The Lesson

The sandy beaches beaconed her and she succumbed to their charms, marching, right foot, left foot, pondering, pondering. Why was she here? Why had she come? What was the purpose? The universe began a chant with her, soothing, provocative, the news was not all good. The lesson. She had not yet learned the lesson.

What lesson?

Surely not the lesson on patience. She had taken that class several times, remedial, remonstrative, restorative. She had tried, had done her best, she had learned that lesson over and over and over. Had she not been tortured through that test enough?

Not patience. Something else.

Humility? Accept her own shortcomings? Bring herself down to the masses? Remember that she was only as good as her last paragraph?

She had wrestled humility and pinned her shoulders to the ground. ED, is what her name was. ED. They had Viagra for that now, but she is a hard teacher, pardon the pun. A hard teacher. A woman, chest heaving, nipples taut, wet in all the right places, she learns humility, she soaks it up to her armpits, when she reaches down, time after time, to find the fading remnants of her partner’s passion.

Humility was not the lesson.

Envy, perhaps?

The group picture. Be at the beach at 4:00. Don’t be late for the group picture. Everyone under 5’5” in the front row. Smile for the camera he whispered in her ear. She turned and smiled to the voice instead, eyes crinkling for the stranger, finding the gentle gaze of the man who had broken her heart those three years ago. For a tenth of a second, she fought the demons again, the battle raged and the memory reared her lovely head.

She did not smile.

Casting call complete, cameras encased again, the booming voice announced the invitation. A wedding was about to happen. Our hosts for the party, for year after glorious fun in sun year, were going to tie the knot. After five years of healing each other, they were rolling the dice and betting on happily ever after again.

Tears blossomed in her eyes. Blossomed and bloomed and grew over her eyelids. They were both her dear friends. She had been there when they had first met, the bride involved with someone else, and she had considered the husband for herself for ten minutes on a beach six years ago while he rubbed sunscreen on her back. But she had passed, and he had passed and now she knows why.

As the years progressed she had smiled her support as the bride and groom's friendship moved from melting hot passion to the smooth, slick, solid bar of enduring love.

It was time for them.

They had earned each other’s trust, negotiated each other’s trauma, learned to live together and now they made their promises to each other and to the rest of us as witness.

How could she be envious? How could she? She, who had cornered the market on compassion. She, who had written the Webster definition of kind. She, who liked to think of herself as all things good and alive in the world, she was jealous.

She was petulant.

She was two year old temper tantrum mad.

When would it be her turn, mommy?

She want her turn right now! She stomped her foot and crossed her arms and glared.

She had been walking for a long time. She checked her watch. It had been 30 minutes. The sun beat on her head, her heart pounded the workout rhythm of cardiovascular activity. Her mouth was parched and she kicked herself for not bringing water on her walk, for not wearing a hat, for walking in the midday heat of the Florida sun.

She turned back, watching the children shrieking with delight as the waves licked at their heels. The fishermen pulled their lines taut and the grandmothers smoothed the lotion over their brown, leathery skin. One foot in front of the other. A convention of seagulls squawked their impatience as she passed, minnows shimmered in the cresting waves. The clear, blue sky enveloped the day in her billowy arms.

She panted. One foot in front of the other. She turned to survey her progress. She looked back. She almost never looked back, but today, she looked back. The sailboat that had been her marker in the opposite direction was a tiny speck on the horizon now, but the hotel, her destination at the moment was still a very long way away.

Sweat leaked down her face and dangled at the edge of her nose. She swiped it with her arm. She had never been so tired in her life. What was wrong with her! She had had harder workouts before, why was this so hard for her now?

One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left. The sand sank in her efforts, compounding the exertion which was becoming increasingly more difficult to muster. She wondered if she would make it.

She laughed to herself. Of course she would make it. She was tough, she was strong, she always pulled herself through. She looked up. The hotel did not seem much closer. Would she make it?

The last mile sent her mind to places she hadn’t thought about in years. She remembered her marriage. Her marriage was to her now as far away as that sailboat was to her walk. Just a blip in herstory. She asked the universe to show her the lesson, to tell her what is was she still had to learn because she was tired of yearning, tired of longing, she wanted contentment, to be happy, to be loved, to be whole.

The universe spoke to her. She spoke for the rest of the walk, and the tortured soul listened, argued, cajoled and tried to negotiate.

The lesson was simple.

She must learn to let go.

Not let go of her marriage, or her connections. She must let go of her longing, because until she let go of her longing, she would not really understand her need, and the cycle would continue.

The hotel loomed and she trudged up the stairs to the gathering of friends on the patio. She asked for water and someone placed a cold blue bottle in her hand. Holding the bottle against her face, she collapsed in the beach chair, her breath finally slowing to normal. Let go of the longing.

She glanced to her left. Her old lover sat with his back to her, his arm draped across the shoulders of a pretty, petite brunette. He dropped a kiss on the woman’s forehead.

Let go of the longing.

No more, “I’ll have what she’s having” thoughts.

Tomorrow, she would walk the beach again.

Everyday, a new attempt to win the battle and wrestle her demons to the door.

Brilliant

It’s that time of the year. The trees are, as my eleven year old puts it, getting dressed for Halloween. The dahlias, so beautiful in their blast of brilliance right before the first hard freeze, have finally succumbed to the cold. Last weekend, I picked as many dahlias as I could, giving them to my friends, taking them to work, taking them to the nursing home. They were dazzling. Now they are gone.



The pond is still lovely, but it won’t be long before all the green is gone in that part of the garden as well. I’m just a little sad about that. I spent no time with Mickey by the pond this year. Not even once. Yet, I have fleeting thoughts of building the pond with him almost every time I sit on the bench with my coffee. I wonder if that will ever pass.

Just as I was concerned that the water in the pond was getting dangerously low, Mother Nature took it upon herself to refill it. I love it when she does that. I have a big project ahead me this time of year. Leaves. I have sooooo many trees in my yard, raking is a monumental chore. Luckily, I have three sons, and they have friends, and pizza and rich rewards go a long way in helping them see the wisdom of lending a hand.

Last night, I went contra dancing again. I was late, and I missed the first few dances, but as soon as I got there, someone whisked me out on the floor. I danced every dance, I even waltzed with a woman. I closed my eyes and tried very hard to just let the music and the pressure of her hand on my waist guide me. That is so very hard for me to do. It requires a letting go that does not come naturally to me. It’s a trust issue. I’ve always thought that I did not have trust issues. When it comes to trusting people to be honest, or to keep me safe, I think I have a handle on it. My trust issues arise when it comes to trusting other people’s judgment. I’m not so good at that. Dancing is helping me work on that. Letting someone else guide my body, make the decisions on which way to turn is not as easy as it looks.

Contra dancing is a dance of partners, but you really don’t spend all that much time with your partner. Some married couples come to the dance, but they don’t dance all that much together. There’s an unspoken rule that you don’t dance with the same person twice, and anyone can ask anyone to dance. I’ve not seen two men dancing together, but two women dancing is commonplace, partly because the women usually outnumber the men, but not by a huge percentage.

The dance begins with two lines of alternating men and women, facing each other. Your partner stands opposite of you. A caller speaks the dance steps, the band, consisting of a fiddle, a mandolin, a bass, a guitar, maybe an accordion, plays the folk music, usually celtic in nature and everything comes together in this beautiful display of swirling skirts and stomping feet and smiles.

I stand across from my partner. His name tag proudly announces his name as Tom. He is tall, muscular, blond mixed with gray. I guess he is in his mid fifties. A wedding band gleams from the third finger of his left hand, but they don’t gleam from every one’s hands. I take the hands of the two men on either side of me and we move forward two steps, stomp to the beat and move back. Tom and I and the couple to our left grasp hands and circle to the left. The caller instructs to swing your partner and I feel Tom’s hand in the middle of my back. I lean back into it, creating the tension telling him that I want him to swing me. Bobbing in the contra style, my feet feeling light as bubbles, we circle in place. I tip my head back and feel the wind rushing through my sweat soaked curls and I smile. I can’t help it. I look into the eyes of my partner and I grin. He grins back. He can’t help it, I can’t help it, nor does anyone in the room want to help it.

After eight beats, I allemande with the other woman in our temporary foursome and her partner give me a courtesy turn back to our group, the women swirl their skirts and pass each other on the left, the men follow close behind and the caller says to swing your neighbor. I look up into smiling eyes, put my hand on the right shoulder of this new man and away we go. I continue smiling into my neighbor’s eyes and the wind whips my hair around. He gives me an extra twirl as we finish and my skirt swirls around my calves. We put our hands on the forearm of the person in front of us and march in a circle to the left.

And move on to the next couple and do it all again. And again. And again.

My heart thumps in my chest, my breathing becomes ragged and rough. Sweat drips down my forehead and balances off the tip of my nose. Just when I think I can’t go for another minute, the caller request “swing your partner” and the magic returns. My feet are light, my smile is bright, the arms of my partner strong and secure.

The music ends and I curtsy. My partner thanks me and smiles and we turn to find our next partner.

At first, this was the scariest part. I felt transported back to eighth grade, when I had to chase Mark Harris around the floor of the gym to get him to dance with me. I’ve never been a coy wall flower. As a grown woman, I find it difficult to ask a man to dance, at least, I did in the beginning. I’m overcoming that now, mostly because I love the dance so much that I don’t want to take the chance of having to sit out because of cowardice. Truth be told, I don’t have to ask very often. Someone usually finds me if I let it be known that I’m looking for a partner.

Funny how that works.

The dance ends and the heat and the smell of sweat is almost overwhelming. I lean against the door jam and quip about the heat with a guy putting his street shoes back on.

“It’s all the creative energy being released, not to mention the calories being burned off.”

“There’s a semblance of air conditioning in the summer, but it doesn’t come close to keeping up.” He replies. “It’s just the way it is at Contra dancing. Even in the winter, it’s hot in here.”

I walk to my car and I think about what he has said. The rain continues a gentle tip tap on my wind shield and the wipers leap to life when I start my car. They slip slap their way into my garage. I notice that the flowers by the garden path have wilted in the cold and I silently acknowledge winter’s approach.

I smile to myself. At least I know this much. Monday evenings will never be cold.

Advice for the Guys

I have a cat. Her name is Princess. She possesses that quality of many cats that I would give my eyeteeth to acquire. She is aloof. She is regally aloof. She won’t sit on my lap, she tolerates being petted on the head as she is sleeping. She appreciates food in her bowl, which is usually good for a rub up against your leg or two. She will sit companionably next to the bench by the fish pond while I sip my morning coffee. Generally, though, she could care less about attention.

I’m very different. I crave attention. It’s a bit of an addiction for me, which is probably my motivation for going on all these dates.

If being a Middle Aged Sex Goddess has taught me anything, it has taught me to be humble. It is humbling to have had as many first dates as I have, even moreso when you consider the second and the third and the fourth dates, which have all led to my current status of continuing to sleep alone. I was discussing my adventures with a writing friend and she commented, “Wow. That’s a lot of beginnings….and a lot of endings.”

I thought about that afterwards. She’s right.

I have had a plethora of beginnings and endings, the two toughest parts of a relationship. The middle is where all the fun stuff happens. I usually only get the end pieces of the loaf. Maybe that’s the way my life is supposed to be. I do a good job of being charming and witty at the beginning, and I try very hard to be gracious and accepting at the end. I have often wondered what I must have done in a previous life to have somehow landed the role of transition queen in this life, because I do a lot of that. I seem to attract men who are in transition, who have recently divorced, or ended a long term relationship. And because I am good at beginnings and endings, they must have some internal requirement to spend time with me in order to prepare themselves for their next “real” relationship.

I have always liked the heel on a loaf of bread. I like it toasted, with some butter and occasionally a little jelly…someone else usually gets to enjoy the soft bread in between.

Statistically, I feel a connection with only one out of seven men I meet for the first time. When that one hits, I have a hard time just letting them slip away, despite all the evidence to the contrary that that is exactly what I should do. I really should.

A month ago, I had a really good first date. I should emphasize the “I” in that sentence, because I did not hear back from him other than a brief reply to my email and then an out of the blue one sentence question a week later about dancing, which is his passion. I, of course, immediately replied to his email….and three days later sent another. I heard nothing back from him.

As a preface, I should mention that prior to our meeting, we had emailed almost daily for two weeks. During that exchange, he had some difficulty getting emails he sent to go through, and receiving the emails I sent to him. He had sent me a series of “test” emails. Yesterday afternoon, I could stand it no longer. It had been two weeks since I had heard anything from him. I sent him the following email:

Do you get my emails? This is a test, this is only a test....

I responded to your email two weeks ago, and sent you another about waltzing, but haven't heard from you.

One of the hardest things I do as a forty something woman looking for companionship is telling a man that I am not interested in further developing a relationship. Often, I know after a first date. Usually, it's after a few encounters and I've gotten a closer glimpse of their character. I make it a point to be open and honest in my communication, and as soon as I know which direction my heart is heading, I try to let them know, especially, if their heart appears to be heading in a different direction.

It is also true that I have refused friendship because I didn't have the energy to deal with the baggage of being with someone who obviously felt an attraction to me I didn't return, even if I thought they would probably be a good friend in other circumstances.

You mentioned that most women are turned off by your version of romance. Quite frankly, I liked your intention to be friends with people before even approaching the romance switch. And if we are on an honest kick here, I found you to be delightful company, someone with whom I thought I could be great friends, romance or no romance. Admittedly, during dinner, watching you talk, I wondered what it would be like to kiss you.

So there it is, laid open and honest. I liked you. I was curious enough to want to know more.

And it appears that you felt something different...or perhaps I should say, indifferent. Hard on the ego, but something good to know in the long run.

If this email comes off as harsh, please consider the medium and give me the benefit of the doubt. I don't mean to be harsh. I mean to simply give a very quiet and gentle nudge that hopes that in the future, when a woman you've actually met corresponds with you, an equally gentle but firm corrective reply is energy well spent, though grantedly difficult to do. No one I know likes to be the bearer of bad news, but in this case, bad news is much easier to deal with than no news.

I will be grateful, nonetheless, for our interaction, because I have found that I really enjoy the dancing thing, bought slippy shoes today, and look forward to contra tonight...and maybe even on Saturday.

He sent a reply, basically saying that he didn’t answer the emails because there were no questions in them which required answering, that he moves VERY slowly in relationships, that he thought of me as a friend, which absolved him from a Ms. Manners response to my emails.

C’est la vie.

Last night, I came home from contra dancing, my fourth Monday in a row. I was nicely informed that I no longer needed to wear the “I’m New, Please Help Me” name tag. I blushed with pride. I sank into the sofa and watched the latest episode of “Weeds”. As I adjusted the volume with the remote, Princess crept up the couch and settled herself on the arm rest next to me. She pushed her furry head up under my chin. Puzzled, I reached out to scratch behind her ear. She purred and rubbed herself against my hand. Daintily, she placed her paws on my shoulder, leaned in and rubbed her cheek against mine. I cooed to her and pressed my hand against the soft fur of her back. She purred even louder. I wanted to hug her, but I knew better. I petted her and petted her, and she petted me right back with the top of her head against my neck and cheek. After a while, she settled herself on my lap, where she stayed contentedly until the show was over.

Damn. When will I ever learn….

Showing off

I have a doctor’s appointment this week, but I don’t dare go. My body is black and blue, bruised and blistered and I’m afraid she will grab my palm pilot, insist on knowing who I’ve been dating, and send the cops over immediately. The trouble is, I’m not dating anyone. I have had four mishaps over the past week, and they left their pawprints on my body. First, I burned my arm taking a pot roast out of the oven. My sister was visiting with her son, his girlfriend and their oh so beautiful three month old baby girl. I was showing off, making a huge pot roast for her family and mine, with potatoes and carrots and mushrooms and onions…the works.

That was Sunday. On Monday I went contra dancing, deciding to wear the lovely and dainty green shoes with the leather soles, good for spinning, and adorned with a sweet green flower right above my toes. I was showing off, knowing that I have lovely feet and the shoes were so cute and feminine. I rubbed a blister on my right heel, left at intermission, trucked back home and put on ugly old lady shoes with socks. But they were comfortable.

On Saturday, I was skipping in the rain at my cousin’s house. Truth be told, I was showing off, proving that I was still the little girl who loved to visit her cousins and play kick the can, and shoot grasshoppers with slingshots and maintain my passionate relationship with life. I was skipping up the rain soaked steps of my cousin’s house in my birkinstock sandals, which really weren’t made for skipping, I’ll have you know, and I fell flat on my face, my big butt waving in the breeze. My cousin was behind me, seeing that large ass in all her glory. Bless his heart, he did not laugh, he made all sorts of concerned noises and insisted on looking at my skinned knee. I’m sure he chuckled later. I know I would have. It was pretty funny.

Yesterday, I went to the Ronald Mc Donald House with my business partner to donate blood. Michelle was leaving right as I drove into my office parking lot. I asked her where she was going, and decided to tag along with her. I’m glad I did, because Michelle got nauseous and couldn’t donate after all, but since I was along and am strong as an ox, she felt like she did some good, too. I didn’t donate whole blood, just plasma and platelets. Michelle volunteers at the Ronald McDonald House and meets kids all the time who have cancer and need plasma and platelets. She needed to feel like she was doing something to make a difference in their lives. I was glad that I could help her, not to mention the kids who would need my donation. Truth be told, I was showing off. I am so damn healthy, so damn tough, they can take my blood and I don’t even flinch.

I had to wait forever to get checked in and answer 10,000 questions. This was the first time I’d donated blood since my ex came out. They have relaxed the rules over the past five years and I met the screening criteria. In the meantime, I had pizza and lemonade with Michelle and needed to use the bathroom. There was only one, down a long corridor, through several entertainment rooms and around a corner. I got the key and sauntered through, checking out the murals on the walls and the DVD collection. I spied what looked like the bathroom and headed straight across the playroom. I never imagined that someone had made a play pit right smack in the middle of the floor. Which is exactly what I did. I made a beeline for what I thought was the bathroom, and took a purposeful step towards it. With an “oomph” and an “Owwww” I rediscovered the law of gravity. Luckily, no one was around to witness my disgrace and I pulled myself up to survey the damage.

So now I am blistered on my right heel and my right forearm, am bruised on my left ankle and calf, am bruised on my right thigh and buttock, and my arms are sore from donating blood. Did I mention that not one of my accidents drew blood? All were scrapes and bruises, but not a drop of blood. I’m sure there is significance in that. Perhaps my psyche was saving it for the greater good of giving.

On Saturday, after visiting my cousin with my brother and my two younger sons, we were driving back to my brother’s through the Indiana cornfields and soybean fields. It was plummeting rain when we raced for the car. As I pulled out of their driveway, I looked down the street and saw sunshine. By the time we had headed out of town on the country road, the sun was ablaze behind us and Kevin said, “Look Mom, a rainbow.” I turned and looked and there was the most spectacular rainbow I had ever seen. We drove slowly and I tried my best to keep the Mercedes on the road, but it was hard to take my eyes off the blazing display of one of nature’s most brilliant accomplishments. I drove quickly past the cornfields, slowing to a crawl past the soybean fields which afforded a more comprehensive view. The rainbow arced in vivid color in a canopy before us. Rich hues of green and yellow and red spoke to us at either ends of the spectrum. As we oohed and ahhhed, Greg noticed a second, slightly fainter rainbow stretching above and around the first. Tears pricked my eyes. I could not remember ever being witness to a more beautiful sight. I stopped the car. We sat in awed silence, me and my boys and my brother. After a moment, Greg flipped out his phone and snapped a picture. I did the same.

The rainbow lasted for well over 20 minutes. As it started to fade, we drove on.

Maybe nature was showing off a bit, too. She bruises and burns with thunder and lightening, and trips and falls and blisters, but when all is said and done, the wonder of the rainbow somehow makes it all worthwhile.