Coming of Age

I take my friends for granted.

It’s not intentional. No more than forgetting to feed the cat or call my mother back is intentional. And I don’t sit around thinking, “I’m so blessed to have such great friends—I think I’ll take them for granted!”

But I do. Just as I assume I’ll wake up tomorrow. And my legs will carry me to the kitchen to make coffee. And hot water will stream out of the shower head. And my car will start. And my computer will make that funny little ding when I hit the “on” button. And Robynn will read this post.

For many years now, I’ve been a proponent of living each day as if it were the last. But doing it has proven impossible. Oh, sure—when I hear an awful story of someone dying suddenly or being paralyzed in a freak accident, I manage to stick with it for a day or two. Then I get caught up in the whirl that is my daily life and fall back into the old routine: “I’ll call her back tomorrow, or next week, or next month.”

But lately I can’t stop thinking about my girlfriends. About how lucky I am to have them in my life. And how I don’t make the time to connect with them as often as I could. They are truly my chosen “family”—the women without whom my life would be devoid of laughter and fresh perspectives and trendy accessories. I expect them to be there when I call—for smart advice and a shoulder to lean on.

I celebrated my birthday this month as I always do: with a series of girls-only dinners. Maybe all this thinking is the result of being with them all in such a short span of time. Or the fact that five of them turned 60 over the past two years. Or that the wrinkles I see in the mirror have multiplied dramatically over the last 12 months. All I know is that last night, as I settled into my seat for the train ride home from the last of this year’s birthday dinners, I got teary-eyed thinking about how much they mean to me. Is this what it means to grow up?

Ode to a Coffee Urn

It really is the simple things in life that matter most.

Last Saturday I was felled by what I thought was food poisoning, but have since come to believe was a stomach bug. In the spirit of "amaze, surprise & delight", I'll spare you the gory details. The bottom line is that it's taken a week to recover, and to move beyond eating broth, rice, and Jello.

It's been years since I've been sick like this, which may be why it's such a powerful reminder of the small, daily joys I usually take for granted. Like walking across a room without feeling dizzy. Enjoying the smell of frying onions without getting nauseous. Drying my hair without feeling so weak I need to sit on a stool. Eating what I want, when I want. And savoring my morning cup of coffee.

So today I offer up my gratitude for the simple things in my life. The things so often overshadowed by the spotlight-grabbing stuff. Here's to waking up in a warm, cozy bed. With the cat kneading the quilt beside me. A good book on the nightstand. And wrapping my hands around my favorite mug...brimming with coffee!

Ho-Ho-How Long Before Those Holiday Decorations Disappear?

Yesterday was President's Day. By my count that means it's been 59 days since Christmas came--and went.

"Went" is the key operative word here. As in "Over." "Kaput." "Finis."

And yet, as I drive the five or so miles to and from work, the suburban streets are lined with houses amazingly ablaze with holiday lights. There are dozens of doors decked with dead wreaths. And front yards still strewn with the sad remains of inflatable Santas or giant plastic creche figures, some toppled sideways and half-submerged in snow.

Call me crazy, but seriously--what's up with that? Has the endless onslaught of wintry weather duped people into thinking it's still December? Has light deprivation left everyone too depressed to get out there and take this stuff down? Or do they think that at this point they might as well leave it up, since Christmas will be here again before they know it?

All I know is this: there is nothing more depressing than the sight of a house sporting St. Patrick's Day shamrocks in the windows and surrounded by a fence strung with dried-up evergreen garland--punctuated with droopy red velvet bows.

Come on, people--waiting much longer could result in a head-on collision between Rudolph and the Easter Bunny. And we wouldn't want the kids to witness that--would we?

Real Love

“Barbie, we may be plastic, but our love is real.” Ken

It’s Valentine’s Day. The day Ken finds out if Barbie’s going to take him back.

No, I’m not making this up. According to various media sources, Ken has mounted quite a campaign to win her heart. A total makeover revealed during New York’s Fashion Week (plastic helmet hair no more!). A lead role in the Oscar-nominated “Toy Story 3.” A special cupcake created by the famed Magnolia Bakery (who knew Barbie had a sweet tooth?) There’s even a website where you can cast your vote—should Babs acquiesce or carry on as the iconic single gal?

I doubt I’d have given any of this a second thought if it weren’t for this quote about real love. Allegedly it’s one of many Ken posted on billboards in Manhattan and L.A. True or not, the idea that love can be real or fake is what got my attention.

Barbie came on the scene when I was five, so I am one of the zillions of girls who helped fuel her penchant for epic romances. I pinned my hopes and dreams onto several generations of Barbies, playing out my obsessions with everything from pink satin ball gowns to a beach house in Malibu. Personally I thought Ken was a dork from day one, so I fancied Barbie falling for my heart throbs—guys like Paul McCartney and, later, Jim Morrison.

It’s been decades since I thought about any of this, so I missed the memo in 2004 when Barbie threw Ken over for an Aussie surfer. And it’s come as quite a shock to read that this iconic couple has known each other for 50 years—especially since they haven’t aged one bit. But what sort of love do they have if, after all this time, he’s still trying to win her over?

Real love is exactly that: real. You either love someone or you don’t. Love is intrinsic. There’s no wondering where it came from or worrying if it will last. It settles in and doesn’t leave—no matter what. When Jim asks “Do you still love me?” I’m always taken by surprise. Why wouldn’t I? Love is forever. It’s that simple.

One of the newspaper stories contained a footnote that said Barbie and Ken have never married. This doesn’t mean their love isn’t real—but it certainly points to a lack of willingness to do the heavy lifting required to have a real relationship.
Sadly, real love has little to do with forging a successful relationship. This takes skill and selflessness. Courage and compassion. Patience and politics. It requires a willingness to give in and the strength to not give up.

I have friends who say that as long as the benefits of staying outweigh those of going, the relationship is worthwhile. But sometimes all the good intentions in the world can’t stem the rising tide of disappointment, anger, and resentment.

Love and longevity don’t always walk hand-in-hand. But over time I’ve learned plenty about the value of doing the work required to keep a good thing going. For 50 years, Barbie and Ken’s relationship has been fueled by the powerful imaginations of kids all over the world—and yet, as of this morning, they are still living separate lives.

Maybe it’s high time they roll up their sleeves and stop relying on others to make it happen for them. Enough with the billboards and cupcakes. I hope the years have taught her that independence doesn’t keep you warm at night. And that he’s come to realize he can’t get by on looks alone.

Have they got what it takes? Well, I went on that website and voted “Yes.” Because in the rock-paper-scissors game of life, real love beats plastic every time.

Waking Up

I'd almost forgotten how simple a thing as the sun coming up can be so uplifting.

Maybe it seems so because today's sunrise comes on the heels of yesterday's onslaught of steady rain and bone-chilling cold. Because the resulting invisible ice caused me to walk gingerly, unsteady and slow as an old lady. Or because the nasty weather led to so many changes--or was it discussions about possible changes?--in the plans we'd made to fill our Saturday, that it totally wore me out.

Whatever the reason, I'm more grateful than usual to see blue skies. Even though, when I lower my eyes, I see that a solid blanket of snow still covers everything. And ice cycles threaten to impale anything (or one) below. Even though I still feel exhausted from yesterday's endless debates about whether or not to go into the city to see our friend Rosemary's cabaret show. How we'd get there. The back and forth. The last-minute cancellations. The grumbling about the cost. The restaurant choices. And through it all, that insidious freezing rain.

Despite all of that--here comes the sun!

The Common Good

Monday was MLK's birthday.

As part of my job, I serve on a volunteer committee that plans an annual celebration of his legacy. So I spent a few hours at the Methodist church in Ridgewood, NJ, on Monday, being reminded of the relevance of that legacy to what's happening in the world today.

The keynote speaker was New Jersey Public Defender Yvonne Smith Segars, who focused her remarks on the theme our committee had assigned to this year's event: "Working for the Common Good." I confess to not really warming up to this theme. I know it was what Dr. King's work was all about--and am familiar with his famous words to the effect that if something's not good for one, it's not good for anyone. But I had a hard time connecting to it in a personal way.

Ms. Segars changed all that in the space of 5 minutes. She asked everyone in the audience to think of one thing they could do this year that would better the community. And she took no prisoners--threatening to call on us to ensure that we took her seriously. She then asked people to share.

Four or five people raised their hands and publicly committed to their goals. Then, one by one, Ms. Segars asked if anyone wanted to volunteer to help them. Within 60 seconds, each person had two or three supporters. "Now you have a committee!" she said. To cap off the exercise, she volunteered her support as well.

It was an exercise so elegant in its simplicity that it took my breath away. I left the church, came home, and took a giant step toward making my goal a reality: I signed up as a volunteer for the 2011 Women Build project with the Paterson Habitat for Humanity. It's something I've talked about doing for years. But in the glare of Ms. Segars' spotlight, my past excuses seem pretty flimsy.

So--this is my public declaration. I hope it will serve to hold me accountable. And if anyone wants to join me--send an email to Pat Sisti at pat@patersonhabitat.org.

Endings

"It's good to look toward the end of things. Not only does it provide perspective, but it also provides the stepping stone to our next endeavor." Deng Ming-Dao

The idea for this post began when I saw the first "post-Christmas" tree lying unceremoniously by the side of the road.

Dead Christmas trees are one of the saddest of all sights. Nothing symbolizes the end of the holidays as dramatically as a succession of dried-out evergreens, stripped of their glittering finery and tossed to the curb.

Now I realize that there is a lot of sadness in the world. Sadness on a scale far larger than another holiday season coming to a close. Floods, mass shootings, plane crashes. I get that. But the writer in me does not want to let this dead tree thing go. I've tried for two weeks now to move past it, and it keeps haunting me. So I'm going to write this and (hopefully!) move on.

So much preparation goes into Thanksgiving and Christmas. Think of all the time and effort spent on decorating and card-writing and cooking and shopping. Everything must be "just so," including the most iconic holiday symbol of all--the tree. Selecting it, deciding where to put it up, decorating it, stacking gifts beneath it--it's all steeped in ritual, even for those of us with faux trees.

Why, then, is the dismantling given such short shrift? No fanfare. Just stashing everything back in the boxes, then bags, then closets as quickly as possible. And getting that tree out of the house.

For me, I think it's because I can't bear the empty feeling that comes with endings of any kind. If I banish all signs of something's existence, then I can forget it was ever there. (A strategy I've also employed with ex-boyfriends.) Is it possible that others feel the same way? Then maybe I can make peace with the sight of all these poor trees. Lying on their sides between sidewalk and street. Cloaked in mantles of dirty snow. Waiting for the recycling trucks to put them out of their misery. That is, until I think about the fact that they gave their lives so we could make merry.

Which leads me full-circle to my fake white tree. I admit to feeling sort of smug about having saved a stately Frazier Fir from this inelegant fate. But I'm realizing there's another advantage to going un-green--albeit a bit self-serving. There is something to be said for a tree you can simply shove back into its box and haul out to the garage. Instantly removing all signs of Christmas--indoors and out.

Kind of makes up for missing the scent of evergreen in my house this year.