugh out loud. Probably true…but if I learned nothing this weekend, it was that I really Do NOT. Perhaps I am looking for a King. I like being led by a capable, trustworthy person. I prefer, instead, the role of chief of staff…or First Lady. Somehow it feels the only right answer sometimes.

And on cue, the music skips.

Ah… My heart stops, my breath catches and I feel the tears threatening like storms.

… How did it feel to be alone? I was always thinking of games that I was playing. Trying to make the best if my time. But only love can break your heart. Try to be sure right from the start. Yes, only love can break your heart. What if your world should fall apart?

Sigh…I fall into critical self reflection of moments both new and old in my life, followed by self deprecation and some loathing as the soundtrack continues. A young woman is crying while her man is handing her a handkerchief.

Do young people use handkerchiefs again?

Why does the thought of it inspire more hope than I’ve had in ages?

Love only comes once in awhile. Knocks on your door. Throws you a smile. Takes every breath. Leaves every scar. Speaks to your soul. Sings to your heart.

I’m frozen in place.

“Yes, TRUE love waits,” said the old woman again at my elbow.

The music changes…and seems to skip about like a scratch on a record.

And if you have a minute why don’t we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything,
So why don’t we go…

It’s time to find my gate. My flight is boarding.

In love in a movie

“That’s your problem,” I can hear Rosie O’Donnell telling me as if she’s sitting on my couch eating popcorn. “You don’t want to be in love; you want to be in love in a movie.”

I want to argue with her, but she’s just a voice in my head—a quote that flickers to the surface from a movie AFTER I watch a movie and wish to high heaven that I was in love instead of trapped in some spiral of seemingly endless singleness.

I wonder if she’s right.

I went to see The Hundred-Foot Journey tonight.  It was a spur of the moment decision.  I think my phone buzzed and instead of it being a message from a person (preferably male, single, straight, sane, employed, smart and polite), it was a text marketing message about a new tea blend created to celebrate the launch of The Hundred-Food Journey movie.  

Of course.  

It fits right in.  Five minutes before that I was having a tantrum about how I’ve lost complete control over my time and my life once again—of course perfectly timed to coincide with the first opportunity I’ve had for romance in a long time.  The tantrum was really dramatic—I cried, I cursed, I slammed doors, I yelled, and I wondered what the hell was wrong with me the entire time.  

So when the tea text came, I bought my late-night ticket and told my daughters to not worry about waiting up.  Then I bolted out the door and raced into the completely empty theater.

Stunning.  The movie was stunning.  I loved every minute of it.  The only way it could possibly have been better was if I had a person (preferably male, single, straight, sane, employed, smart and polite) to snuggle with during the movie, and if we had curry afterwards.

But truth be told, my tantrum was mostly about fear.  Fear that romance might be done with me.  Fear that people don’t fall in love anymore.  Fear that what I know to be love no longer exists.

Tonight, while wasting an exorbitant amount of time at an event designed purely to waste people’s time (in hopes it will help fundraising chances, I’m sure), I watched couples walking together.  With few exceptions, the older the couple, the more likely they were to be holding hands.  And, likewise, the younger the couple, the more likely they were to NOT be holding hands.  In fact, I saw a young man try to hold hands with the girl he was with and she purposefully twisted his arm till he yelled out and let go.

There’s a scene very much like that in the movie, and when it happened in the movie, I have to tell you Gentle Penguin, I hurt so badly I almost yelled out.  But that’s one of the things about watching a movie in a theater.  I sometimes think it’s easier to feel emotion sitting completely alone in a darkened room with surround sound.

Another time in the movie, the main antagonist tells one of her main cohorts “your bombs did their job.  We will now find peace thanks to your act of war.”  And I cried.  Tears rolled down my face and I wasn’t even quite sure why other than I’m a woman.  

But that’s another thing.  In the movies, men are men as I learned about them.  In this movie, for example, the hero takes risks and goes out of his way time and again to show his love interest that he admires her, cares for her, values her thoughts and opinions, misses her, loves her.  He sometimes looks like a fool, or gets hurt.  It wasn’t convenient for him.  It wasn’t easy.  Yet, he did it anyway.  

I like to believe that’s a sign of hope that love as I know it exists, but that’s where Rosie’s voice cut me short.

Is that idea of a man taking charge, taking risks, and staying true to what he believes a thing only of movies?  If this is only of the movies, then it’s settled.  I want to be in love only in the movies.  

Unlike reality, though, movies end and we leave the theater to return to life.

I hear another voice in my head “Where are all the men in this town?  What’s a girl supposed to do?  Did they all run off when they knew that I was coming round?”  

I know that voice is a direct reflection on the fact that with few exceptions, when I leave town it’s as if I become visible to men again.  True, it could be a perceptional shift—I’m not in my normal circles where I may have the tendency to be on autopilot; they are likely not in their normal circles either.  Perhaps we’re all dressing a little better, behaving a little better, feeling a little better.  But doesn’t that beg a point about how we dress, behave and pay attention in our everyday lives?

Is traveling like being in a movie then?  Forget the pesky details like making the bed, taking out the trash, unloading the dishwasher, mowing the lawn, etc .  That’s all done magically without our effort and knowledge.  Our wardrobe is carefully selected, perhaps even pressed!  And when you leave your room—especially for conferences or business travel—you’re alert and you’re on.  Lights, Camera, Action!

Then it’s finished, and it’s back to reality.  The trash and dishes have piled up while you were away.  Autopilot kicks back in easily, naturally.  And once again, there is no hope for any kind of romance that will make my heart beat wildly.  

At least until the Second Exotic Marigold Hotel movie comes out in 2015.

 

Everywhere Shoes

One of my favorite parts of summer is discovering my everywhere shoes.

What are everywhere shoes, you ask?

Well, Gentle Penguin, they are shoes that go everywhere you want to go.  They look like they belong on a cobblestone street in Sicily as well as on a grassy hill in an enchanted Irish forest.  They match my evening dress at a classical concert, but can also stand up to a swing dance at the river’s edge.  And they transition seamlessly from the board room to the dog park.

Now, I know there are shoe makers out there who advertise versatile shoes—and I’ve tried a few of them—but in the end, they usually end up soggy and smelly after a mishap with a rogue wave or puddle.  Or they look so dingy with a dress so that I have to buy a different pair of shoes inconveniently and expensively.  Or a hole appears in the mesh or sole after a few full days of use.

I’ve given up considering them anymore, mostly because I’ve learned an everywhere shoe will usually just appear.

This year, my everywhere shoes are a pair of nude ballet flats…not the Michael Kors or even the Steve Maddens—one pair of which wore through after a few big band nights, and the other of which stretched after a weekend conference so that the right show refused to stay on my foot after that.  When I tired of trying to curl my toes on my right foot to keep the Steve Maddens on at the end of that spring, I broke down and bought a pair of Target brand nude ballet flats on markdown.

Those are the shoes that have accompanied me night and day since.

I’ve tallied it up—these shoes have been to five board meetings, 17 client presentations, and approximately 30 networking events.  They’ve accumulated more than 500,000 steps at the dog park; 200,000 steps volunteering at Hospice; and 100,000 steps walking from my car to the soccer fields and back for matches and practices.

They have been in most of the pubs in my community to watch every World Cup match (except Brazil v. Columbia), to three big band swing dances, and a handful of rummage sales.  They have traipsed through corn fields to take pictures of round barns, slid through mud patches on an orienteering expedition, raced through puddles during downpours in downtown, and strolled among the grapevines in some local vineyards.

Together we’ve shopped, picnicked, bicycled, tangoed, jumped rope, and even mowed the grass once.  Next week, we’re going to our local beach to sun on the sand.

And they still look great!

Everywhere shoes 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But that’s the first thing about a good everywhere shoe.  You see, looking back, I notice a few similarities among the best everywhere shoes:

• Beautiful.  Every pair of everywhere shoes I’ve loved were dress shoes—meaning I found them in the dress shoe department and their first intent was to look good. They weren’t sold as versatile or sporting, they were sold to be worn dressed up.
• Flat.  A good pair of everywhere shoes must have flat soles without any padding or lining.  They provide a sturdy flat surface on which to place your foot when stepping on any kind of surface—wet or dry.  And without the padding, they dry easily as well.
• Simple.  With one exception, my everywhere shoes were a neutral shade and simple—no patterns or decoration.  (The exception was the pair of Payless sandals with copper-colored plastic gemstones that I wore all over the Mediterranean and Northern Africa and Nova Scotia and Ohio one summer.)
• Inexpensive.  There’s something to be said for some of these cheap faux leathers that are more plastic than rawhide.  They stand up to the elements well and clean like a dream.  I thought I had ruined my nude flats this summer after I mowed the grass with them on; they turned green!  But a little bit of soap and a little more elbow grease had them nude again in no time.

There is one sad thing about owning a pair of everywhere shoes—I rarely wear any other shoes until the weather turns cold.  Sure, I often admire other women’s strappy heels, and I even contemplated buying a pair of wedges that tie at the ankle a couple of weeks ago.

But I’ve learned that even if I succumb to the temptation and buy other shoes, at the start of each day, I’ll choose the everywhere shoes.  Why?  Because I know they, and they alone, will see me through whatever the Fates and Muses have planned for my feet.

Have and Have Not

It was inevitable. I opened myself to the thought of dating and soon found myself on a date. He was my type too—single, straight, sane, employed and intelligent. We’d met through a client and had great conversation during my first writing project there. I respected his expertise and interest in solving a big problem; he respected my ability to turn his passion into messages that others could relate to and do something with.

So, when he asked me to go to dinner with him, I found I wasn’t the slightest bit awkward like I experienced at the coffee shop of my last writing. We agreed to meet at a restaurant that suited our respective locations and at a time that suited our respective schedules.

I arrived early and sat comfortably observing the people around me. A young couple was struggling to control their irate toddler. A fashionably dressed professional couple were shooting looks of disdain at the young couple and toddler. A group of young professionals was laughing, tossing their hair and tossing back colorful drinks in upside down umbrella cups.

Thirty minutes later, and twenty minutes late, he showed up. I had assumed it was the traffic, which can be notoriously bad at dinner time during the work week. I shifted my attention away from the people around me to him.

He had barely sat when he snapped his fingers and called the waitress over. He ordered his food without looking at the menu and dismissed the waitress. I must have looked as stunned as I felt. “I’m sorry,” he said looking a bit awkward after glancing at me, “I’m really hungry. I sat down for a bit after the gym and fell asleep. When I woke up, I realized I was supposed to be here.”

Well, that explained the gym attire. And the tardiness, which hadn’t bothered me too much. It did now.

The waitress returned and embarrassedly asked me if I wanted anything to eat. “No,” he answered for me quickly, “she’s already eaten.”

The waitress looked at me unsure of what to do.

“Actually, I haven’t. I was waiting for you as is the courtesy.” I asked the waitress for a small appetizer and another glass of wine.

Then I turned my attention to a trick I learned while working for a group of sometimes socially awkward researchers. Whenever they would say something thoughtless or demeaning, instead of getting upset, I would rub my thumbnail against my finger. Somehow, the sharpness of the tactile feeling redirected my attention away from their behavior and helped me keep my calm.

I also took a silent deep breath. Then I changed the subject to let him talk about things I knew he enjoyed.

When the food arrived, he immediately dug in. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t wait for my food (which had not arrived), but rather the fact that he continued to talk with a mouth full of food that ended any chance the date might have still had.

My food arrived three minutes later. He seemed surprised by the interruption. Then he seemed to have a passing moment of remorse, apologizing with his mouth full and telling me his dish tastes like crap if it gets cold.

I nibbled a bit while he continued talking. He called the waitress over and ordered dessert. I asked the waitress to box up my food and bring my bill. “Will this be one check or two,” she asked.

Before I could answer, he cleared his throat and looked me in the eye then studied the table intently. “Two,” I said relieved. He looked up a little surprised and said, “really, I mean…okay. We could’ve done one.” The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away as he told me that the last time he’d gone to dinner, the girl he was with volunteered to pick up the check and insisted on paying.

I couldn’t help it, I laughed.

“Lucky you,” I said quickly signing my bill and standing to go, “I’m not that kind of girl.”

He also stood. His cake had arrived and he really looked surprised. “Oh, are you leaving? I thought we could share my cake and walk around then maybe go back to my place…”

I laughed again. “No, really. I’m not that kind of girl.”

As I walked to my car, I tried to figure out why it had gone so wrong.  Should I have been more spontaneous and casual like he seemed to be? Was I being a snob for my irritation at his complete disregard for courtesy? I felt my walls start rising.

I congratulated myself on keeping my cool. And I was once again that automatron I sometimes fear myself to be—with no feelings and no emotion. I decided to withdraw.

But the Fates, ever so watchful and ready to help, had me well in hand.

The very next day was cold and rainy as I traveled out of town for my daughter’s soccer tournament. Her dad was responsible for her transport this time so between games, I found a nice pub to warm up. I ordered the stew and a pint and settled in to watch the goings-on around me.

As I surveyed the pub, I discovered a gentleman standing at my elbow.

“Sorry to startle you ma’am,” he said in a deep Texas drawl. “I was wonderin’ if you might let me buy you a pint when this one is empty. Is this seat taken?”

He was tall and weathered with a brown tooth where he favored his nicotine habit—not my type at all—but I accepted, partly because my femininity was still bruised, and partly because he smelled good. He was wearing jeans, and had on a crisp blue and white striped button-up shirt. And as he sat he introduced himself, held out his hand, and gave mine a nice strong one-handed, two-pump handshake.

He asked where I was from and why I was there. Then he did the most amazing thing! He listened. He asked follow up questions. He didn’t rush me, but when my glass was empty, he asked again if he could buy my next drink. “If you were plannin’ to have another, that is.”

I was, and I accepted.

I asked him about himself, and he told me about oil drilling engineering, pausing frequently to make sure I was interested as he talked. I had a hundred question. He answered and even apologized when he spoke rather passionately about the true affect of oil on our environment from his oilman’s perspective. I have to admit, I found it fascinating.

Then we talked about Russian politics and religion!

Granted, I love learning about new topics and talking to new people (especially about Russian politics and religion), and it was nice to have him buy me a drink. But I’m pretty sure the beauty of this encounter had more to do with the way he paid attention to me as he talked, the way he listened when I talked, the way he considered my point of view and didn’t try to force his, the way he stood when I dropped my napkin and went to retrieve it, the way he scooted my chair up for me as I resat, the way he treated the waitress and bartender with courtesy…

Knowing I was watching my time and had to be at my daughter’s next game; knowing we weren’t going back to his place or anywhere else for recreational activities; knowing that we’d likely never cross paths again, he still paid attention to me as if I were important.

Instead of an automatron, I felt like a lovely, lively person.  I liked it.

So it seems I must change my list—I’m looking for a single, straight, sane, employed man. Intelligent and cultured preferred, but well-mannered is a must.

Warm up

I’ve been on a mission for the past two years to live more naturally.  I’ve changed to no-processed food, started my own garden, and changed my cleaning products to mostly baking soda, lemon juice and vinegar.  I’ve also researched and begun using natural health options—a daily spoonful of local honey to help reduce allergies, hot tea and cold compresses for headaches, apple cider vinegar as hair rinse and skin toner.

But I couldn’t help notice there was one change I’d been reluctant to make.  Since my youngest daughter was born (almost 14 years ago), I have been on the pill.  Not because there’s a chance of my getting pregnant, but to control my cycle.

I’d like to say that my dedication to natural health led me to stop taking it, but it was a combination of complications and hassles that forced the issue.  So, three weeks ago, I stopped taking it.

I’ve been watching myself carefully to see if I notice any change. I have.  In addition to being less tired, I seem to be softening—not falling apart, but perhaps losing my edge.

I first noticed it one day about a week after.  I caught myself gazing out my office window watching a young couple walk down the street holding hands.  I was trying to remember what that felt like with fingers intertwined, skin touching another’s.

Okay, I’m pretty sure I’ve thought about it before.  So, no big deal.

A few days later, while watching TV on which there was a lot of talking about kissing, I found myself touching my lips, wondering if they were still soft, trying to remember what kissing felt like.  My lips felt sort of soft, I decided, but maybe a good honey-sugar scrub after I brushed my teeth and before I showered wouldn’t hurt…you know, just in case…

“Just in case what?” I scoffed at myself.  “In case I have a reason to kiss someone soon?  Most of the men around here are married or gay!”

“It could happen!” I defended myself to myself.

I started to feel a little longing.

That longing has done nothing but grow ever since.  Now, where I used to think about business strategies for local entrepreneurs, and scheduling logistics for my daughters, and ways to spread the word about joie de vivre, I find myself lost in thoughts of candlelit dinners, picnics with wine, snuggling in thunderstorms, moonlit escapes to watch meteor showers—all with a man.  Just one man—preferably one who is single, straight, smart, good and kind.

Though it’s been coming on slowly, I’ve been as aware of it’s increase as if it were a wart growing on my face…until yesterday when I felt almost suffocated with longing for romance, a lover, to be soft and flirtatious and feminine.  I honestly though that side of me had died, or matured!  I marveled at it, but found no reason to worry.

So after a meeting at one of my client’s office, I stopped at a local bakery/coffee shop to finish up my notes.

“Excuse me,” a male voice said…no, really! I looked up and confirmed it wasn’t my imagination pulling me back into romantic fantasies.  “Can I borrow this chair?”

I looked around—first, to make sure he was talking to me (he was); and second, to try to figure out why he needed my chair when we were practically the only two people in the nearly empty place.

I looked back at him, and he smiled.  My stomach fluttered a little startling me.

“By all means, be my guest.” I said graciously, while I prayed I didn’t have gas.

He sat down.

At my table.

Across from me.

I admit, I panicked.  What the hell was I supposed to do now?!!!

I closed my client notebook and flipped my phone deftly into my pocket before grabbing my cup of tea.  Then I smiled hoping it didn’t look fake.  I felt a little fake sitting there with an attractive man at my table.

I quickly assessed—he was dressed casually in jeans, but neatly, and didn’t have a wedding ring on, nor an indentation or tan line that would imply he’d recently taken one off.  He was carrying a laptop bag and a cup of dark coffee.  No cream, no sugar by the look and smell of it.  He also smelled like sunshine, so he must have just come in.

He introduced himself, and we shook hands.  Firm, warm grip.  Palm-on-palm contact.  A little rough, not manicured, but not messy either.  My stomach did another flip, and I paid careful attention to it this time.  It didn’t feel gassy.  It felt terrifying.  And exciting.

I was preparing for small talk, but he sidestepped that going straight for banter.  I did the best I could trying to sound like I knew what I was doing and perfectly comfortable doing it.  However, I’m pretty sure it came across as I-haven’t-done-this-in-a-long-time-and-have-no-clue-what-to-say-next.

To his credit, he seemed perfectly comfortable and charming.  We parried for nearly 15 minutes.  I could feel myself starting to sweat with the effort of keeping up.

Then my phone beeped.  I blushed, whispered “shit” rather loudly, tried to pull the phone from my pocket—tugged again as it was stuck, and nearly threw it across the bakery.

“Shit,” again.

I tried to get up, but was stuck on the booth-side in the corner. Conscious that my full panic was visible and demanding that I recover immediately, I watched him watch me and tried to laugh.  It sounded stupid.  He still seemed perfectly at ease—perhaps because I obviously wasn’t.

He stood, retrieved my phone without looking at it, and handed it back to me.

“I’m sorry,” I said blushing so hard the skin on my face actually felt like it might tear. “I have a meeting with a client across town.  That was my reminder to get going so I’m not late.”

He sat back down.  “Then I should let you be on your way,” he said calmly. “I enjoyed talking with you, Monica.”  When he said my name, my stomach flipped a bit harder than last time.  But by now I was so furious with myself, I was focused solely on not crying.

CRYING!?  Why in the world was I about to cry?!

What has happened to me?  What happened to the woman who could stand strong in any situation—calm, cool, collected—but who could also talk to a man without wanting to cry or stare at his lips wondering if they’re soft and warm?  (they looked soft and warm…)

I gathered my things determined to avoid looking at him, but fully aware that he was still looking at me…sipping his darned coffee that smelled so good, leaned back comfortably in his chair, his left leg lifted so that his ankle rested on his right knee, and his Harley boots staring me straight in the face making my stomach flip again.

Damnit!  I considered giving him my business card, then stopped myself.  He hadn’t offered his, nor asked for mine.  I didn’t even remember if he told me his last name.  What’s proper?  I didn’t even know and was running out of thought processing ability.

Still averting his gaze, I closed my eyes and took a deep, silent breath.  Maybe just a tiny romance to take the edge off?

Except that’s not who I am.

Then again, I’m not normally a complete nutcase.  Does that mean I was never me to begin with, or I’m not me now.

I stood up to go and offered a genuine smile this time along with my hand.  I know my eyes looked apologetic, but there was nothing I could do about it.  Adjusting them would only look strange and perhaps twitch my face even more strangely.

He hesitated a moment staring me straight in the eyes.  Then he leaned forward, took my hand, pumped it the desired two times and just held it.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…was he going to let go?  His palm was pressed directly into mine, and it felt so good.  I didn’t want him to let go.

But after a few beats more, he did.  And I was free to leave for my meeting.

As I turned to walk away, I suddenly felt a twinge in my side.  I instinctively put my hand on it.  Was it gas afterall?

No, it was the same hurt I felt after sprinting the time trials for the one-mile course at college ROTC the very first time after summer vacation.  A good stretch and some practice usually ensured it didn’t hurt the next time.

So maybe that’s what it was…a reminder that warming up is wise for those of us who have lost practice.  And practice is a natural way to prepare for the real deal.

Someday.

Generation gap

Ever day is one day closer to my oldest daughter, Kate’s, inevitable nest leaving. While I’m excited for her and happy to see her flapping her wings strongly and surely, I’m also nervous and anxious about it too.

“What if…” becomes the recurring question in my head and sometimes out of my mouth as I spring pop quiz after pop quiz at her. Sometimes her answers make me less anxious; sometimes more. And sometimes she say stuff just to watch in amusement as another dark curl on my head tightens and pops back completely gray. I swear, if it’s quiet enough, you can hear it happen…like popcorn.

But in the quiet moments when she isn’t around and I find myself with no questions pressing, I’ve found calm reassurance from an unlikely source.

My family tree.

Gentle Penguin, I’ve taken to hand drawing the family tree I’ve been carefully tracing back through time. I created it on a computer program last year, but the program’s business brains have decided to change the fee structure to a subscription, and I prefer not to pay for my own hard work. Therefore, one relative at a time, I connect the relationships and hand scribe the most important information I know. Birth, marriage, occupation, death.

It seems so simple then—this life of family. You’re born, you have an occupation, you might marry and give birth, you die. For five generations, my family has been doing just that within walking distance of where I sit writing now.

Kate isn’t planning to fly far. Like me, she loves this city and is attracted to the nostalgia of so much family history here. But “here” is nothing like what it was when I was growing up. Nor was my “here” the same as my parents’. Nor their parents’. Nor the previous two generations’ either.

And yet, with a few adventurous steps and missteps, we’ve survived quite well. The stories are glorious—romances, childhood mischief, a flood, a cash register company and candy, fishing, foraging, dreams, marriages, music and faith, and traditions passed onto the next.

This winter my mom and dad digitized my grandfather’s slides bringing to view what previously only my imagination saw as I heard these stories while collecting names and dates.

My great-grandparents appear so solemn and serious while my grandfather looks young and sprightly. I still remember my grandfather as young and sprightly, a smile and easy laugh always on his face, just maybe not quite so dark haired. My grandmother is beautiful, if not a little wistful as she holds various young children’s hands or helps them with homework at the kitchen table.

My grandma Wirick and Aunt Janie hanging laundry.

My favorite picture of her shows her hanging laundry, while at knee level one of my aunts, a toddler, hangs doll clothes at a line strung at her height. Just like another picture of my mom and me years later. Neither of my girls played with dolls, not did I hang much laundry out on the line…until much later when I fell in love with fresh air and environmental duty.

Suddenly I feel this generation gap is something I could mend, something that would help me come to terms with my daughter’s rise to adulthood. I long to call out to her and recreate our own Kodak moment. Except it would more likely be an iPod moment. And it’s past midnight, and raining. Not to mention that I’m shorter than Kate, so likely my line would be lower than hers—not at all the protective, nurturing, teaching mother figure that photo brings to mind.

My eyes sting knowing I’ve missed that photo op so long ago.

A knock at my bedroom door startles me, and Kate peeks her head in. “Mom, I’ve finished my laundry. I need to pack for my senior trip, then I’m going to bed. Will you be up or should I say goodnight now?”

I turn from my writing desk and look at her standing in my doorway with a laundry basket at her feet. Suddenly, I remember a photo of her, age two, sitting in a laundry basket surrounded by towels while I picked them out and folded them.

“Goodnight, Kate. I’m going to bed. I love you.” Tonight, I’ll rest easier knowing that perhaps the generation gap isn’t quite as large afterall.