You're welcome. And I'm sorry.

Olivia was home for a few days of her spring break! What a ray of sunshine that girl is! I seriously feel like every sentence in a blog post including her should end with an exclamation point! Because that's kind of how you feel around her--excited!
!Perhaps I should begin each sentence about her with one as well as a newly invented (by me) means of literary approbation!

Okay, that's enough Nickelback (Olivia is possibly the only person who will get that joke so don't feel badly if I just lost you for a moment there).

But I digress. What I really want to write about is a particular conversation Olivia and I had while eating lunch together yesterday. Here's the background info:

I had gone to Bel Air to buy ONE item, and on my way in I ran into Bill, who at 173 years old is most probably the oldest bag boy in the history of bag boys. He was out in the parking lot, standing and chatting with a woman next to her car. The groceries had likely long ago been loaded into the car. And probably by the woman, not Bill. Which is pretty much how you will encounter Bill on any given day at Bel Air--out in the parking lot chatting with a customer who has loaded her own groceries into her car as he chats away.

As I passed Bill on my way in, he turned from his conversation to say to me, "Hey, I've got a good story for you! I'll find you inside!"

Uuuggghhh. I don't mean to be unkind. But I was there for ONE item. My five minute trip was about to turn into a twenty minute trip because make no mistake, Bill would DEFINITELY put my ONE item in a bag for me (he is a bag boy) and carry it out to my car if he has a story to tell or just wants to gab about the SF Giants.

Usually I don't mind shooting the breeze with Bill. In fact, there are times I look forward to it. Mostly when I have a very large cart of groceries and we chat AS he bags them (so slowly that the checkers almost always have to finish the job). To extend the conversation past the checkout line is to put your afternoon at peril. But it happens rather often with Bill. And not just with me. It's kind of his identity with customers and clerks alike. We all know Bill's MO.

So back to my lunch with Olivia. I wanted to know if she ever struggled with what I struggled with that morning at Bel Air. In a nutshell, I really just wanted to get in and out of the store quickly. I also, however, was going to feel badly if I just ditched Bill after he told me he wanted to tell me a story. I don't know why Bill is the oldest bag boy on the planet. Does he need the money? Is he lonely? I don't want to ignore him when he's always so nice to me. But also--I had shit to do!

It's not like this was a life-threatening decision, whether to stop and talk. I find myself in this predicament quite often, though-- is it okay to sometimes not be the nicest person you can be for selfish reasons? Or even, simpler, is it okay to sometimes just not be the nicest person you know you can be?

Olivia knew exactly what I was talking about. She recognized the struggle.  Being your kindest self doesn't always advance your day's agenda the way you want it to. Most interesting for me was what she said is her overall tack in these situations: she said she just goes with the "be kind". She said feels better about herself when she opts to take the high road, even though it is often not the most convenient route. It was a sweet moment-- she said that she learned from me and Dave to always try to be a good person, to be your kindest self. She thanked us for that.

And this is when I said to my lovely, altruistic daughter, "You're welcome. And I'm sorry."

Because it should be okay to opt for the selfish route occasionally (I mean, there are people--in high places--who opt for the selfish route exclusively) without feeling guilty. While I'm truly happy that Olivia is a young woman who, in a world that often seems to exude nastiness, chooses to be considerate, I don't want that choice to feel like a burden.

We all have to take care of the world around us, and the people in it. But we also have to take care of ourselves. Sometimes that means putting ourselves first. Guilt-free.

Not as easy as it sounds (at least for me). I want it to be easier for my daughter.

I'm going to end this with a quote from one of my favorite people, Lin-Manuel Miranda :)

"That imaginary fight you keep having in your head is taking up SO much room. Write it out... Tell it to a friend or a shrink. Or a canvas. Or chuck it. Get it out. You need your head and your heart for bigger things. Vamos."

So I've written it out, here, the imaginary fight I keep having in my head. I've talked about it with Olivia and Dave. I don't paint so the canvas isn't going to happen. But I've gotten it out.

My head and my heart are ready.

Talk to you soon, Bill.

OMMMMM with five M's

Sometimes you find yourself doing unexpected things.

There I was, taking a deep breath and exhaling "OMMMMM..." to begin a yoga class. The instructor said something along the lines of "let us begin our practice by making the sound of all creation..." I'm paraphrasing. But I don't think I'm far off.

Now, you know me. I know you do. Because honestly there's just not that many of you that (a) know about this blog and also (b) read it. So if you're anywhere on that venn diagram, anywhere at all, you know me. So picture me chanting OMMMMM. Better yet, picture me buying the idea that OMMMMM (yes, that's spelled with five M's for the purposes of this blog and I'm sticking with it for consistency) is the sound that, apparently, all creation makes.

I am, by nature, a somewhat sarcastic person. I've been known to mock. I've told Pope jokes in the Vatican (seriously, I have). I've invented a radio show called, "Wake Up, It's Hitler!" (just the title--no actual scripts were produced). If there's something screaming to be lampooned, I'm happy to accommodate.

So, yoga. Calm, quiet, tranquil yoga. Poor, defenseless yoga.

I cannot honestly say that I didn't bow my head to hide my smirk the first time I sat through an OMMMMM. Sorry about that. Couldn't help it. It just seemed kind of a hippy dippy thing to let out an OMMMMM, and I was also slightly skeptical that it was, in fact, the sound the whole universe makes. Was there scientific data to back up that theory? I do remember, though, being impressed that everyone (except me, apparently) in that room wholeheartedly exhaled their OMMMMM with satisfaction. I hadn't expected that. It was memorable. Scientific data be damned.

Also, still at that first yoga class, I may or may not (definitely not) have participated in the traditional conclusion wherein everyone puts their hands to their hearts, bows their heads, and says "Namaste", which means 'I bow to you'.

I don't know why I didn't do these things. I think a part of me was afraid people in the class would see me and think I was a poser who clearly had never been to yoga before but was pretending to know what I was doing. This was NOT the case, by the way, because when you say OMMMMM (yes, still five M's, count 'em) and when you say Namaste you have your eyes closed, so no one would have even seen me and in all likelihood would not have mocked me even if they had because they are better people than I am and probably would never make fun of the Pope in the Vatican.

Also, if I'm being honest, I didn't participate because it seemed silly. I didn't get it, and I wasn't making much of an effort to try to get it. I was there to get a workout, not find my place in the universe.

I mocked a lot, I mean A LOT, of yoga stuff those first few classes.

There was a gong. That got rung. I mean, come ON!
We were asked to set an "intention"--what we wanted to get out of the class. I wanted to get yoga out of the class-- why else would I be here?
There was incense. Because nothing is more delightful during a workout than the smell of burning patchouli.
We ended class lying flat on our backs for four solid minutes in "savasana", which it is worth noting is the 'corpse pose'. Yes, you end yoga class pretending you are dead.

I really, really do not think anyone can blame me for my satirical reaction. In a discourteous world, yoga practically BEGS to be ridiculed.

But that's the thing. When you're in the yoga studio, you're not in a discourteous world. You're in a refuge. You're in a sanctuary-- of your own making. You can mock. Or you can surrender.

I surrendered. Which is not usually my thing. I found, however, that while I was ridiculing "poor, defenseless" yoga for being so daffy and dippy, yoga was actually kicking my ass.

I'm a decently athletic, in-shape person, but I couldn't do even half of the moves in a "basics" class. I wasn't flexible enough. I wasn't coordinated enough. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't calm enough. I was not enough of anything that yoga required. Pretty humbling. And after a few classes it got increasingly hard to mock something that was clearly getting the better of me, mentally and physically.

Thus, the surrender. I decided to attempt an embrace of the entirety of yoga--including what I previously referred to as the hippy, dippy stuff-- to see if I could improve my practice.

I took a deep breath and let out an OMMMMM. Oddly soothing, it turns out.
I set my "intention", which was to try as hard as I could to do all the moves and feel the strength I had, instead of worrying about the strength I had yet to build.
I tried to figure out the gong. Not going to lie. Didn't get anywhere with that. But I tried.
Also, not super into the incense. Just yuck.
Savasana (the dead pose) became my favorite part of class. Instead of derisively wondering for four minutes what the point was of spending that much time doing nothing in a class I was paying for, I cleared my mind. I quieted my body. At least, I tried to. It's really not as easy as it might seem. Try lying down (not when you're sleepy--that's cheating) all the way flat, palms to the ground, eyes closed--and see where your mind goes. See if you can stop it from going there. See if, instead, you can direct your mind to a calm space (oh, dear god, yes, yes I hear myself--you may mock me, you have my permission). It's hard! And then (and yes, again, yes I hear this but I'm saying it anyway because you probably at some point in your life told Pope jokes in the Vatican and need a little comeuppance) feel your body, lying flat. Try to lie perfectly still. Really, really still, and feel where your body touches the ground.

This sounds so stupid. I get it. But the thing is, if you do it with a mind open to the experience instead of with a brain trying to legitimize it, it's something. I can't very eloquently articulate what that something is, other than to say you feel like you have power over yourself. And that IS something.

I'm still working on my yoga. And my sarcasm. When the instructor yesterday told us that she would be "gently guiding" us through the next hour, I think I raised my eyebrows and amused myself by picturing me telling my seventh grade students that I would be "gently guiding" them through sixth period World History. Clearly I still have some work to do on my non-judgy acceptance of all things yoga.

But I do chant the OMMMMM now (although jury is still out on its significance in the universe). I smile when the gong is struck (possibly to stifle my smart-alecky impulses, but I do smile and that's never a bad thing in the end). I attempt all the moves, even the ones I know I cannot do well or perfectly, and allow myself the gratitude for achievement and the room for improvement. And as mentioned earlier, Savasana is the pose I love most. Not because I get to rest (although yes, that's helpful because again as I mentioned earlier, yoga kicks my ass). Almost the opposite. I love it because I am completely in control of my mind and body. I can do that now. I get it.

If you've never tried yoga, I recommend giving it a go. Go get yourself some cute LuLu Lemon capri leggings and a tank top (I'm not being sexist--that's pretty much what everyone wears regardless of sex, at least in my class). Roll out a mat and plop yourself down.

If you listen carefully you may (or may not) hear the sound made by all creation :)

Further Apologies

Also, I think my brother and I played cops and robbers, and if memory serves, I always wanted to be the robber, because EXCITING!

So apologies, quite sincere, for glamorizing crime and undervaluing law enforcement.

I guess there goes my SCOTUS seat.

I am sorry. So very sorry.

I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what I was thinking. That's no excuse. I understand. I should have known better. I showed poor judgment, and I will bear the burden of that, willingly.

I know it's just too easy to say we just didn't think there was anything wrong with it. But we didn't. That's the honest truth. We were kids. And again, I know people say that. And usually that's just a convenient attempt at trying to evade responsibility. But in this case, it's not that. We really were kids.  We didn't know any better. I mean it. You have to believe me.

Everyone was doing it. Again, I know that doesn't excuse it. But it's true. Our parents even encouraged us to do it. They didn't know any better, either. It was perfectly acceptable. Not only that, we saw it on TV, so it seemed ok. There were even halloween costumes. I'm not kidding. That's how socially acceptable it was. Kids marched in school halloween parades, having no idea that their outfits would someday derail their careers.

There may even be a picture out there, of me, in costume. Oh, who am I kidding. There is a picture. A grainy polaroid. Or an orange-tinged Kodak print with the rounded corners. Probably blurry. It would be hard to make out our faces. But I'll just admit right now. It could be me. It's probably me in that photo. I'm not sure which one I was. I could have been either, and at one time or another I was probably both.

I'm a good person. I really am. I hope that this embarrassing revelation doesn't make me seem all of the sudden uncaring, unkind, or thoughtless.

I hope that me getting out ahead of this, instead of waiting for it to be "discovered" in the search for truth, helps underscore that I am not trying to hide from this. I am not running away from my past indiscretions. I admit them. I hope I am a different person now, that I have grown.

But I cannot deny. It was fun, when I was five, playing "Cowboys and Indians".

Please forgive me.

Living the Dream

I'm writing this as best I can, distracted by the landscape in front of me, the sea somewhere off in the distance. I feel like I can smell the salt in the air but of course I cannot. The water is far too far. You would think that being on an island would make for a watery existence, with boats bobbing nearby and the sound of gulls creating a never-ending somewhat discordant symphony. But this is a big island. I am nestled in gentle hills dressed in grapevines and cypress trees.

It was a lark, really. Buying an Italian house, on Sicily, in Sambuca. The article made it sound so simple. Buy a house for one Euro. Agree to put in an additional 15,000 Euros to fix it up. Ecco! For a very reasonable amount of money you now own a lovely little casa in a town that wants to welcome you as its newest citizen.

And it was simple. The buying part. The fixing it up part was a bit of an effort. Sicily is an island, after all. Sambuca is a tiny village. But as it turned out there were more than a few locals who were eager to find work and had an interesting assortment of skills, some of them useful. I tried to explain, in my elementary Italian, what I wanted to do with the house. They listened attentively, and then did what they knew how to do. And while my house may not have emerged from this process as I had anticipated, I am not disappointed. The house was sufficiently repaired. I myself was restored.

At at time when I needed a distraction, the house, and Sambuca, became my passion. I immersed myself in something that took me literally and figuratively to a place that I had imagined but never expected to actually occupy. I learned to speak Italian from villagers. I bought groceries daily from tiny little stalls full of fresh food tended by little old men. I drank red wine and Aperol spritzes. I grew to know and love the people of Sambuca, people who obligingly served afternoon (!) cappuccino to the crazy American who seemed to enjoy getting up before the sun and running through the town for no reason. I made friends.

It's so easy to imagine all of this. I feel like I should make this into a movie...

Here I am sitting outside my house, writing.

Me with the men who helped fix my house. 

Learning to enjoy red wine. Not the best picture but you get the idea...

And just so no one worries, while all of this is going on Dave is happily ensconced in his 2,000 square foot shop in Kentucky surrounded by unending supplies of beautiful hard-grain woods that are so plentiful they are dirt cheap. I send him postcards from Sicily. He sends me beautiful, artisan furniture for the house. He visits often. He has learned to love Aperol.

Thank you, Dad

Today, I was scheduled to docent a tour at the California Museum at 9:45am. It's about a fifteen minute drive to the museum from my house, door to door.

Today, I went out to my car to head to the museum and when I pressed the garage door opener, it went about four inches up (all askew) and then stopped. I pressed the button again, and the door went back down. I pressed again, and again it went up about four inches (again, all askew) and stopped. The garage door was broken. I was stranded. There was no way to get my car out. I had no way to get to the museum.

I called Dave, who happened to be at the gym. He headed home, and assessed the situation. The garage door was, indeed, broken. He handed me his keys. I headed out to the museum.

I arrived at the museum at 9:40am. Five minutes before I was scheduled. In time to greet my group of fourth graders. In time to do my job.

Thank you, Dad.

Thank you for all the years we left our house bleary-eyed because we got up before the crack of dawn.
Thank you for all the years that we arrived at the airport hours before our flight.
Thank you for enduring all of the teasing that went (goes) with arriving at the airport hours early.
Thank you for instilling in me the idea that early is on time.

Today, I was scheduled to docent a tour at the California Museum at 9:45am. My garage door broke. I couldn't get my car out. Dave had to drive home from the gym and give me his car keys.

And today, even with all of that crazy happening, I arrived at the museum with time to spare. Because I left early. Because that's what you taught me.

Thank you, Dad :)

Forever Fifty

Note: All credit for the idea for this particular post goes to my cousin Paige.

My (sister) cousin Paige and I were recently talking about Christmas gifts for our daughters, who are in their early 20's. It came to light that these two young women both love the store Zara. Carly had just been shopping there and brought home several cute work dresses (I saw them--they really were very cute) and Olivia had gone shopping there with her grandmother and said she picked out a few cute blouses that would be work-appropriate.

I took a look at the Zara website. I'm short on Christmas ideas this year (Dave needs a few from me) so I thought maybe, given that both girls were enthusiastic about how great the clothes were, I'd find something cute that I could request for me.

Let's just say that I did not find anything even remotely plausible as a gift idea for me. That's not to say there wasn't cool stuff. There was. If you're twenty-one. Or twenty-three. Or in your twenties at all. Possibly if you're in your very early thirties and are just one of those hip people. But there was most definitely not anything for, ok let's call it the "mature" woman. Shut up.

It pains me to admit this, but I am a solid thirty years too old to shop at Zara's. And that's SOLID in all caps. For funsies, below is a visual comparison of what I'm looking for contrasted with what Zara's offers. See if you can guess which is which...

            

Can you tell which one is Old Navy and which one is Zara's? Here's a hint... which one of these can you absolutely NOT picture me wearing (and if you did try to picture me wearing it, I apologize that you can't unsee that)?

Young women are looking for stylish. They're looking for trendy, hip. They're looking for looking good.

I, on the other hand, am looking for comfortable. I want something that fits, but isn't tight. I like my tops to hang, not cling. I'd prefer the bottom of my tops to extend well past my belly button. I don't necessarily want anyone to notice me (except Dave--and actually, if I wore that red top he would most certainly notice me; but honestly I don't really have a problem with Dave not noticing me enough, so that's a hard no on the red top regardless). 

Perusing the Zara website made me realize that women like me should have our own website. Forever 50. Named after Forever 21, but with literally nothing else in common with that store other than a similar name. Truly, really nothing else in common. Have you BEEN in Forever 21? I'm amazed anyone can find anything in that store. It's huge and every square foot is a MESS! It always looks as though a tornado has ripped through it. (Odds are good that I am not Forever 21's target demographic)

Forever 50 would be a medium-sized store--Old Navy is too big and Madewell is too small--somewhere in between. There would be no size 0's. Seriously, who do you know that's over fifty who's a size 0? Racks of merchandise would be nicely and neatly spread out so that you could actually see what's there without feeling like you're dumpster diving. 

And okay, let's be honest--nothing in Forever 50 is going to be made of spandex. Nothing. Nada. Zip. 

It's all going to be made out of 100% cotton fleece!

No, just kidding (sort of). I mean, you can't really have jeans made out of fleece. Can you? Seriously, can you? Because if that's a possibility, then count me in! But okay, probably not possible. So maybe not everything out of fleece, but everything made out of some derivation of cotton. Yes, it will require ironing. But it will be comfortable. You don't want to iron? Have fun in your spandex...

Forever 50 will have some good Queen music playing, quietly but audibly, in the background. There will be no fluorescent bulbs. It will all be soft lighting, casting a warm glow. There will be prosecco available. Do NOT feel guilty drinking prosecco at 10am while you shop. You are over fifty--you get to drink prosecco whenever you want (I could swear I read that somewhere...). Saleswomen will be present, but will not pester you. There will never be a line at the register (I don't know how that's going to happen, but let's just go with it). 

Forever 50 will have beautiful clothes. Comfortable clothes. Useful clothing that you will wear and feel good wearing. It will be the store for "mature" women (shut up). But there will be limits.

There will be no Crocs.