There are shifts happening inside of me. Not the big old tsunami I have secretly hoped for but nonetheless profound baby steps that are adding up. Big time.

I am now recognizing when my young parts are being triggered. I’m assessing what are real vs. imagined threats. I am pausing before I respond. I am listening to what my body is telling me. I am setting boundaries. I am questioning the spoken and unspoken rules that have been baked into me for decades. I am acknowledging and embracing nuances - shades of gray if you will. I’m increasingly speaking my truth and having deep, honest, occasionally difficult, meaningful conversations. I am revisiting and rewriting old stories I told myself or were imparted to me. I am bringing curiosity, compassion and acceptance to my less than perfect self. I am beginning to unwind. I’m slowing feeling my adult self come online. I am beginning to feel way more comfortable in my own skin. I am doing the work. Shazam.

In discussing an upcoming internal exploration for which I needed to come prepared with an articulated intent, my friend allowed that, when in a somewhat similar situation, they had decided that their intent was to listen, to learn. This notion of receiving vs. pushing or controlling an outcome was truly novel to me - an antithesis to my familiar hyper vigilant trips around the figurative hamster wheel.

With credit given where credit was due, I borrowed this ‘receiving’ intent and the experience was arguably a particularly rich one. I relaxed as best as I could (still a real work in progress), inviting whatever might happen to happen vs. being so bullish about my desired outcome or writing the script.

During a weekly Zoom with my friend J this morning, we were talking about her upcoming adventure to lands far away. She is going with a definite goal and I heard myself say to her, ‘maybe just let the magic happen’. Presto.

And, after reading The Therapist Who Came Undone’s recent post about the lofty goals her circle of friends and acquaintances are creating for themselves as they begin to turn fifty, she wonderfully shares that she craves downgrades vs. upgrades. I found myself commenting on this post (the truth is I’m a voracious consumer of her Substack and try not to appear stalker like with too many comments but that’s another post), ‘downgrades are actually upgrades. that’s the big secret.’ Who am I becoming, espousing slowing down, receiving, letting the magic happen? Voila.

When I listen to a Yoga Nidra video in which a guide with a mellifluous voice leads you through a full body scan, I inevitably experience a moment of panic when my body starts to relax. Historically I have made a conscious effort to distract myself to avoid whatever fear may have been lurking behind the curtain. Now I bring a sense of curiosity, tell myself I am safe, and let the magic happen. Abra f’ing cadabra.

What’s most surprising and quite wonderful with these internal shifts is that I am liking myself more and am seemingly exuding a different and perhaps more inviting energy as evidenced by interactions I now have with those in my life.

I am beginning to let the magic happen. Ta Da.

I visit mom three to four times a week. Often I have business to attend to - bill paying, pill dispensing, filing (the woman loves a big ole paper trail) etc. which I try to get out of the way as quickly as possible. Sometimes we do jigsaw puzzles on her iPad, other times we play Solitaire.

Recently we started playing Mah Jongg (I’m a true beginner) online at ilovemahj.com . I have mostly aural memories of mom and ‘the ladies’ playing in our dining room with Jackie B loudly announcing her discarded tiles (THREE CRAK, TWO DOT, GREEN etc. or, on a lucky Thursday night, ‘MAH JONGG’. Sort of horrifying when you have your secret crush over to study for a Calculus test.

I bring my oversized card and she consults the matching card I bought for her. Mom’s in her black chair with her 13” iPad turned horizontally atop the white plastic breakfast tray which rests across her lap. I sit to her right on a brown ‘velvet’ bridge chair. Mom asks me about the Winds (IYKYK).

Bar none, however, her favorite activity is looking at family photos. On the shelf in her closet is upwards or eight or so baggies, filled with a random assortment of loose pictures spanning decades. We also have her bound wedding album (she was 20!) and her baby book which is crumbling right before our eyes. We have to lay a big beach towel under the album as black paper snowflakes detach and fly everywhere.

The book has a padded whiteish cover and the sleeves are black sheets to which my grandmother affixed those corner reinforcer thingies to hold the photos. There are captions and even pictures of mom in the dreaded chickadee costume she was forced to wear for some dance performance at an early age. And, we won’t even discuss the size of the bows affixed to her Shirley Temple tresses.

When a baggie comes up in the viewing rotation, I try to pick a different one each time we take a walk down memory lane, mostly for my sake as she never seems to mind that we might have seen the same sampling a few days prior. Slowly I’m trying to organize the photos in the baggies but my progress has been slow to say the least. For the time being, I pick a random photo out of the baggie and hand it to her.

Her long term memory blows my mind. She has remarkable recall for the names of guys she dated in college (there were a lot! who knew?), the kids in her childhood neighborhood (we’re talking first and last names), fellow campmates, sorority sisters, etc. I watch her. I ask questions. I listen. I answer questions. I try super hard not to rush. It’s as if she is completing the jigsaw puzzle of her life in her head.

When we don’t play a game or look at photos, we talk. She asks me about ‘Little’ which is how she refers to my daughter. I’m not sure if it’s always just a term or endearment or if sometimes that she just doesn’t remember her name. She asks after my husband, always eager to hear about his drumming and other passions. Yesterday I came in with an ace bandage on my wrist. She wanted to go to the doctor with me. A regular part of our conversation is this thing we do. She will tell me she loves me and I will tell her I love her more. ‘Impossible’, she replies.

Mom will turn 95 the first week of September. For the past month or so, she and I have been discussing her birthday. Her greatest wish is to be surrounded by her family and her amazing Monday-Friday daytime aide R. The family is small; we will be a grand total of eight. She often forgets which grandchild belongs to which daughter.

Given that her hearing aids don’t provide much aid in restaurants, we will celebrate at my sister’s. In discussing the menu options, BBQ ribs are currently the forerunner dinner of choice followed by a chocolate cake. That is unless I or others don’t like her choices.

At the end of every visit, I kiss her repeatedly. She thanks me for coming and tells me to be careful crossing streets. I take a photo of her in my mind. She is still mom.

When working awhile back with an IFS practitioner (for these purposes S), I was encouraged to write about ‘the old way’ vs. ‘the new way’ to juxtapose how I was historically vs. how I wanted to be in the future. S also suggested that I conjure up single images that captured the essence to accompany each mode of being.

Two of my star parts stood right up and saluted. Lil Ms. Perfect always loved a good homework assignment and Little Ms. Chop Chop completed the task practically before the words were out of S’s mouth. That said, I will stick by the hypervigilant me on a hamster wheel vs. me in a hammock swaying, attached to palm tree with deep roots.

In my mind a hamster needs to run as fast as it can, it can’t trip, and needs to remain vigilant to stay alive. Quite an exhausting and robotic way to be. And, it should not be lost on you that a hamster wheel has a lock on it - aligning perfectly with the clamp I imagine around my throat, preventing me from speaking my truth and expressing my feelings.

The hammock brings me to a very special place - Rancho La Puerta. The scenery, the smells, the lifelong friends I’ve made there, and the magic in the water all work in unison to make me feel myself, make me feel held. It was lying in a colorful hammock under the trees that I actually wrote a ‘poem’. For those that know me, I am no poet but these words were crafted in August of 1998.

‘ The Dance of Nature’. Lying in a hammock, one experiences the dance of nature. Sometimes it’s Fred and Ginger. Others hints of Miles Davis. But it’s always full of rhythm and in perfect harmony. After all, nature knows how to be.’

As I continue to do the work of getting to know my parts, earnestly thanking them for their hard work, and finally releasing them from service (work in progress!), I am noticing some shifts - some baby steps and some frigging huge.

Now when I’m triggered and a part or parts automatically comes online to save me, I’m mostly able to pause for a beat. I can more and more frequently recognize what’s happening inside and then compassionately remind myself that I’m a grown ass woman with agency and not a threatened five year old. I can handle this shit without help.

Case in point. I was recently asked a question by a very close friend about something deeply personal. This was by no means out of the ordinary as this is what we do. This time, however, I actually felt my body respond. It tightened up and I immediately knew I didn’t want to or wasn’t ready to answer. I inelegantly dodged the question and a short while later I texted the friend and offered what I was comfortable sharing. The huge aha for me and for my wiring system was that the world did not come to an end. Nothing bad happened. My friend doesn’t hate me. She didn’t abandon me. We are fine. And, I felt true to myself.

THIS IS GINORMOUS as Little Ms. Chop Chop would never let me experience the potential pain or discomfort of not behaving. Better to rush in and act as directed. And, her brilliant co-star, Little Miss Perfect, would have responded according to the prompt, totally ignoring if I actually wanted to or even had to.

I never knew that saying no or creating boundaries was an option. I’m very slowly learning that operating from a place of self first is not selfish. S often spoke of the beauty of living in one’s own bubble where you control what comes in and out. Intellectually, I totally understood what he was talking about but am beginning to feel it somatically.

My body is slowly awakening itself to the fact that it I am ultimately the one who can and will provide safety for myself. My mantra, if you will, is that I am coming home to me. And that me much prefers the feel of swaying in a hammock to running on a hamster wheel.

When I do speak, I intentionally do so in short sentences using monosyllabic words. Often I make the very calculated decision not to speak at all. One might submit that this is solely due to my worsening voice tremor which makes it really difficult for people to understand me and physically challenging for me to even get the words out. This is my truth. And with this truth comes frustration and anger with a heavy sprinkling of shame on top for good measure.

But there’s more to the story. I’ve come to realize that when I write, I’m also super mindful of keeping it small, manageable, and easy to digest.

I read a lot here on Substack and marvel at the seeming confidence so many writers exhibit as they say what they have to/want to, taking up as much space as they damn well please without any punishable consequences that I can discern. Yet I don’t.

In my one on one encounters, I’ve very deft at being a fully present listener, peppering the conversation with a litany of thoughtful questions albeit short questions - a clever ploy to safely hold up my end without overstaying my welcome.

The question I’m starting to ask myself is ‘why?’ Why don’t I use my fair share of the available oxygen?

Putting my voice tremor on the back burner, I know there are parts of me that live in constant fear, parts that are hyper vigilant 24/7, protecting me from the pain of not being perfect, not being lovable, not being enough.

If I don’t speak or keep it short and sweet, I lessen the chances of pushing people away, boring them, not living up to their expectations, and/or confirming my worst fears.

But I’m starting to wake to the fact that actually quite the opposite holds true. Interestingly there’s a new story emerging. When I grab that oxygen mask and speak my truth, sharing my authentic self - vulnerabilities and all - connections remarkably become deeper, richer, more meaningful.

I’m also coming to understand that I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea (for my new British friends here) and that’s really okay.

My work is getting my body to feel what my brain now knows. It will just require a healthy dose of oxygen.

I’m anxious by nature but I am finding myself increasingly becoming scared. Apparently my emotions are advocates of equal opportunity as my fears range from the literal to the figurative and the minor to the existential.

On the low end of the spectrum is my fear of falling up or down the stairs in our apartment. Mind you I go up and down these sixteen steps countless times a day yet the fear is there. As I go up, I have a ritual of silently counting the nine steps, hitting the turning point triumphantly, and then approaching the final six. No great surprise, I do the same as I descend with Dante whispering in my ear. Of course there is a bannister to support me yet every sojourn is viewed as a potential slip.

This stairs fear extends to our building’s lobby where there are three steps one must navigate to get to the lobby after exiting the elevator and then another four to reach the door to the outside world. Recently I’ve noticed that I get rather panicky about six feet before reaching the first three - as if I'm going to fall. It’s as if I’m pulling a dog on a leash, trying to take those last few strides before reaching the top of the decline. A data point I’m not yet sure where to put on the graph.

Moving higher up the scale, I’m pretty much an awful flyer despite knowing how safe flying is. What I know intellectually doesn’t register in my body. White knuckles are us. I am in total awe of the great number of people who just magically fall asleep or seem totally unfazed by even the slightest movement of the aircraft. I’ve noticed that the slickly produced videos or flight attendants no longer say the dreaded T word but rather encourage all of customers to keep our seat belts loosely fastened around our waists in the event we ‘encounter some rough air’.

They are so not pulling one over on me. I know that’s code for TURBULENCE. I spend my time in the air in a state of hyper-vigilance as if I can be of some help to the highly trained pilots in the cockpit or the highly concentrated levels of adrenaline will help catapult me to safety. And don’t get me started on what happens to my nervous system when the captain asks the flight attendants to take their seats mid-flight - suffice it to say four alarm fire.

As I continue on my internal journey (intentional trope of journeys here with walking and flying), I too find myself scared AF. I could probably have purchased a lovely cottage for the amount of talk therapy I’ve financed. That said, as previously shared, it was working with a skilled IFS practitioner that was game changing for me. Here was a modality that gave me real insight to the cast of characters, or parts as founder Dick Schwartz calls them, that came to play.

These parts were born very young and their role was to protect me, make me feel safe and loved. Intellectually I am now very well acquainted with these parts and know that their services are no longer required. Intellect is great but my nervous system wiring hasn’t yet caught up. The system seems to be stuck in a fight or flight setting with suppressed turbulence and truth be told it’s thoroughly exhausting.

The idea of falling - opening the floodgates and releasing what I suspect is some toxic energy terrifies me. As I try to sit with the fear vs. ignoring it or shoving it down, it occurs to me that the fear of being ‘out of control’ leaves me feeling totally shipwrecked. It’s so unsettling that when I feel my body start to let go/fall during the Savasana portion of yoga, I automatically gird myself to regain control. Feelings of what might come out and/or what if I can’t return to stasis flood my body.

Speaking my truth, asking for my needs to be met, and expressing myself weren’t available to me or at least I sure didn’t feel safe going there. There seems to be a light on the horizon as I journey inside. The time has come to listen to my body, bringing somatic intelligence and expression to the equation. With some self agency a large part of me is now choosing to interpret this increasing fear as excitement, knowing that there are bannisters everywhere I turn.

My daughter is admittedly my go to for all things food, tv, and sartorial related (I am well conditioned to text her pictures from dressing rooms, mostly receiving ‘mehs’ with a very occasional ‘cute’ thrown in just to keep the Pavlovian juices flowing). I so can’t capture a full head to toe photo - unclear where to hold the phone - so the pix I text are headless but nevertheless get the important job done.

So when she recommends a tv show she’s watching, I take note. Last night I was home alone (Ringo was at band practice) and decidedly needed a break from watching the news. As luck would have it, she texted me about a female-centric show she had just started and shared, ‘I’m only on ep 1 but loving it’.

Said show was on Peacock, one of the very few streaming services to which we don’t subscribe. I allowed that we didn’t have Peacock and she immediately texted back, ‘you have my Peacock login’. What a treat to have one’s offspring share something for which she paid.

As nice as that was, I was mostly taken with the fact that she is adulting. I will never forget the first sign of her spreading her wings. It was her junior year abroad and she took full advantage of traveling across Europe. I recall being so taken with her wanderlust and proud of the fact that she was navigating it all by herself. If memory serves me correctly, she took 25 flights on dirt cheap Ryanair. Never once was I asked for help, even when she left her meds in Rome and was visiting Waldo somewhere in Europe.

Other tangible signs of emerging adulting include her practice of sending handwritten thank you notes, making calls or sending emails when it’s not high on her wish list, buying thoughtful gifts, dealing with mail in ballots, killing it at work, dealing with her superintendent (she and her friend signed the lease on their apartment without a parent in sight), etc. She even has met with and corresponds with the family’s financial advisory to manage her finances and has submitted super bills for insurance reimbursement.

In no way am I suggesting that any of the above is extraordinary or not age appropriate. Rather, what’s striking to me is how these changes have had an impact on our relationship. I am no longer just mommy, the provider, or the all-knowing parent. I realize that my role in her life and her’s in mine is shifting.

Granted it’s not all wine and roses although wine is consumed when we are together. Recently at a dinner with the three of us, a comment escaped my lips to which she had, shall we say, a rather immediate reaction. Secretly, I was so impressed that she pushed back on me quite firmly, holding her boundaries.

A week or so later we were out just the two of us and I once again apologized for my ill placed remark, explaining that it came from a mommy place of concern. She allowed that it was not the first time I had expressed my opinion on said subject and that she was all over it. I, in turn, explained that my memory is for shit. Bottom line, it was a very adult conversation and I walked away respecting her even more.

Sure the sharing of the Peacock password was great but the real gift is that we’re in a new phase of this mother daughter thing. And I like it.

Last weekend I had lunch with a family member. After catching up on the expected topics, she looked me straight in the eye and asked if I were ok? I assured her I was and inquired as to why she was so clearly concerned. She allowed that my Substack posts worried her. It felt to her like I was going through a very hard time.

I took a beat before responding - a new behavior I’m practicing - as I wanted to answer honestly. I first thanked her for her concern, told her I appreciated her feedback, and figuratively scratched my head (we were in a restaurant!).

I said something along the lines of how Substack has become a special place for me - a place where I feel safe writing ‘my truth’ if you will, exposing and exploring the stuff that is not necessarily fully baked but that is clearly brewing inside of me and desperately needs to find a way out.

This lunch followed a coffee about a month prior with another close family member who shared similar sentiments. I was now holding two data points from others who presumably know me well and have my best interests in mind.

Was I secretly seeking sympathy or doing some long overdue soul searching? Clearly time for honest reflection and a deep dive into why I open the floodgates here on Substack.

Given that I was finding myself kicking and screaming into an unwanted retirement from a career as a brand strategist, I was searching for things to do that would help fill up my days in addition to volunteering, going to the gym, visiting our now 94 year old mother, learning mah jongg, etc.

65 Shades of Gray was initially imagined as a sort of Life in the 30’s wannabe. According to Dark Vader aka AI, ‘Life in the 30's" was a popular, widely-read column by Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist Anna Quindlen for The New York Times during the mid-to-late 1980s. The personal, conversational essays chronicled the realities of early adulthood, balancing motherhood, marriage, and a career in Manhattan.’

I actually sent a proposal with a few sample posts to the Old Gray Lady aka The New York Times. It’s amazing what a case of magical thinking can get one to do. Given my hair color and The NYT’s moniker I thought I was quite clever. The envelope, however, must have gotten lost in the mail as I heard back nothing - we are talking crickets.

By chance I fell upon Substack, after a quick tour of Medium which, with all due respect, did nothing for me. I immediately felt like I had found my people (genius algorithm), save for those annoyingly selling growth strategies for every stage of the dreaded sales funnel and the occasional creepy dude.

The people I follow- from democracy defenders, well known authors, cultivators of color and therapists who take the mask off to funny women reclaiming their loud parts, whimsical foodies, and cancer survivors who proclaim F Cancer inspire me, amuse me, challenge me, and humble me. They are from all corners of the globe (jealous of those living in fixer upper chateaus in France) yet it feels like we are all in the same room, just trying to figure out what it means to be human and then how to be the truest and best versions of ourselves.

In my feed at least, there is no snark, no competition, no shit talking - I’ve suggested we do a trial run in DC. It’s truly quite remarkable how kind, compassionate and vulnerable these Substack community members are. Some of the posts are laugh out loud funny while others could rip your heart out with their brave rawness.

I’ve been on the platform for just about a year, having made a commitment to myself to write a post every week or so. Whereas I have pretty much kept my promise to myself, the real benefit and joy has been in the engagement with others primarily within the Notes functionality.

One woman, whom I now consider a friend and a confidante, posts a thoughtful piece every day. This is in addition to having a demanding full time job, a book being shopped, and kids at home. I am blown away with her bravery as she shares really tough truths about herself. Every damn day at 6:30am ET.

My earlier posts were lighter in nature. I wanted to entertain people. In rereading a small sample, I see a trend toward the more real, the deeper, the harder stuff. On the cusp of completing my 68th rotation around the sun (gulp), some of this stuff has been brewing for decades and decades. Some I haven’t found the words for yet but I am trying. I partially attribute this shift to the truth serum that is Substack. It all somehow feels easier and safer within the confines of this special ecosystem.

So back to the question I posed to myself upon receiving the familial feedback (vs. Family Feud). Am I here seeking sympathy or am I soul searching? I know the answer as my body provides the clues.

My last piece went into pretty graphic detail about the struggles I face with my vocal tremor aka The Clamp. The responses I received that might have felt good had I been seeking sympathy felt downright icky. On the other hand, when a friend from the gym told me she had read it and now had a much better understanding of what I experience when we leave the facility together and chat for a few blocks. I felt seen and even heard. Thank you L.S.

I will continue to do this soul searching. I will continue to build community. I will continue to celebrate all that is Substack. Getting the truth out feels so good. So to answer my family members, ‘I’m good.’.

As I’ve referenced countless times in this sacred space, I have either an Essential Tremor or Dystonia. Regardless of the diagnosis (my neurologist floated the Dystonia label for the first time at my last visit), my voice doesn’t work. And, it seems to be getting worse.

We were in the Rocky Mountains last week and the altitude seemed to have an additional adverse effect which I’m hoping will abate. It was as if I were gasping for breath - storing up enough fuel to push out each thought that I had carefully constructed in advance, practically counting the number of syllables and always assessing whether I would be able to deliver the goods. Sometimes I deemed it just not worth the effort.

This whole internal assessment and negotiation has me really concerned. So many feelings circling. I am a social creature by nature and keeping quiet - because it’s physically too hard to speak, I don’t want to inconvenience the recipient, or hear ‘what?’ repeatedly - is increasing in frequency.

There is definitely embarrassment and shame around my disability which, I know, only makes it worse. When in the Centennial State, we had lunch with two of my favorite people in the world and I was super excited to see them. For the most part, I sat quietly. These two people know me really well. These two people have spent countless hours Zooming with me. These people lovingly accept me just as I am yet I found myself strategically posing short questions, silently encouraging the three others at the table to carry on the conversation.

Walking and talking at the same time do not work for me. The physical exertion and the fact that I am side by side vs. across from my walking partner makes it close to impossible to generate speech and be understood. Yesterday, one of my absolute besties and I met to walk a new section of the East River Esplanade that had recently opened. It was hot, I was overdressed, and I was so embarrassed (and yes frustrated) that I could not do such a simple thing - carry on a conversation.

We stopped at a new Instagram-worthy frozen Greek yogurt shop and I so hoped that the lack of movement and the cold substance would somehow loosen my throat, enabling me to get a few words out as we enjoyed our treats while sitting in a shaded playground. Not so much.

Many days after an exercise class at our gym, I take to the sauna with another wonderful friend. We perch ourselves side by side on the upper tier and chat (unless there are other women in the chamber with us in which case we respect their desire for quiet with a side of heat). Without it ever being discussed, we turn toward each other when I speak - easing the work for both of us.

Even fun activities like playing Mah Jongg (total beginner!) are stressful. I find myself apologizing almost every time I croak out a ‘three dot’, ‘four bam’, or ‘seven crak’. Happily, on the very few occasions where I am blessed with great tiles and a shit ton of great luck and can proclaim, ‘Mah Jongg’, my shame is momentarily displaced with unadulterated glee.

The telephone is my arch nemesis. I have to talk myself into calling a customer service rep and, for those that know me, this is a not infrequent occurrence. If I have the wherewithal, I will start by announcing that my voice does not work well and suggest that if they cannot understand me that they should ask me to repeat myself.

This pre boarding announcement uses up a lot of my oxygen and there’s no bag that’s going to magically drop down from above. Providing my email address is akin to climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. It never goes smoothly and, with each request for me to repeat myself, my stress, anxiety and shame skyrocket. Getting that $4.99 refund becomes far less important.

Mind you to the best of my knowledge, to a person, not a single human being has ever rejected me or looked at me with disgust because of my voice. Intellectually I know that people are not my friends because they pity me. Yet part of me - a young part - is suspect. It gets even more interesting when I put this very visible flaw into the rubric of performative perfection. My early (til age 65 or so) belief system was that you had to be perfect to be seen, heard, loved - to be enough.

When I was working with an IFS practitioner, we explored the idea that my voice, or rather lack thereof, might in fact have a psychological component. The clamp cleverly prevented me from giving voice to my needs and expressing my truth; in essence, keeping me safe.

There is no question that there is a physiological misfire between my brain and vocal cords as evidenced by the imagery captured by the camera they shoved up my nose and down my throat. I am not a candidate for Deep Brain Stimulation surgery (relieved). My neurologist prescribed a Parkinson’s drug that has been used for decades in the hope that it might dampen some of the vocal tremor not to mention hand shakes. The pill bottle has been sitting in my nightstand drawer. Unopened.

I’m open to and secretly counting on the fact that the ‘clamp’ or ‘French Coffee Press’ as I not so lovingly called my affliction might in fact experience some relief if I were able to uncork some seemingly very stuck toxic energy. I’m doing my research and making plans via email.

We knew we wanted to travel in early June and that we wanted to go to a concert at the Red Rocks Amphitheatre. Given our parameters and the availability of Boulder-based friends, we purchased tickets to the Colorado Symphony Orchestra for a program of all-American music featuring the world-famous cellist, Yo-Yo Ma. I am perhaps the farthest thing from a classical music aficionado and had, to the best of my knowledge, never seen the great Mr. Ma perform. Intellectually I was looking forward to the concert but emotionally I was far more excited by the prospect of being in the venue.

My friend J, who has been frequenting Red Rocks forever had, as she described, a plug and play plan. She kindly picked us up at our hotel at 4:30pm for a 7:30pm concert. There was a rain shower en route but I decided to turn up the optimism - if it rains now, it will be clear later - thinking which actually bode well.

The car was neatly packed with every imaginable tailgating accoutrement - collapsible chairs and seat backs, blankets, two coolers, sun hats, and the most amazing looking croissants and brownies this somewhat jaded New Yorker had ever laid eyes on. J turned her car around to be most advantageously positioned post concert to ‘get out of Dodge’ fast. We unpacked the car. We had a leisurely drink and then served ourselves the yummy chicken and fruit salads J had made for the celebratory event.

After attacking the crazy good brownies (GF I might add with quinoa inside - go figure), we cleaned up and began the trek up to our seats. I mean trek. J is a Coloradan not to mention a truly serious hiker and runner. She very patiently waited for us two elder statespeople, both suffering from cases of the altitude icks. We made a pit stop at the Honey Buckets which happily did not smell.

We eventually found our correct seats after a misfire (don’t ask, it wasn’t pretty) in the wrong row. Our coveted seats were dead center with a fabulous view of both the big ass Red Rocks and the stage. There was a dude sitting smack dab in front of me that I suspect might give the Spur’s Victor Wembanyama a run for his money. The assigned slots were narrow in width but it was all good. J and I both noticed that there were a ton of young people in attendance which was either a good sign for the future revenue from a new generation of symphony music fans and/or a reflection on the fitness requirements necessary to navigate the steps to and in the Amphitheatre.

The concert started about 15 minutes late but I didn’t care given the sheer magic of the environment. The Colorado Symphony, under the direction of its charmingly witty conductor Peter Oundjian, played. After intermission, Yo-Yo Ma walked onto the stage and he and Peter Oundjian discussed how they were both immigrants. The audience erupted in deafening applause.

I positioned myself in the REI seat back and took it all in.

Whereas I knew Mr. Ma was considered in a class of his own, I was truly unprepared for what I witnessed. It was as if the man, his instrument (apparently he rotates between a 1712 Stradivarius and a 1733 Domenico Montagnana nicknamed ‘Petunia’ - thank you google), the notes he played, and the emotions he felt were one. The two video screens on either side of the stage zoomed in alternatively on his face broadcasting the full spectrum of emotions and his fingers which were so intimately entangled with and caressing his instrument. The concert ended with the playing of Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B Minor. I was totally absorbed the entire 40 minutes of the piece. To say seeing Ma wield his craft was extraordinary or magical somehow sells it short. It was if I were watching a sacred ceremony.

The trip back to the car was mostly downhill for which I was eternally grateful. On the ride back to Boulder, I researched Mr. Ma - in addition to being arguably one of the world’s greatest cellist ever born, he has also been a United Nations Messenger of Peace since 2006, a recipient of the Presidential Medal of Honor, and named one of the 100 Most Influential People by Time Magazine in 2020. I have no doubt that Mr. Ma relished the thundering applause but from my narrow seat, he seemed to need no external validation, seemingly catapulting a state of flow and entering the highest altitude (I’m in Colorado)of personhood - Maslow’s self transcendence.

If only a bison burger held the key.

This past Friday night was my High School Reunion. Not any random reunion - my 50th. Let that sink in. Mind blowing to say the least.

My friend B (who had been at the school throughout her entire Wonder Years) and I would go together. I think the last one we attended was five years ago in a nasty and smelly satellite gym. Despite agreeing to go to said event, I so did not want to.

At first I thought it was purely about my voice tremor. It’s hard to talk, it’s hard to try to project, and there’s definitely some embarrassment not to mention shame associated with my very visible (actually audible) disability.

The event started at 6pm. B and I met to walk over together at 6:15pm. I had an errand on the way (Amazon return at our local Whole Foods) which happily, for me, delayed our arrival time.

We walked down the block and my dread was reaching new heights. Just like at a professional conference there were manned (actually women-ed) tables outside with baskets of free mini umbrellas with our alma mater’s name printed on them for the offing upon signing in and receiving one’s name badge. Apparently I was supposed to have registered ahead so my sticker was handwritten. It was as if that handwritten sticker read ‘outsider’.

Our school lobby was filled with blue and white balloons and seemingly joyful alumni. There was a plethora of merch for sale. We waited for the elevator as our graduating class was assigned a room on the 10th floor. While matriculating, I don’t recall being allowed to use the elevator. Just to digress for a moment - there was the time I fell down a flight of stairs on my tush only to take the next flight down as if I were body surfing. Can’t you just feel the sheer humiliation of an awkward 15 year old with bad glasses, train tracks on her teeth and some extra heft around her middle?

The people on the elevator seemed not only happy but of a certain ilk. Polished, members of this club, and comfortable in their own skins. I felt none of those things. We reached the 10th floor and I was struck by our surroundings. This is a school for the privileged.

Our assigned room was pretty full with attendees most of whom I so didn’t recognize. Mind you, our graduating class was all of 90 or so students. My anxiety was on par with or perhaps even above that of entering a cocktail party. Who would I talk to? And perhaps more telling - who would talk to me?

I found a warm familiar face and made a beeline to sit next to D, a woman who was the year above us but married to a guy from our class. We compared back surgery notes and I heard all about how she and her husband took care of two of their grandsons all week as their daughter worked. This woman is 68 years old and had her entire spine rebuilt. She’s taking care of two young boys?!

I peeked around and saw a few people that I recognized and assumed wouldn’t bite. I bravely made my way over and said hello to a select few including a few of the cool kids. Everyone was super nice, welcoming, engaging, etc. but I’m super nervous, I’m sweating and I don’t want to be there.

I became relieved when one of the Event Chairs announced that they would play a video. We watched. There was a montage of 5 classmates who have passed away. It elicited a very visceral gulp. I managed to stay for an hour and basically snuck out.

What really happened for me? Why was I so scared? So very uncomfortable? It hit me like a ton of bricks. Whereas my voice is a total pain in the ass, I had always felt like an outsider (the handwritten sticker should have been my first clue) at this school. Like some others I enrolled in 7th grade vs. those that had been there since the 3’s as it is labelled. But, unlike others, I never seemed to find my footing there or felt like I belonged. I did well academically but socially not so much. I was definitely in the nerd category and wasn’t and still am not cool.

But, here we were, fifty years later - some bald, some wizened, some chunky, some all of the above - all card carrying members of the Medicare club and I was responding as if I were walking by the rows of lockers in 1974 with a big old L embossed on my forehead.

I have lots to celebrate - a good career by most standards, a great daughter, a loving husband (who had offered to come with me), my health, a embarrassment of riches in the friends category, quality of life, etc. etc. but it was if my nervous system went haywire and I had been teleported back to another place and time physically and emotionally. Clearly lots to think about. In the meantime, teleporting R Us, as I will figuratively crack the spine (like how I came full circle?) of Yesteryear.

To say I haven’t been my usual charming self of late is a true statement. To allow that I’ve been rather cranky is more telling. But to admit that there’s some anger or perhaps even rage brewing feels really scary. There seems to be a nasty ass storm brewing but I find myself up a creek without a paddle - unable to navigate the choppy waters.

Let me set the scene. Yesterday afternoon (Memorial Day Weekend - cold and rainy) we, of course, went to a movie. I preselected seats as one can now do (right up there with GPS in the genius innovation category). Given that we are both seniors, the tickets only cost $41 (vs. full freight of $44). The theater is convenient to where we live but it’s arguably pretty gross. None of those fancy recliner seats here.

We got to our strategically picked perches - R1 and R2 in theater 1 (friends and neighbors, be forewarned) only to find that both seats had lost their giddy up - in other words - the seat back mechanism was shot so that I had no choice but to put my delicate back (spinal fusion 2018) in the most unnatural, not to mention uncomfortable of positions - for those requiring visuals cues - an obtuse angle of probably 128 degrees. And, yes, truth be told I did have to Google acute vs. obtuse as it’s been decades since I took Geometry.

The movie we were about to see had a running time of 2 hours and 7 minutes. Combine that with the promos, our tushes were making a long term commitment. I told my husband that I was going to go to the lobby to see if I could change seats. Given that you know I’m rather cranky, you can guess where this is going. Needless to say, it was R1 and R2 or nada. I felt wronged and the turmoil inside was clearly outsized.

Right as a larger than life Nicole Kidman was doing her breathless spiel about the magic of going to the movies, a pack of kids - 4 young women and a young man - entered the row directly in front of us. I settled into my spine flexing seat and anticipated the joy of escape.

Things did go quite as I had hoped. The kids in front of us spent the entire movie either on their phones or passing their phones to each other. Confession - I’m sure it will surprise not one of you - I am a rule follower. It’s one of the my many early baked in strategies for being seen and valued not to mention feeling safe. And, of course, while you’re doing the right thing, do it perfectly. Old territory which keeps surfacing.

I reached over the seats (not so easy given the 83 degrees I had to bend forward) and asked one of the offending parties if she would please stay off her phone as it was distracting. She blatantly ignored me which the rest of the pack did with each of my increasingly annoyed requests. They had the sheer hubris to view, text, pass their phones, etc. throughout the duration of the remaining 2 hours and 6 minutes they were seated in front of us. By the end of the movie, my stomach was in knots.

We ran into the phone posse outside of the theater and it was obvious they were talking about me. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut - I told you there’s a storm brewing - and allowed that yes, it was me. Well, the tiny gang leader got right up in my face and lit into me with a litany of invectives and such aggression. She even had the nerve to call us old. Them’s fighting words. My husband, who is 6’4” gallantly stepped in with a few choice words of his own and we left.

Suffice it to say we made it out into the pouring rain unharmed. Physically at least. Over dinner which might have included a hot sake, my husband asked me what was going on with me and was curious why I didn’t just go out to the theater staff and ask them to deal with the issue. Great questions.

I immediately knew the childhood triggers that were activated - always having to be the good one, not being seen/actually ignored, and having to sublimate my reasonable needs for others who were ‘misbehaving’ all conflated into an alphabet soup of rage and, yes, hurt. But still I struggled to understand why I was unable to regulate myself.

Little things are increasingly getting under my skin and I find myself escalating. I read a fellow Substacker, Kate Eckman’s post yesterday about anger and rage and it occurred to me and I noted that ‘anger sure is a wake up call to listen to the conversation inside’.

There’s definitely a storm brewing and it’s scary as I know it has nothing to do with shitty movie theater seats or teens being teens. Becoming quiet, listening to the conversation inside, and hearing what my body is telling me is virgin territory but I know I have to go there. I’m awakening to the fact that the life jacket is me.

I’ve had swollen glands and a dry annoying af cough for almost a week. I don’t do sick well. Let me put a pin in that so I can share some background that may or may not be helpful - for me at least.

My childhood memories of being sick start with mom putting a bucket next to our bed when we were down with a stomach bug. There was also a ratty ass towel laid over the blue and green shag rug (don’t ask) to protect its nonnatural fibers. Fonder memories involve me putting a thermometer dangerously close to the bulb inside the cube of the Tensor lamp (anyone remember those?) that provided reading light. To keep things interesting, I sometimes performed this feat early morning before school or while home midday for lunch (on days when the 7 block walk back was just too much to imagine).

Lo and behold, I could make that sucker jump to ‘uh oh, I’m sick and have to stay home from school’. Still shake my head that no adult in our household picked up on my magic trick. On those happy dance days, Mattie, the sometimes wonderful woman who took care of us, would eventually relent and make me white rice with butter which I would inhale with a teaspoon as we watched ‘her stories’ (Soap Operas) from my twin bed.

These real and fabricated sick episodes were eclipsed by the three eye surgeries I had around the ages of 4, 6 and 9 to try to correct strabismus (crossed eyes). It must have been the first surgery when I was waiting to go to the OR and there was another little girl also in queue who was, by all accounts, losing her proverbial shit. Needless to say, it was not relaxing. I have a very vivid memory of being wheeled into the OR and literally seeing the thick black domed mask coming from on high to cover my nose and mouth, all to administer ether. The cherry on this hospital sundae was waking up with patches on both eyes and projectile vomiting.

There was a definite upside to these hospital stays - I recall listening to the Monkees (not sure what device delivered the dulcet tones of Michael, Davy, Peter, and Micky), there was the adoption of a very cute stuffed cocker spaniel appropriately named Cocoa, and my sister lovingly administered eye drops to Beanie and Cecil (what we named my eyes. IYKYK.

Cut to adulthood complete with a lost pregnancy, two separate diagnoses of breast cancer (got myself a roadmap of scars from multiple surgeries and a pair of perky new breasts (only had to swap out a deflated implant once), an essential tremor for the books, insomnia, and a big old back surgery as I didn’t already have enough scars on my body. John Mayer might be impressed. Or not.

As a rule I’m actually quite healthy aside from occasional hiccups (real and metaphorical). And, truth be told, I am so not looking for sympathy. Rather company as I attempt to explore my reaction and relationship to health related issues. Back to the top. Even as a young child, I just knew that I had to do this well. I had to perform perfectly. I had to be brave. I couldn’t complain. I had to soldier on. There were no tears and zero expressions of any emotion e.g. fear. Little Ms. Perfect should have received an Oscar.

As an adult, I would be withholding if I didn’t allow that Ursula, the caregiver, and Ms. Holier Than Thou played supporting roles. When I was diagnosed with cancer, I was the very poster child of how to nail this. Again, bravery. No complaints. No requests of others. A soldier deserving of a zillion medals. I did cry. Once. I was 39 minutes into a 40 minute MRI with my soon to be excised breast and body twisted into some unrecognizable shape and the machine malfunctioned. Translation - the torturous 39 minutes were for naught and the test had to be repeated the following week. A minor blip in my Sainthood.

Arriving at HSS (Hospital for Special Surgery) at 5am on July 11, 2018, I found myself in yet another pre-op holding area. 100% antithetical to my perfect, non feeling ways, I actually asked the surgeon if I could be sedated before I was wheeled into the fun house. In retrospect I see this as a great thing - a crack in the armor that had heretofore protected me or so I thought. Clearly my body was sending me ‘Danger, Will Robinson’ flares and I miraculously practiced some self care and caught a much needed glimpse of being a mere mortal. The surgery, by the way, was a huge success. Thank you from the bottom of my heart Dr. Lebl.

So now I have this minor respiratory thing. I know intellectually that I am human and that humans get sick. If it’s a bug, what a wonderful metaphor as there’s a bug in my operating system which needs attention. I’ve been slow to appreciate and tend to the emails my body sends me - from swollen glands and trigger fingers to insomnia. The system is off and the great news is that I now know that I can be less than perfect and still worthy of love. In fact, the real aha is that with vulnerability comes genuine connection with others, and perhaps more importantly, with ourselves. Headed to CityMd tomorrow. They apparently are now closed on Sundays. Guessing mortals don’t get sick on Sundays. Who knew?

I Zoomed with my amazing newish friend J (within the first thirty seconds of our first Zoom, I just knew) this morning. On these regular Zooms we make the most of our time together as we go right in to the good, the bad and the ugly all with a very sacred container of safety, trust, understanding and, when called for, humor.

I shared that I felt like I was acting out and that I felt shame but wasn’t quite sure what exactly was going on. Being the person she is, she did not try to negate my statement or immediately try to make me feel better. Instead, she gave me the space and grace to sit with the feeling and to explore what might be behind this unpleasant and gnawing feeling.

As we were talking, I had one of those eureka moments - it occurred to me that as I am metaphorically trying on new clothes all of which are black and white, I am doing so without a stylist and with no real ability to recognize shades of gray or, dare I say, introduce a pop of color. This new wardrobe is the person I am becoming or rather the true self to whom I am returning.

This unfurling has introduced the concept of boundaries, ongoing tete a tetes with feelings vs. thoughts, and the semi-retirement of old parts of me that once served me but no longer do e.g. people pleaser. And, given that my inner critic has taken an early retirement, making room for curiosity and compassion to step up, I could acknowledge that, as with most new skills, there’s that beginner phase where one can appear really quite awkward with limited ease and certainly no muscle memory.

I’ve been trying on saying ‘no’ which is unfortunately coming out as ‘NO’ every time my lips go to form the foreign diphthong. Saying ‘no’ or ‘NO’ is usually accompanied by a pang of guilt not to mention a rigidity in my body and thought process.

Perhaps ‘no’ or ‘NO’ might soon morph into a kinder, gentler explanation of the internal dialogue playing out inside me. I’m trying to make peace with the fact it’s ok to be a newbie and not every situation needs to be black and white. Sure wish there were a manual for these kind of training wheels.

When I go to our gym, I sometimes get cranky. It’s not the fact that I have to work out although there are days when I just plain don’t feel like it (most days actually but it’s a personal non negotiable). And, admittedly Entitled Emma still pushes my buttons with her total lack of gym etiquette but there’s something else going on. There is something about the lack of customer focus that truly gets under my skin.

It starts upon entering the building. Members are not routinely greeted (read a great article about the Ritz Carleton whose staff is trained to say ‘Welcome In’ ) and towels, when there is actually inventory, are hidden behind the desk and parceled out as if they were precious cargo. Never mind that you usually have to interrupt a conversation going on amongst the three team members on duty and, one has to practically beg for a second towel. Mind you a good percentage of the towels are beyond dingy and many even horribly threadbare.

Sometimes there are no small towels for class use which are provided up on the workout floors. It’s almost a running joke but actually not funny. Last week, during a water break, I ran out to see if the laundry service (perhaps the gym should find another vendor?) had made a delivery and ran into Entitled Emma (who apparently had also gone in search of a ratty, dingy and threadbare towel. It should come as no surprise that she was holding one. I grabbed about ten and brought them back into the classroom for all of us. Curious why it wouldn’t have occurred to the woman who sits at the desk to bring in a supply knowing full well that not one of the 15 or so of us had one. Or why EE didn’t have the same idea. Ok, now I’m really pushing it.

Similar head scratching moment when I find myself going to the second studio to secure the equipment needed for a specific class (balls and bands). Perhaps the woman who sits at the ‘welcome’ desk could be responsible for ensuring that the equipment is where it needs to be or crazier idea perhaps the gym could purchase a second set of balls and bands.

After class, I usually go down to the lower level for a 30 minute sweat fest in the sauna followed by a shower before heading home. There are usually several signs posted most of which begin with the word ‘Don’t’ or include ‘Can’t’. I don’t recall seeing too many ‘Pleases’ or ‘Thank Youse’ for that matter.

Walking home I go through a set of double doors next to an Emergency Exit which is marked as such. Included on that sign is their favorite ‘Don’t’ in this case ‘Don’t block’. Seriously, how hard would it be to insert the six letters required to type ‘please’?

Please trust me that I am not a snob by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps my standards or expectations of a service business are too high, and yes, I might be slightly nuts but I definitely respond far better to positivity than negativity. It’s the old adage, ‘it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it’.

Call me a Pollyanna (I’ve been called far worse) but this shit matters - to me at least. How hard is it really to turn that frown upside down? Channeling my inner Ted Lasso which sure beats reading the news.

A couple of months ago, my daughter, 24 at the time, announced that she and a few friends were going to Istanbul on vacation. This did not surprise me as this was the kid who took north of 20 flights (on shitty RyanAir) during second semester junior year in Rome. I remember being quite impressed with her sense of adventure and ability to navigate. Morocco was her favorite destination.

Having been to Istanbul with my mother and sister where I loved the vibe of the city, the food, and the totally fabulous boots I had made overnight, I was truly excited for her. Until I wasn’t. On top of my already existential dread about our waging war on Iran, the fact that my daughter was headed to the Middle East added to my already orange level state of fear.

Did I check the State Department’s travel advisories on a daily basis? You bet I did. Did I gently ask about travel insurance and any concerns about the trip? You bet I did. But as her departure date neared, it was clear to me that she was Turkey bound.

I waited anxiously for her text announcing that she had landed and I held on tightly to my phone (and breath) the entire time she was there. She sent a few pictures and updates. I continued to hold my breath. Much to my great delight, she decided to shorten her time in Istanbul by a day and add that time to her already planned few days in London post Istanbul.

Her pictures of English gardens, meals, and Paddington Bear were delightful and accompanied by both inhales and exhales on my part. When she finally landed back home, I actually sighed with relief.

Please understand that my daughter is an incredibly intelligent and capable young woman of 25 who, as mentioned, has transversed a lot of foreign territory solo and singlehandedly got herself a job upon graduating two and a half years ago and secured a ‘better job’ six plus months ago. I’m quite proud that she is kicking ass and savvy to the ways of corporate life that just astound me and clearly escaped me. And, whereas I trust her implicitly, at the end of the day, I’m still her Mommy. That is not to say that I am not cognizant of the fact that I have no say over her life.

The cool thing is that our relationship continues to evolve. It’s clear she respects me and values my input and company - sometimes.

What’s really special is that we have morphed into more of a friendship dynamic complete with texting back and forth pictures of potential clothing purchases. Ok, the truth, I need and seek her sartorial approval. She kindly came over last week to help me purge my closets. ‘Mom, nothing with words’ and other mandates were issued. Hate to say it but she right 99% of the time. I did retrieve a pair of pants she proclaimed looked like diarrhea. I beg to differ but then again…

With time she’s getting more and more skilled and delicate in how she shares what might be received as less than desirable comments or requests. I am truly taken aback with her bravery and the confidence with which she stands up for herself.

In essence, my work is done. But here’s the thing, when she has her wisdom teeth out,

I am there and, if her tummy hurts, I suspect I will be her first call. Once a mommy, … I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As if April 15th isn’t shitty enough given that it’s Tax Day, there was a totally unnecessary reminder in my calendar that I was scheduled for a ‘sleepover’ at Weill Cornell’s Center for Sleep Medicine which is promoted as ‘a state-of-the-art facility that provides patients with comprehensive, multidisciplinary treatment to improve sleep health.’

For the record, I am an awful sleeper. In the good old days, my curls would hit the pillow and I’d be in Never, Never Land for the duration. Not so much anymore. It’s not like there’s a lot of chatter going on or a review of my to do list (I’m 99% retired and I’ve got a typed list of chores to be accomplished front and center on my desk), but rather unmitigated existential stress about whether it would be an acceptable night or a shitty night. Las Vegas had money on the latter.

I consulted with one of the sleep specialist PhD’s at Weill several months ago and he had me complete a sleep log (first failing grade I’ve ever received) and gave me strict instructions around proper sleep protocol. For those that know me, proper is not a word that is often used to describe me.

Whereas I used to take to the bed with iPad in tow around 8:30pm. I’d read for half an hour, put on my eye mask, and turn off the light at 9pm ish (I know it’s crazy early but trust me I was beyond exhausted). For a while I took a melatonin every night (til my doctor friend Ruth told me it screwed up your natural circadian cycle). Sometimes I took a bite of a gummy. Most nights a glass or two of wine had been imbibed (Not drinking which I’m trying more and more sadly does nothing to improve the situation which truly sucks).

After what was usually a highly unsatisfactory night, I’d be served coffee in bed (great husband, right?) 6am ish and read the NYT and make my way through a litany of puzzles in a given order (crossword, strands, connection, sudoko medium, sudoko hard and spelling bee with great husband) I’d rouse in time to make it to the gym for an 8am class.

Well, the good doctor would have none of this. NO LOUNGING IN BED. I could not enter the chamber until 10pm and I had to exit said chamber by 6am. Well, this clearly was asking a lot but my supportive husband was right there with me, watching whatever show we were currently binging in our brightly lit den (mighta turned the lights down a bit for that surround sound feel) til 10pm when we retired and then donning our bathrobes to return at 6am for coffee. Bah humbug said I. That said, something had to give.

In addition to the rigid rules around sleep hygiene, the meanie doctor put in a referral for a night at the Sleep Center. My feelings around it were sort of like having a colonoscopy - you so don’t want to do it but you know you have to. Given that I’m practicing being an adult, there was no backing out.

I really tried to approach the whole twelve hours as an experiment - perhaps it would be interesting or at the very least we would discover what is causing my insomnia. I failed to mention that my dentist probably 9 months ago told me that I clearly grind my teeth. I was fit for and purchased an expensive night guard which I’ve worn exactly once. Ok, so a minor transgression from adulting.

I was instructed to arrive at 7:45pm. I packed my bag complete with my own pillow with a pillow case I didn’t care about as I knew they would be putting some pretty gnarly conductor glop on my head (more on that later), water, clothes, toiletries, chargers, etc. I decided on a big bowl of pasta for dinner beforehand as if I were preparing for a marathon. Little did I know that was in fact what I was doing.

It’s been unseasonably hotter than Hades here and I thought to treat myself with an ice cream sandwich. If I was going to Hell might as well carbo load and go hog wild on the calories. The only one I could find was from a deli complete with cats (so not my friends) was yucky and I tossed it after four bites (had to determine just how yucky it was before disposing of it).

I gingerly took the elevator up to the fifth floor and was escorted to my suite (not but at least clean). Seeing all the wires sprawled on the bed

did zero to help with my anxiety about the upcoming ‘interesting experiment’ in which I had sort of willingly agreed to participate. A truly wonderful and caring technician with a prize winning smile told me what to expect. I was to change into my pjs in the bathroom (in the room cameras everywhere) so she could get me ready.

Not only were there many things attached to my legs, head, and face but there were monitors around my chest to track respiration. But wait there’s more. Things stuck up my nose complete with a little doohickey tail that had to stay in my mouth. Ok, this is so not comfortable nor conducive to sleep. I am so not one to complain about pain or medical stuff but this has really crossed a line. How do people sleep? Asking for a friend.

H became my new best friend. Sort of. Over the course of the 10 1/2 hours I was imprisoned, (I bolted at 6:30am vs. ‘I’ll wake you at 7:30am” - Are you actually kidding? I haven’t slept til 7:30am ever), I asked her lots of questions. She loves neuroscience and went to school for two years to become a sleep technician. Her husband is a swim coach but she doesn’t know how to swim (we got right in there). Her lovely personality, big smile, and can do attitude were on full display the 2 or 3 times during the night I asked her to come in (no buttons to push, you just talk and they hear you - big sister was indeed watching and listening) to unplug me so I could pee and even in the morning as I was bolting. H does this 14 hour shift three nights a week. Good thing she’s a night owl (I told you we talked).

Ok. So after being made to look like Hannibal Lechter’s 2nd cousin, I took to the bed and tried to read but that was not happening. I felt tired (I always feel tired) and turned in around 9:30pm. Given the plethora of wires and other paraphernalia (never knew there’s a ‘R’ in this word), I found myself trying to sleep on my back vs. my go to fetal (might be a clue to this whole sleep thing) position on my right side.

Apparently that was the start time on the party invitation for the monkeys. The chatter was deafening. I tried to focus on my body vs. my head but the running commentary was truly insane - everything from ‘those sirens are loud’ to ‘I feel myself close to sleep’ - all of which kept the internal chatter at a crazy decibel level.

Seeing that it was somewhat light outside, I called for H. Through the box on the wall, she asked if I wanted to go to the bathroom. ‘No thank you. I’m ready to go. You want to end the study? Yes indeed.’ According to H, the gnarly glop was water soluble but the shower handle was broken so I could only get cold water. I tried to wash my hair in the sink with the Pantene combo shampoo and conditioner provided but that didn’t work so well. IYKYK. I hugged H and thanked her and gleefully pushed the down button on the elevator.

I took the bus uptown and threw myself into a hot shower with a boatload of conditioner and a hairbrush fit for a lion. Suffice it to say it was like a bad night at home but on steroids. I had forms to complete in the morning with a question inquiring as to how long it took me to fall asleep and another asking how long I slept. I thought it was at least an hour and a half to fall asleep and estimated that I ‘slept’ between 3 and 5 hours.

I am so curious (Curious George???) to see what the test results reveal. I am also curious as to why the monkeys came to play. Will sleep on that. I hope.

In Yoga class this morning our teacher instructed us to rotate our torsos to the right with our legs out in front of us on our very closely positioned mats. This meant that I would momentarily be facing a wall completely mirrored. I did what I also do - I closed my eyes. I abhor mirrors. I think my distaste is mostly attributable to the fact that they reflect the very imperfections - both real and baked in - I’d rather not see.

And this aging thing is certainly not helping the situation. The only saving grace is that without my readers (just upped to 1.75) everything is a bit of a blur. Not a great thing when trying to apply mascara or separate the lashes with one of those comb things that far too often come dangerously close to poking me in the eye.

The same holds true for photographs - I avoid them like the plague. I hear the word/command ‘smile’ and I search for the closest exit. Yes it’s the I don’t want to see the imperfections but there’s another factor at play. Those frozen in time Kodak moments don’t look like me. Or rather don’t look like what I think I look like. My smile for the camera is most times way awkward and my pose not natural. There is a fake performative shit show staring at me.

When I try to take a selfie in the mirror so I can get my daughter’s approval or more often her disapproval of a potential clothing item purchase, I often have to retake the photo several times (this does not include the misfires when the lens is facing the wrong way). I intentionally frame the shot to lop off my face but given my shaky hands I sometimes unfortunately capture chins two and three. It’s safe to say that my experience of viewing pictures of myself is cringe inducing.

Another oddity - I feel as if my looks change - in fact it is as if they are not permanent but rather fungible. Almost like the distorted mirrors in Halloween houses. As you might recall if you’ve been following along, I truly despise Halloween. It’s curious to me that everyone else that I look at in photographs looks like themselves.

All of which brings me to my new home and the reason why I’ve decided to purchase a HUGE mirror for every room within. My new home is my internal world. A world I’m slowly moving into. A world I’m decorating with colorful feelings and hopefully a newfound sense of calm.

These figurative mirrors are there to show me what’s really going on - the previously unfelt feelings, the ok ness with my truth, the trophy on the shelf from when I retired as a people pleaser, the growing ability to say no instead of yes, and even the growing self love for the real me.

Maybe there’s a touch of vanity or perhaps a lingering need for validation but I’m hoping that those previously dreaded external mirrors will reflect the evolving me with a genuine smile, ease, and the comfort of living in my own skin.

My voice tremor has gotten decidedly worse or more pronounced as a friend kindly put it. It’s at the point where I find myself having an internal conversation before I decide if I am going to try to speak. Every time. Goes something like this, ‘Is it worth saying?, Do I have what it takes physically and emotionally to get the words out? What’s the least number of words I can use to say what I want or need to say? Will I be understood? How frustrated is the person across from me? Is she/he just being nice? You get the idea.

The worst is when I’m with my mom in a loud restaurant - her hearing aids work for shit and my words undecipherable to her. I have resigned myself to spending our quality time with her within the confines of her bedroom.

I have never been one to feel sorry for myself but, truth be told, it just sucks. I saw my neurologist a few weeks ago. If I were under the age of 65, she would have put me in a clinical trial she is running but alas that wonderful milestone came and went two Earth revolutions around the Sun ago. She prescribed a new drug for me as prior treatments including botox shots into my vocal chords (yes, as dreadful as it sounds), beta blockers (felt like I was trudging through mud in SloMo), speech pathology (you have to clip the sounds, whatever), etc. didn’t work. Nor am I a candidate for deep brain stimulation or ultrasound brain surgery. Quietly relieved about this.

The ‘new’ drug actually received FDA approval in 1949 . Its primary use is for Parkinson’s patients but has been effective for vocal tremors as it blocks receptors thereby reducing spasms. I will begin to titrate this new foreign substance post my sleepover party at Weill Cornell’s sleep clinic in two weeks (I anticipate sharing about this much anticipated event) and, of course, I can expect a laundry list (read super fast) of potential side effects none of which puts a skip in my step.

Mind you, I do not like taking even a Tylenol when I have a headache. I’m of the belief that symptoms are our bodies talking to us which in a convoluted way brings me to the other end of the thick rope being pulling in my own private Idaho tug of war.

If the drugs are the science side of the tug, I guess I would call the opposing team my ‘soul’. Having done my fair share of therapy, I’d give myself a solid A for self-awareness. I intellectually know the little t traumas and I intellectually know and truly respect the genius cadre of coping soldiers (parts for those familiar with IFS work) that came to protect me. At the ripe old age of 65+, I’m getting in touch with the real me and engaging in the world in a much more authentic and satisfying way, sans most of the baggage. That said, there still some carry on to attend to. It seems that hardwired and baked into my 5’5” body is a treasure trove of stored toxic energy. Stored toxic energy that has zero intention of dislodging. I bow down to its determination.

A trusted practitioner submitted that my voice issues - the clamp or French coffee press as I coined it - might in fact be psychosomatic suppression. I loved this theory because it offered hope - hope that if I were about to unlock the stored toxic energy - let the damn black ball of hot lava out - perhaps in my fairytale - my voice box might release organically and grant me a newfound freedom to speak my truth out loud and proud.

For those that might have read about my introduction to Beer Pong, you know that I do not feel particularly safe letting go. I’m working hard on this. Just typing working hard to let go sounds counterproductive. Happily, I am at the point in Yoga where I no longer freak out during Shavasana if I feel some sort of something shift or let go. I am also able to do a body scan without an internal narrator chattering away while trying to fall asleep. (how the hell am I ever going to fall asleep at the Weill Cornell sleepover party with electrodes affixed with gross goo all over my body?).

I used to work with a practitioner who had me slam a tennis racket into waist high bolsters. I was so self conscious and felt like a total idiot when not trying to ‘do it right’. I’ve tried EMDR - rinse and repeat. I try to whoop along as instructed by Popsugar instructor Christa DiPaolo while kickboxing to a YouTube video in the privacy of our living room with nobody else at home. Yup, you guessed it, same old.

I’m nothing if not determined. As with my scientific journey, I will continue to pursue a softer, kinder somatic path with the goal of ridding my body of the gunk while secretly hoping I become a StorySLAM rock star on the other side.

So, the other night we attended a Beer Olympics party a family member threw in celebration of their 40th birthday. The invitation promised all sorts of games with 26+ international teams competing. We elected Australia as the issuer of our new virtual passport (anywhere other than here actually sounds pretty good these days).

To say I was dreading the Beer Olympics is an understatement. I am not a party girl, I’ve never consumed a whole beer in my life (my friend JQS is downright horrified that I was actually awarded my college diploma without this credit under my belt), and I abhor dressing up. Yes, I admit it - I am that bah humbug person who truly hates Halloween. I don’t let loose particularly well. Put a pin in that for a moment.

The guests started arriving promptly at 4pm - the stated time of the opening ceremonies. There were flags, there were hats, there were props, there was matching international athletic wear outfits, there were white boards to capture and broadcast results, there were countless coolers stuffed with libations, there were the ingredients for make it yourself tacos, and there was FACE PAINT. Yes, you read correctly - a man arrived with half his face sporting electric blue color blocks in a pattern I suspect I was supposed to recognize but being the sports adverse human that I am was entirely lost on me save for the fact that he did it.

Trying to be a good sport and trying to adopt the principle of when in Rome, I agreed to play Flip Cup, heretofore a game unbeknownst to me. For the one of you that might not be familiar with the rules of the road, your red solo cup sits on the edge of, in this case, a ping pong table and you need to masterfully flip it with one finger so it lands upside down. There is drinking involved but I was way too focused on not looking like a total idiot or slowing the festivities down to complicate the matter. Turns out I didn’t suck. Perhaps my essential tremor has some upside.

Next up was Beer Pong. I knew what it was in theory but then again this college graduate had somehow managed to walk through the ivied gates of my university never having played the game. Remember, there was no beer consumed while matriculating. Lest you think I was or am a total bore I did drink Vodka and cranberry if I recall correctly. There was also that episode post Kir but that’s a whole other story that includes a guy named Steve who went on to play for the NFL who kindly placed a garbage pail next to my spinning bed. Obvi, never drank Kir again. Sorry, I digress.

Essential tremor aside, my eye hand coordination is not something to brag about. On the Richter scale, it’s subterranean and it certainly never made it to the list of assets I included on my dating profile. I am a class A klutz and the neurons that connect my brain to my eyes and hands seem to be permanently on strike.

To make the situation even more daunting, my Aussie husband and I were pitted against his son and daughter in law (representing her actual birth country of England). Ok so my stepson is quite the athlete and over the years has taken some pleasure in or at least scratched his head in amazement at my physical missteps starting with the time the spin bike fell on me and followed by numerous falls and less than graceful trips both up and down stairs often on the same ascent or descent. Or both.

It turns out our daughter in law was quite the accomplished Beer Pong queen during her college glory days. I watched as she blew on her orange ping pong ball and had her husband do the same before she aimed the said ball into one of the carefully arranged solo cups arranged in some unknown pattern on our side of the table. Wait, I have no clue how to aim. Ok, so here’s the thing. Much to the great surprise of all four of us I got a few orange ping pong balls into a Solo cup on their side of the table which led to me doing my quiet version of a happy dance. Can you spell relief?

Every so often, I looked around the pool deck and observed the crowd. Everyone was having a blast and many were blasted. I don’t consider myself a snob so why the discomfort? Why the aversion to dressing up? Why no experience with games most people have certainly played during earlier chapters of their lives? I like to have fun so what’s the problem?

The fear and yes shame of looking foolish runs deep. My survival tool kit was wallpapered and laminated with perfectionism. What if I did having fun wrong? What if I just looked silly and ended up embarrassing myself? What if I drew the wrong kind of attention to myself? What if I were judged?

As I ‘do the damn work’, I’m beginning to realize that nobody is watching me and, interestingly, by not sharing in the fun and letting loose, I’m perhaps alienating myself, appearing holier than thou, and losing the very connection I crave.

The hosts went to bed at 1:30am. Clearly an unmitigated hit. Perhaps there are videos I can watch to work on my aim.

We are visiting family, me for two weeks, my husband for probably longer. Almost every day, we frequent my mother in law’s golf club’s gym (are double apostrophes correct grammar? - asking for a friend). The petite fitness instructor who seemingly teaches three back to back classes every morning five days a weeks greets me warmly. She is a dancer and can touch her legs to her face while lying prone on the floor - quite daunting not to mention impressive. The classes are hard. Let me rephrase that. The classes are REALLY HARD - Barre, Power Pump (sometimes weights and sometimes bars but always balls), TRX (try to avoid like the plague) etc. - and they run a full hour each. The truth is that I am truly spent after each class and nine out of ten times I then bike home to my mother in law’s to safety. Granted the path is flatter than flat and the ride short but still.

I recognize the women from one trip to the next. While waiting for the prior class to get out, the women gather by the double glass doors and chat it up as we women are wont to do. A circle magically forms and I am clearly not in the circle. I uncomfortably smile and once in a while I try to join the conversation but not so much. Suffice it to say, I don’t think we have a lot in common but then again I hear them talk about their husbands (I have one of those), their children (I have one of those), their travel (I’ve been on a plane), their homes (I live somewhere) etc. but there’s a real disconnect. This experience is so different from what happens at our NYC gym - I’m somewhat of a social butterfly there, introducing myself to others, introducing people to each other, hosting gatherings at my home of gym friends interspersed with non gym friends, etc.

Upon entering the classroom, I am careful not to take anyone’s preferred space. IYKYK. One woman, whom I inevitably find myself next to, wraps herself in what I can only imagine is a belly dancer scarf thingie which she ties around her waist. To her credit, she does gyrate in rhythm with the music. During the class, I am able to divorce myself from my feelings of loneliness, otherness and awkwardness. I have no choice as these classes, as I’ve noted, are damn hard and I have to focus.

Today I opted out of the Barre class. The truth is my glutes were protesting after a ridiculous number of squats on tip toes at the barre in yesterday’s class. I’m clearly too old for this shit. Instead I read my library book on a Precor kind of machine with the tv preprogrammed to Fox News. For the entire hour I pedaled and went nowhere, I was grossly aware of the man two machines to my left sporting his MAGA hat. To say I was buzzing with anxiety is an understatement. Didn’t help that my library book was meh.

After wiping down either my mat or equipment with a wipe, my mind goes in two directions. One - I have LIBERAL NY’er tattooed across my face or there’s a major case of stranger danger. Neither feels particularly good.