Twas the Night Before My Leg Workout

I’ve been told divorce “looks good” on me. Everyone who’s ever been through one knows exactly what I mean. It’s an automatic 30 pound drop. Then, you fall in love, get married again and wham! You’re up 30! (There’s a lesson here, I’m sure.)

During both divorces, I hired a trainer to not only keep the weight loss off but also to add muscle. It worked, but was it ever painful! Just for fun, I thought my trainer, Cheryl Brose (otherwise known as Helga), needed a poem just to honor her leg workouts. Here it is…

Twas the Night Before My Leg Workout

Twas the night before my leg workout,

And all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring

Just me planning to grouse.

My workout clothes were laid out with great care,

In hopes that I’d wake up and want to be there.

We were all nestled all snug in our beds,

While visions of 2-piece bikinis danced in my head.

When out of the blue there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

I was still able to, no Helga yet to thigh-mash!

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.

When what to my horrified eyes should appear,

But Helga and all of her tortuous gear.

With a 15 pound weight in each hand, so menacing and tall,

I knew in this moment I wasn’t going to the mall!

More rapid than eagles her devices of torture they came,

And she whistled and shouted and called them by name!

Now Smith Machine! Now Hack Squat! Now Leg Curl and Extension!

On Sled! On Lunges! Come on! Quit your bitchin’!

Now walk around! Walk around! Walk around all!

And then in a twinkling I was in such a state,

Standing as I was in Helga’s House of Pain and her weights!

As I drew in my head and turned quickly to run,

Down came ‘ol Helga and grabbed my right bun!

She dragged me to the weight room and gave her tools a whistle,

I felt as light as a feather in a thistle!

Her machines were all poised to hand out their pain,

And I heard her exclaim as she flew out of sight,

“Your thighs are mine,

so I’ll see you at first light!”

No-match.com

Jumping back into the single scene back in 2009 with both feet, I decided to take dating into my own hands. I joined Match.com. (Stop rolling your eyes.)

Almost immediately I’m sent five matches. These are guys who don’t smoke, drink socially (I was honest—I put moderately), don’t want children and are physically fit. One of them really stands out and his profile could have been written for me. He lives in Shoreline.

 

His name is Jeff (yes, my ex-husband’s name) and he sends me an email telling me he’d like to connect by email. So, I email him back. I have to admit, I was pretty witty in my response. Apparently he thought so, too. He told me I got an A in Intuitive 101 or possibly even 301. No one had gotten his profile in its entirety as well as I had. (Yes, you can imagine. I’m feeling quite smug at this point.)

So, we talk on the phone. He’s got a great voice—he majored in Broadcast Journalism at UW. He’s funnier than heck. And quick. Everything I say, he has a comeback. And he’s a great writer. His emails are awesome. He was an insurance broker for Allstate and sold his business two years ago. So, at this point, he’s jobless but, that’s okay, because he doesn’t need to work. (So he says…)

 

He wants to meet in person so we schedule a date for the next Sunday. Only on Monday, he calls me and asks if he could come to Bremerton on Wednesday for lunch. He can’t wait to meet me. I meet him at Anthony’s in Bremerton right off the ferry dock.

On the ferry, he texts me and tells me, “I got nailed in Seattle for parking. I know you’re worth it, though.” Strike ONE.

He shows up. And, he had pictures on his page so I knew what he looked like. (At least, I thought I did.) But all of his pictures were taken straight on. So, not only did I NOT know that he had a BEAK for a nose. I also didn’t know he had eyebrows about 3 inches long. Strike TWO.

I’m sitting there thinking to myself, “Suzie, all the other guys you chose were hot and sexy and offered you the Den of Pleasure and look where it all got you. Change takes different choices.” (I’m trying to be open-minded here.)

So, I tried not to be judgmental. Really hard. I tried really hard. Also, I drank wine.

He talked incessantly. Non-stop. Me? Sit quietly? Strike THREE.

He asks, “How we doing so far?”

 

I remind him he needs to catch a ferry back and he’s not going to want to pay more for parking. He readily agrees. (This parking thing seems to an issue.)

 

I walk him to the ferry ramp and he says, “So, will this be our future? Saying hello and good bye at ferry docks? Or would you ever be willing to move over to Seattle?”

There are no words at this point.

 

After that lunch, I realize that Match.com may not be for me. Back to the gym...

The Most Influential Person In My Life

On Mother’s Day I found myself thinking about my mom and how much she’s influenced my life. She’s actually been the most influential person in my life. My mom is 5 feet 2 inches tall and about 100 pounds, but when she walks into a room everyone knows she’s there.

My mother and I have not always had a perfect relationship. We went through the normal “mother-I-hate-you” phase when I was a teenager. She’s never liked any of my male relationship choices until just recently. However, there have been so many lessons that she’s taught me throughout my 46 (and a half) years that have literally shaped who I am today.

Lesson #1

Have you noticed lately how small purses have gotten? You barely have room for a wallet and keys, much less all the other treasures of your life. People who carry big purses lead interesting lives. When I was little I can remember going through my mom’s purse and finding things like:

• A calculator that she used to add each item at the grocery store to be certain she didn’t go over the amount of cash she had in her wallet. She was a single mom who worked two jobs to keep food on our table and clothes on our back and she could only spend what she had in her wallet.

• A small picture album of my brother and I from birth to current age.

• Little spiral notebooks for all of the lists she used to keep. These little notebooks also included her thoughts for the day -- and my favorite, what she was getting us for birthdays and Christmas.

• There were things that mattered to her—cigarettes and her favorite Elvis lighter. Her bottle of valium that the doctor prescribed because she said she was stressed being a single mom.

Now, I don’t really like big purses because I can never find anything in them. Even if I only have four things in there, it never fails that I have to dump everything out to find what I’m looking for.

However, there have been times I’ve had to resort to a large purse. In fact, it came in very handy one year when I had the nerve to hold my birthday at Silver City Brewery. Silver City doesn’t serve Budweiser. My mother lives on the Dark Side—she only drinks Budweiser. (Well that, and about a pot of coffee a day.) She told me she wasn’t going to come to my party because there’d be no Budweiser! (Have I mentioned yet that she’s a tad bit stubborn and opinionated, too?)

So what’s a daughter to do? That night, my large purse carried in to Silver City Brewery a six-pack of Budweiser.  What you do for love.

The lesson there? Interesting people carry large purses because of their depth, their ability to hold a lot of information,. and lots of hidden treasures. Smaller purses just can’t compare.

Lesson #2

About 25 years ago my mother purchased a Mexican cowboy hat made of leather. I’m sure you’ve seen them. It’s dark brown and has a braid around the rim. She named it her “drinking” hat.

It was bad enough 25 years ago. Now, the hat is one of the 8 wonders of the world. She’s added pins from just about every place she’s traveled and every bar she’s been to. At last count there were over 180 pins on the hat. She’s tied around the base of the brim her Sony Open Golf tickets which come on a lanyard. (I think the current count of lanyards is up to five.) There’s a feather hanging off the back. (Lord knows where that came from.) She also has baseball tickets stuck in the braid that’s also on the base of the brim.

This hat has been the source of my embarrassment since I can remember. Imagine being in high school, where your parents are an embarrassment anyway. And now, we add the hat. Other people love, this hat. They’ll stop her in the mall and ask to see her hat or simply tell her how much they love it.

I’ve always criticized her for the hat. And last year, she said “You will bury me with this hat, Suzie.” I laughed, “You bet I will, I never want to see that thing again!!”

This woman holds two college degrees and has a heart of gold. She’s an extremely wealthy woman but you’d never know it from the clothes and accessories that she wears. In fact, most people would take one look at her and judge her as just a crazy woman but she doesn’t care about any of that. She loves that damn hat.

The lesson there? Who cares what people think!! Be who you want to be and where all the crazy hats you want.

Lesson #3

My mother grew up in a wealthy family in New York. We have more lawyers, accountants, doctors and engineers in our family than anyone has a right to. As mentioned earlier, my mother holds multiple college degrees. And this is actually a family expectation. (My grandmother went back to college at the age of 69 to get hers!)

Back in her junior year of college she asked her dad if she could go to the University of Hawaii for one year. He made her promise that she’d come back after one year and marry a suitable man and settle down. He told her that all financial help would be cut off if she didn’t. She agreed.

That’s not how it played out. She went to Hawaii in 1959 to the University of Hawaii and fell in love with Hawaii--the friendliness, the casual lifestyle and the warmth of the people. She ended up graduating and paying for it herself by bartending. She also met and married my dad who was 14 years older than her who was also a bartender. I’m pretty sure there were no bartenders in our family up to that point.

So, here was a woman in 1959, a time when women were still mostly homemakers. They hadn’t yet even burned their bras! This young, 22-year old woman had the courage to leave the comfort of her home and family, travel thousands of miles away because she just didn’t feel a fit. She left everything she knew up to that point, to pursue her happiness. The courage that must have taken!

The lesson there? Life is short and getting shorter every single day. Live it your way and live it fully.

Wouldn’t life be amazing if we all lived by my mother’s rules? There’d be less depression-- people would accept themselves for who they are and not hold themselves up to other’s unrealistic expectations.

They’d choose to be happy instead of choosing to sacrifice who they are for money or other people.

There’d be more time for laughter and fun and doing what you love instead of doing what others think you should do.

Luckily for me, my mom is still very much alive and loves me to death. She’s taught me to find laughter and joy every day. I’m so grateful that my imperfect mother is mine—because she’s perfect for me.

Now, if I could just get her to leave the Dark Side (stop drinking Budweiser) and come over to Coors…

Are Those Real?

There is nothing like a Krispy Kreme doughnut—especially when the red light is flashing. You know the one. The one that lets you know there’s a warm, gooey, sweet, intoxicating, mouth watering Krispy Kreme doughnut waiting there—just for you.

Those sinful taste bud delights are the first thing to go when the dreaded four letter word rears its ugly head … D-I-E-T. Saboteurs like Krispy Kreme were not my usual stomping grounds.

However, I had just finished video taping a “how to” and did it live and off the cuff and I was feeling pretty proud of myself. And my kids deserved them. You know me. I’m all about my kids.

The aroma of fresh doughnuts. Wow. I think that smell must be a pheromone to me because it kind of makes me moan. It certainly makes me breathe heavy.

Back to the doughnuts. What a hard decision. As I’m studying the doughnuts and trying to justify buying more than just plain glazed doughnuts, a short, dark-haired man asks me what I’d like. I give him my order (a dozen glazed doughnuts) and he boxes them and brings them to the cash register.

He rings up my doughnuts and gives me the total and then he stares. Not just any stare, but a STARE. The kind that makes you think you have something hanging off your lip or mascara smeared under your eyes.  Or he wants to eat you for dinner.

He asks me, “Are those real?”

(Camera pans to me, open mouthed and wide-eyed)

Now, you can imagine what I’m thinking, right? Actually, with as many voices in my head as I have, I had a few thoughts. The first was, “What? How dare he?!!”

The second was “Wow, this guy has some nerve. To ask a woman he does not know, in public, if her breasts are real. Wow.” I have to be honest, it was part admiration, part disbelief.

So, I said the only thing you can say in this circumstance which was, “What?”

“Your eyelashes. Are they real?”

My eyelashes? You’ve GOT to be kidding me. Those came with the body. Yes, they are real!! I was almost disappointed. (If you've ever seen my breasts you know why!)

“Yes, they’re real.” I say, feeling like I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Or I'm looking for Ashton Kutcher.

“Your husband. He is lucky man. Your eyelashes are beautiful.”

So, the husband I don’t have is lucky for my long eyelashes? Boys are dumb.

The Lips Definitely Have It...

“Hey, wanna go to a Crosby, Stills and Nash concert at the end of September?” Lucille asks me. She’s always trying to find fun things for us to do, kind of like a social director.

 
“Are they still alive?” It was 2004 and I was 39 and I hadn’t heard anything about them since I was…14, I think? And, then again, it could be my memory. I AM 39.

 Connie rolls her eyes. Sometimes I wonder how she puts up with me. She is so wise and wordly having spent three years in India and leaving the comforts of America. Still, she laughs at my jokes so she must not think I’m that bad/weird/shallow.

 “Oh, you dork. Yes, they are still alive and they are playing live at the St. Michelle Winery in Woodinville. We could leave early from work, drive over there. Who knows? Maybe we want to stay in a hotel over there so we don’t have to drive home?”

 

These two women are my best friends. Lucille, otherwise known as “Lucille” is about 6 feet tall with a presence twice that. She is smart and quick-witted and uses her vocabulary to slay all dragons. Seriously, getting in a verbal war with her is like running off to Iraq without sunscreen. You just don’t do it. Lucille is honest (painfully so) and is one of the most caring and loving friends a girl could have. Lucille is the one I turn to when I need my thoughts and feelings aligned, when I’m confused. She’s not afraid to set me straight.

 

Connie, otherwise known as Con, is ummmm…older than me and is a Buddhist. She wasn’t born a Buddhist but became one on one of her several visits to India. She is so wise and listens with all of her heart and, yet, loves to buy shoes with gusto! She has the wisdom of an old soul and the playfulness of a 12 year old. She is the one I turn to when I am just simply confused or in pain or I want something made especially clear. Con has this amazing ability to feel what you are going through with no judgment. She doesn’t try to change your feelings and has you feeling like you are so okay for having those feelings, right or wrong.

Back to the concert.

“Did you get the day off?” I ask. Always first on the list to take time off, I wanted this question covered first.

“No, I need to be there for part of the day but we can leave early.” Lucille, always working.

“Can you buy songs from these guys still? Do you think they’ll perform in wheel chairs? Will there be pot there?” Unfortunately, I am not old enough to have been a part of Woodstock and always really wanted to. You know, free love and all.

 “Let’s leave a little early so that we can go get some dinner and drinks before the concert. What places do you know around that area?” I’ll never go hungry, but there is always the threat of being parched. Serious threat.

“There’s a Red Hook Brewery right across the street. I’m sure they have what we need. But I couldn’t find a place for us to stay. Woodinville has, like, one hotel and then the next one was quite a ways away, so let’s just drive home.”

The MAC Counter

Con tells us that before any girl goes to a concert, she must go to the make-up counter. The MAC counter, to be precise. She was on the hunt for a lipstick that would not fade. Her daughter, Beth, told her this item of beauty was a must have. So, we must have.

Can you imagine being 22, a size 2, gorgeous, not-so-quick with humor and the three of us arrive at your counter? Well, the sales girl did a fantastic job. She steered us right to the lipstick of our dreams. On one end, was a “stain” that you applied to your lips and then you held them open and still for a few minutes or until it dried. The other end held a “lacquer” that you painted over the stain to keep the lips moist. So, apply we did! And, I must say the lips looked great.

On to the Brewery/Winery. Yes, not only does the Red Hook Brewery serve beer, they serve wine and food! Oh, happy day! Order up. One glass of wine. One pitcher of beer. One glass of wine. Another glass of wine. One pitcher of beer. Check, please!

There is nothing like the Two Glass of Wine Buzz. Nothing. And, if you were counting, you know that I have had three glasses, so the buzz is buzzing!

Lucille and Con drop off their purses at Lucille’s car and we pick up the blankets and coats. It’s been raining all day, which is unusual for September. So, not only is it wet but it’s cold, too. We have chairs to sit and blankets for warmth. And a buzz. Life is good.

Crossing the street to the Winery, Con looks over at me and says to Lucille, “Oh, look at the Barbie here taking her purse into a concert.” What? I’m not supposed to take a purse into a concert? How will I reapply my lipstick? Oh, that’s right. I am wearing the Mac Long-Lasting lipstick. No need to re-apply. Oh, well.

 Crosby, Stills and Who?

We find our spot, set up our chairs and blankets and notice that people are walking around with wine bottles. Who knew that you could buy WINE at a WINERY? So, we buy one. Hey, they even uncork it for you. Okay, the cups are plastic and regular drinking cups…hmmm…no time for snobbery. We have a concert to experience!

Much to my surprise I know some of the songs. And their voices are great. We talk through the whole concert, like girls do, and much to the irritation of the people in front of us who keep turning around to give us the “look.”

 Another bottle of wine? Sure! I have to get up and use the bathroom anyway.

Oh, look, hot guy to the left. And to the right! Being single is so fun! Men are simply everywhere. Most of them attached, but it still feels great to get those appreciative looks. I NEVER got those when I was married. Now, it’s like collecting beanie babies…gotta have them, will even pay for them…some day they might be worth something.

After the 2^nd bottle of wine, Lucille and Con think we need another one so they leave me on the blanket, by myself, shall we say…beyond buzzed.

Concert over. Where are they? They’ve been gone awhile. I’m the only one there with no one around me. Standing, I look around for those two. Turning to my left, nope not there. Turning to my right…and like slow motion…I see him. Coming right towards me dressed in full purpose. Wearing a bright yellow rain coat. (Oh, is it raining?) With a hat? A hat? Would that be a SHERRIFF”s hat? He is kinda cute…and who is that right behind his left shoulder?

Oh, there they are. You might be able to call that “walking.”

What happens next happens in a matter of about three seconds. Let’s see if I can replay it for you in all of its hilarity.

Lucille and Connie are “walking” down the hill coming toward me. Remember, they are behind the cop.

The cop asks, “Ma’am (MA’AM????), how are you getting home?”

At that exact moment I see out of the corner of my eye Connie trip on an empty wine bottle and fall face first into the wet grass. Lucille, ever the caring friend, is immediately on her knees helping Con to her feet.

Not wanting the cop to see my friends in all of their glory and to keep his attention on me, I do what I do best:  Flirt.

“So, are you married?” Distraction therapy, I think it’s called.

“Ma’am, I asked you a question. How are you getting home?”

Connie, with grass on her face and Lucille, all 6 feet of her, is now a mixture of anger (at me for flirting with the cop. In her words, “At a time like this???”) and protection (“What do you want with her? She hasn’t done anything to you.”) and exasperation at Con because she can’t seem to regain her balance.

So, charging down the hill to speak to the cop and tell him what’s what, she learns that we will not be driving home and that the cop is going to walk us to an awaiting taxi.

“You have GOT to be kidding me. You are not going to let me drive home? Why not? You don’t know me. On what grounds? What are we going to do with my car? Oh, we’ll just see about that.” Then to me, “Suzie, I cannot believe you were trying to pick up that cop. Cops are no fun. They have too many rules. We’ve talked about this.”

I climb into the taxi and the nice policeman says to the taxi driver, “Please take them to the ferry so they can get to the other side of the water and have someone pick them up.” The taxi driver begins to drive us out of the winery.

I ask, “Can you just drive us to our car?” He tells us that he can drive us anywhere so where is the car? Ha! We fooled that cop! That’ll teach him. Don’t mess with us. You need to wake up early, son, to get a step ahead of us.

We pay the taxi driver with my money since I am the only one with a purse (remember the conversation about calling me a “Barbie”). And, proceed to get into the car.

Only, guess what?? Lucille has no keys. They are in her coat pocket and, where is her coat? Not on her body!! Oh, no. It’s at the Winery on the ground right where she left it when she was going after the cop. “Hold it!” we scream to the taxi driver. Again, I am the only one with money. The Barbie.  Let’s be really clear on that point. “Please take me back to the Winery so I can look for my coat!”

Con and I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, Lucille comes back in the taxi. “Someone stole my coat with my keys in it! I couldn’t find it.”

This error on Lucille’s part probably saved our lives. Because Lucille did not have her coat with her keys, she could not drive us the three hours it would take us to get home. What to do? What to do?

Barbie to the rescue.

“Can you take us to the Seattle Ferry?” He probably thinks we are Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs^® by this time, but he tells us to get in.

Meanwhile, Lucille calls her husband Jim (who has been working 12 hour days and is still at work) to pick us up on the other side of the ferry.

Luckily for us, we were going to catch the last ferry leaving West Seattle to bring us home to Port Orchard, where Lucille lives.

“”I just cannot believe I left my coat at the Winery. I’mgoingtohavetocallthemtomorrow. (This is said in the same way all drunk people talk while trying to focus on the face of the person they are speaking to.) Lucille and Con get out of the taxi and high-tail it over to the side where they need to smoke because they are stressed.

I finish paying the taxi driver (Right.) and go to get out. He tells me not to forget all of our stuff. All of our stuff? I looked up to see Con and Lucille smoking, like two Cruella Devilles, they could not get enough drags out of their cigarettes, both of them all spun up about the lost keys and the cop that ruined our night.

I grab my coat, the two blankets, the three chairs and my purse and walk toward the Cruellas, who are about 100 yards away. These things are heavy, though, so they seem like miles away.

The ferry worker begins to yell to us to hurry up. They are ready to pull away. I’m going to have to run with all of this stuff? How’d I get to be THIS person? I was always the Princess. And where did I lose my wine buzz?

I take off running and run right on by the Cruellas, who are looking at me very confused. “You guys better start running or we are going to miss this ferry!” Furiously smoking their last few puffs, they take off running, too.

Heading Home

Whoooo! We made it literally with the ferry pulling away as our feet hit the ferry.  

Back at Lucille’s house where we are all spending the night, I head to the bathroom. Are those my lips I see in the bathroom mirror? They are perfect—the perfect shape (outlined by the little Mac girl), and the perfect color (hasn’t been reapplied since it was originally done around 3 pm that afternoon. It was now 1 am, so that means it’s still on after eight hours three glasses of wine and three bottles of wine. Now, that’s a testimonial.).

Lucille’s boys are up and moving at about 5 am and are getting ready for school and work. (Yes, that means three hour of sleep.) I can’t even imagine what they were thinking when they woke up and saw Connie sleeping on the couch downstairs and then me sleeping on the couch upstairs, both of us looking fabulous with our mascara smudged halfway down our cheeks but the MAC Long-Wearing lipstick perfectly applied and still looking fabulous.

So, I've Got Options...

If you’ve ever wondered if the grass in greener on the other side--if you’ve ever looked at your husband and thought, “Why-oh-why did I ever marry that?” as he’s sitting on the couch watching TV night after night. Or, “My husband just doesn’t do it sexually for me so I’m going to just flirt with other men so that I feel sexy again.” Or even if there are days when you aren’t sure you like your husband, mush less love him, this blog is for you.

Maybe you think dating would be more fun--you'd have options. Well, let me show you the options that you possibly (or probably) have (listed in no particular order).

 Option #1:

I was at WalMart and ran into a man who I went to high school with. We were standing in the cleaning supply aisle exchanging about 28 years worth of info. I have to admit, he’d aged very well and was very good looking.

I’d finished the quick run-down on my three amazing kids and two failed marriages when he began his. “I’ve been married a couple of times, too, but I’m just not very good at being married—too much monotony. Hey, wanna go out some time?”

“Uhhhhh. Gosh, you know, no matter how flattered I am [insert sarcasm here], I think I’m gonna pass.”

 Option #2: 

I was flying from Seattle to Spokane for work and our plane was one of those little ones where you can actually see the propellers and where weight fluctuations matter. A very tall, nice looking man sits down in the seat next to me. Tall, as in his knees were crammed right up into the seat in front of him. His hands were also huge and he wore a wedding ring.

We exchange pleasantries as I’m getting my book out to read. Usually, this is the first clue to my seatmate that I am really not that friendly and would prefer to just sit in my little area minding my own business. But not with this guy. He asks what I do, which, to be conversational, leads me to ask him what he’s doing going to Spokane.

He tells me that he’s headed to a week in a cabin in Spokane on a lake and five other buddies are going to meet him there. He bought the cabin for he and his family so they could leave Chicago during the hot summer and head to Spokane where there’s lots of fishing, hiking, horse back riding, hunting, camping and boating.

He asks me if I ride horses and I tell him I don’t—I’m pretty much a city girl. He asks about my personal situation and I tell him I’m divorced with three children. He wonders why I haven’t remarried yet.

“Is it because you haven’t found the right man yet? A pretty little filly like you just needs to be tamed, that’s all. I bet you’d give some cowboy quite a ride, wouldn’t you? Yep, that’s just what you need—to be tamed.”

(REALLY?) I respond, “And I suppose you’re just the cowboy to do that, right?”

He laughs and says, “I’d like to give it a try. Why don’t you come join us at the cabin when you’re done working?” Ugh. Married and a pig. And some poor woman who lives in Chicago loves this man and trusts him.

I say, “You’re married.” His response? “Darlin, everyone cheats.” Uh. I don’t.

Option #3:

I’m flying from Phoenix to Orange County (I see a connection between airports options, do you?) and am settling into my aisle seat when a man-- in a polyester track suit zipped halfway down his stomach, not wearing a shirt but he IS wearing a heavy gold chain with slicked back dark hair (got the picture?)-- sits down in the window seat. This leaves a seat between us, which apparently, he doesn’t like because he scoots right on over to me.

He introduces himself and tells me what he does for a living. (He’s a motivational speaker who works with Suzanne Somers and her organization on Bioidentical hormones. He’s also worked for years with Tony Robbins. Or so he says.) He’s pretty much talking non-stop.

At this point in the trip, I’ve been up most of the night with travel challenges and am extremely grumpy. I seriously put on my “Get the f***” away from me face. (And I suppose I need to work on perfecting this because it just didn’t work.)

“So, what do you do?” I tell him that I’m a sales trainer for a direct selling company. Of course he wants to know what a direct selling company is so I tell him our company has sales representatives around the nation who sell products during home parties. They’re really fun—a host invites her friends over, the host earns free and half-priced items and the guests have fun.

“Oh, is that like a Tupperware sort of thing?” “Sort of,” I reply.

“Do you work for that company that sells sex toys because I can totally see you doing that! So, are you married?” I think at this point I told him that if he didn’t move back over to his window seat I was going to wrap that gold chain around his neck and then pull it through his nose. I’m not exactly sure, but I think that’s what I may have said.

More Options?

You need more options? How about the guy that was so in love with his wife that when they got divorced, because she wasn’t happy, is now out dating. But to him, “dating” consists of one night stands with very casual sex (so casual he sometimes doesn’t know or remember their names). Here’s another one—the guy who’s had a DUI (or two) who’s given up alcohol but has neglected to tell you about his porn addiction (or gambling, or cheating addiction). Or how about this one--the greatest guy—he’s fun, he’s honest and kind, but was so hurt in his last relationship that he can’t let anyone else in—or won’t.

So, ladies, these are definitely options.

Now compare those options with that guy you’ve got sitting on the couch—the one who would hold your hair back from your face while you’re puking your guts out; the one who loves you even though he may not say it all the time; the one who wants to make love to you whenever and wherever if only you’d give him the nod (or even a brush-by); the one who knows what you’re thinking almost before you do; the one who shows up to help when you’ve locked your keys in your car or just holds you while you cry and have a “crazy” moment.

As long as he’s not a cheater, a liar, an alcoholic (or has other addictions) or verbally or physically hurts you in any way, I’d say that guy’s a pretty great option. And the grass isn’t greener on the other side—it’s just different grass.

Shower Doors and Other Hazards

One of the reasons I stayed in a marriage that went wrong, almost from the very beginning, was because amongst many other reasons, I was afraid of having chemo and having no one to care for me. I was afraid of being the old, single lady who lived in the big house and only had cats as companions. (I currently have two cats.)

 

I’m 46, have three older children and am not married. As you might imagine, I worry about a lot. Most of which I shouldn’t worry about…Will I have enough money for retirement? Have I ruined my children beyond repair and will they have it’s-my-mother’s-fault- conversations? When is it too old to stop dating? Will my daughters find men who will cherish them? When will my neck start sagging? Will I have vaginal dryness after menopause? And, yes, when (if) I have to have chemo, will there be someone who helps me through it?

Never once have I worried about dying in my shower. Naked. Not once.

Today began like any other day. I went to the gym this morning, had coffee, saw Evan off to school. And just like any other day, I began with a shower.

 

My master bath is really quite amazing. In fact, I think it’s bigger than my first kitchen was. Two sinks, large garden tub with a window that looks out into the back yard, and a huge shower that has two seats along with shower doors that open on either end of the shower. This bathroom had me at hello. I was in love immediately.

Stepping into the shower, I notice that the door I was using had some resistance to opening. I just shoved a bit harder and then had to use even more strength to get it to close. Thanks goodness I’ve got another door I can use to get out, I think to myself.

 

My shower complete, I open the shower door. Or, at least, I try to open the shower door. It doesn’t budge. Not one bit.

So, I reach for the other door because surely, that one will work. Uh. No. Well, okay it opened about two inches. That’s it!

 

What the heck do I do now? Neither shower door will open, I’m wet and naked (Stop visualizing me wet and naked! This is a serious situation!), no one is home nor will they be until about 5 pm! Never, ever, in my whole life have I imagined that the end of my life would come by hypothermia, while naked in my shower. I have, on my darkest days, imagined dying alone—but never like this!

 

Why oh why didn’t I pay attention to all those field trips to the fire station when the kids were little? Having an emergency escape plan was the number one thing they recommended. I know that was for fires and I’m not sure I would have had the foresight to include an escape plan from the shower, but still.

Certainly, I must have some options. I try the doors one more time using all my strength with no luck! Are you kidding me?? All those years of buying super cute shoes and I’m going to die naked??

I look up and see that if I could get to the top of the shower doors I could just jump my way down to the floor and to safety. (I have to say the thought of getting high-centered makes me cringe but what other choice do I have? I do have two wash mitts and one washcloth so, if worse comes to worse, I could use those to cover my important parts for when Evan gets home and has to rescue me. But I do want to avoid that scene at ALL costs!)

 So, over the top of the shower doors I go. Thank heavens for the seats in the shower. I was able to use those to get up to a certain height to lift myself up. I get to the top of the shower doors with much effort. (You really can’t make this stuff up.) I’m sitting in a spiderman-like crouch (without the spiderman-like outfit) and look into the mirror facing me. (Got that visual?)

With bruises and red marks to prove it, I did manage to get down from the top of the shower doors. All this before 8 am on Monday, October 17^th.

So, how’s your day going?