I believe in subterfuge when it’s delivered in the right spirit.

Anyway, my first date in Denver was at Mercury Cafe on the outskirts of downtown.  It’s a liberal gathering place for hippies, goths, and everything between.  I didn’t know this yet.

Finding a parking spot that night proved difficult, especially since parallel parking terrified me back then.  (For the record, I can now throw Eddie into any spot in six seconds or less.)  So, I decided to park in a lot several blocks from the restaurant.  Small town girl I was, the fact that the lot sat empty didn’t cause suspicion.  And, as dusk had only begun, nothing looked frightening.  Truthfully, I was too preoccupied with my lip gloss to take notice of something as unimportant as safety.

Six blocks up, lips perfectly pink, I entered Mercury Cafe.  Where dreadlocks greeted me at the door.

“Wow,” I said with awe.  “Your hair is gorgeous.”

She shook the dreads with pride.  “Wish my mom agreed with you, but yeah, I love ‘em.”

“I’ve never seen dreadlocks in real life before,” I confessed.

That night, as I sat waiting for my date, I saw many interesting things in real life for the first time.  Devil tattoos.  Ear plugs.  Hooks pierced into noses.  Homemade dresses constructed of chains and feathers.  Men wearing eyeliner.  Women in muscle tees. Mercury Cafe is like a breathing museum of subculture.

I saw, for the first time, beauty in the unconventional.  Beauty in the unselfconscious reflection of individuality on skin and in fabric.  Everyone there moved comfortably, too, hips swaying fluidly, shoulders back, knees unlocked.

When my date arrived, I was disappointed that my people watching had to end.

The date proved itself uncomfortable, though I’ll always remember my salmon with dill sauce, spiced chai, and lemon meringue.  Yum.  As frustrating as bad dates can be, there’s usually delicious food involved, and I’m always thankful for this.

Dinner and awkward conversation complete, we exited Mercury.  “Where did you park?” He asked.

I hooked a thumb left.  “Over there.”

“Well, I’m over here,” and he gestured the opposite direction.  “Nice meetin’ ya.”

“Yeah,” I agreed half-heartedly as we walked backwards away from each other.

I turned on my heel, already visualizing my pajamas and Chunky Money. “Hope I have a clean spoon,” I said to myself. A bowl would be unnecessary.

A block down, while fantasizing about a man named Ben, and another man named Jerry, I realized the sidewalk had turned exceptionally dark.  I looked up.  The street lights had been busted.  I looked down.  Shards of glass, from the bulbs that once were, sparkled on the concrete.  My steps, suddenly cautious, echoed against the brick buildings on either side of the street.  Buildings that – uh oh – had their windows barred.  My only company, as I gulped down a sudden rush of fear, was heavy shadows.

I swore to never wear lip gloss again.    

I squeezed my clutch tightly beneath my arm.  Straightened my shoulders.  Forced myself to keep walking.

But when two men rounded the corner, gaining on me quickly, I froze.  Trouble vibrated around them.  The tall, bulky one wore a knit cap to top off a leather jacket.  The shorter one hunched beneath a hooded sweatshirt.  Hood up. 

I knew that Chunky Monkey would never again touch my lips.  I was a goner.  Life lost.  Surely, they were my killers.  ‘Cause they looked like killers.

They circled me, eyes digesting every inch.

I began listing my life’s regrets.  I should’ve eaten more ice cream.  And a LOT more French fries.  I should’ve never tried running last summer – such meaningless torture that was.  Despite my regrets, I was relieved to be wearing my favorite dress.  At least I’d die in something silky.

The tall one spoke first.  “What’s we find here, hm?”

“We gots us a giiirlie-girl.” 

As close as they were, I saw the city streets – grit and oil – smeared on their faces.  They were tough, and it showed.  I was terrified, and that showed, too.

“You’s about ready to piss yohrself,” The shorter one said.

Yeah, I kinda was.

Then, the taller one leaned down close.  I inhaled a quick breath, smelling the liquor from his mouth.  He leaned closer still…and kissed me gently on my cheek.

Then he chuckled.  A deep, friendly, low gut laugh.  He punched his shorter comrade in the shoulder, getting his attention.  Then he started snapping his fingers.  The shorter one snapped, too.  And, together, they – to my shock – began singing.  To me.  An impromptu blues number about a blonde girl crossing the wrong tracks.

Their voices, unrestrained, bounced against the hallowed buildings and the empty street.  The sound of them, melodic and unexpected, forced my held breath to release.  Was this really happening? 

The shorter one pushed his hood back, revealing a face younger than I expected, and clasped my hand.  He twirled me ’round.  I dropped the clutch from beneath my arm, but barely noticed.  Because, while spinning to an acapella song being sung just for me, I was mesmerized. My tension shook itself free on the third twirl. 

They finished.  I grinned. 

The tall one picked up my discarded clutch.  “Now, what in the heehl are you doin’ down hehr?”

I told them about my parking space.  They ushered me safely back to the lot, all the while lecturing me about making better parking decisions.  A lecture I’ve never forgotten.

Driving home that night, I pictured the cafe.  The piercings and tattoos, the easy strides and comfortably worn skin.  Felt, again, that kiss to my cheek.  Beauty, I decided, could be an unexpected experience.  Like the sound of blues on the street, music meant to ease a girl’s fear.  Beauty, I decided, could be found – not exclusively in what is – but in how it’s presented.  Like mohawks worn without apology.

Yeah, to be yourself, whatever that means.  To accept yourself and everyone else. Even if unconventional or unexpected.  Without apology.  That’s ridiculously beautiful.

Suddenly I felt beautiful, too.  Lip gloss unnecessary.

When no laundry is available for ironing because a string of gabardine and lacy unmentionables litter the hallway (begging for the washer), when spoons and bowls teeter in the sink, when the bathroom is cluttered with open makeup containers, and the towels…  Where did they disappear to?!

Disaster – ah, beautiful mess!  The very result of joy.

Well, recently my towels were MIA.  I’d been subsisting on toast because it can be eaten without dishes altogether.  Toast crumbs dotted my kitchen, my closet, and my bathroom. 

There I was.  Toast in one hand, shimmying into clothes quickly.  Bite.  Munch.  Toast switched to other hand, mascara swiping one lash.  Two.  Bite.  Lip gloss.  Munch.  Shoes?  There they are!  Next to the door where they were kicked earlier.  First sneaker.  Lick fingers.  Second sneaker. Grab keys.

And off I went.

This has been my life recently.  Let me catch you up.

Just before Christmas, I got a new job.  Upon hearing the good news, I hung up my phone.  On wobbly legs, I snuck into the janitor’s closet – since I was at work – and leaned into the mop and bucket, swiping at happy tears.  I’d been given advance notice of a lay off, and finally – in the space of a two minute phone call – life was no longer on hold.

Drying my eyes, I returned to my desk.  I saw the view of the mountains from my cubicle, knowing I’d miss my window.  Chest suddenly tight, I heard my boss’s voice from her corner office, yelling at someone on the phone.  The grumpy lady I’d spent over four years being stressed by… she’d no longer be my boss.  Chest tighter still.  My friends Coco and A.W. would no longer be down the hall.  I gingerly lowered myself into my comfy, ergonomically designed Herman Miller chair.  That would no longer be mine.

Despite how much I’d been frustrated by the world of real estate, I wasn’t leaving this company by my own accord.  Having to leave hurt more than I’d expected.  Having to leave was more terrifying than I’d imagined.

My boss, done with her conversation, stomped to my desk.  She halted.  Shoved a pen behind an ear.  ”Why the hell are you crying?”

“Because I got the job.”

And she started crying, too.

Longest two working weeks ever.  Letting go was hard.  Saying good-bye painful.  Moving on, scary.

But I did it.  I’m now working for a non-profit that funds medical research.  I’m combining my fascination of the health care field with my accounting skills.  Three months later, though, I still struggle with nostalgia.  I needed this change, as difficult as it’s been, and it’s shown me how taking chances, and making changes, is necessary.  It’s lead me on a wild ride that I could’ve never predicted.

During the holidays, my new job reeked of quiet, and the loneliness was overwhelming.  I struggled with the loss of human contact, an unavoidable aspect of commercial real estate.  Each day, at my old job, I talked to at least fifty people.  Phone calls, meetings, the fire department.

I shared my loneliness with my friend Amy.  ”Maybe,” she said.  ”You need more people interaction in your personal life now.  Balance things out a bit.”

As always, she made an excellent point.  So, during a phone conversation with my friend Coco a few days later, I told her my plan.

“I’m going to a bar.”

“Oooooookay,” she waited for the punch line.

“I’m serious.”  Phone tucked between chin and shoulder, I put blush to the apples of my cheeks.  ”I’ve got bar clothes on and everything.”

Bar person, I’m not, but that Saturday, to the bar I arrived.  Alone.  Adrenaline pumping.  Oh, yeah, I thought, this is why I don’t bar hop anymore.  Walking through the doors of a bar makes goosebumps sizzle down my neck.  I feel completely gauche.  There I was, though, and I wasn’t about to waste my perfectly arranged cleavage by turning around.

Technically, it was a brewery, not a bar.  This meant no strobe lights – phew!  Just raucous conversation and welcoming bar stools.  I accepted one of the stool’s invitations.  Discomfort melted after I chatted the bartender, who gave me several free samples.  Stout.  Amber.

“This is pretty good,” I said of the honey wheat.

“Wanna try the IPA?”

This wasn’t the bartender’s question.  I glanced to the right, toward the voice – smooth like my honey ale, deep like the stout.

My eyes widened.  I squeezed my beer mug.  Breathe, Sunny, I told myself.  

He pushed his beer toward me.  ”It’s bitter, but give it a try.”

I swallowed past a dry throat.  Where had he come from? 

The beard.  I noticed it first.  Mountain-man Colorado beard, perfectly cropped to hug the strong outline of his chin, silver specks glinting along his jaw.  Eyes blue.  Hair dark.  He grinned at me while I stared at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in the most charming way.

I straightened my shoulders. “‘Sure, I’ll try it.”

While sipping, I stared into his eyes.  He stared into mine.  Gulp.  Five minutes later – miraculously – our stools were closer.  Ten minutes later, an IPA for me, another for him.  Fifteen minutes, all personal space disappeared.  Thirty minutes, he made me laugh, and I tipped into him.  He reached out to steady me, but not before my nose grazed his beard.  It tickled.  The spiciness of his aftershave tickled, too.  We talked about everything and nothing.  His work as an engineer.  My philosophy on why it’s important to name your electronics.

When one of the bartenders began to play the fiddle, it seemed perfectly natural to dance with the Bearded Engineer.  After the beer was gone, the dancing done, and the stools stacked upside down on all of tables, it was easy to hop next to him on his tailgate – in the middle of the empty parking lot – while the fresh air cleared our minds.

“Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?”  The Beard asked.

“No,” I answered without hesitation.

“Why not?”

“Several reasons.”

“I’m listening.”

“First, I’ve told you way too much about my personal life, which is the unfortunate result of having more than two beers,” I said.  ”Second, it’s incredibly embarrassing to meet someone in the light of day after you’ve told them, in great detail, all of your eccentricities.”

“That it?”  

“No.”  I bit my lower lip.  Shifted closer to him until we were only two breaths apart.  “It’s also because I’m gonna kiss you.”

He moved the one breath, I moved the other.  It was an innocent meeting of lips.  When they parted reluctantly, he whispered, voice husky, “How’s this a problem?”

“Because I don’t normally kiss strangers in a parking lot.”  I hopped off the tailgate.  ”I’ve given you a terrible and inaccurate impression of myself.”

“I promise not to remember,” he said.  ”I’m not looking for anything serious.  I just want to have fun.  With you.  So, have breakfast with me tomorrow.”

Usually I’d walk away.  To heck with him, I’d say. I want serious.  No fun.  But serious hasn’t been working all that well.  Wouldn’t fun be….fun?

Under this rationalization, I met The Beard for breakfast the next morning.  Over a couple of weeks, we did, indeed, have fun.  We danced at heated Cuban bars.  We soaked in his hot tub under the Colorado stars.  We spent an entire Saturday watching a Rambo marathon (long story about that) while eating nachos and hot wings, chugging beer whenever Rambo said more than three words at a time.  Who says you’re too old for drinking games?

Dating The Beard wasn’t something I’d normally do.  He wasn’t a sure thing.  What is?  He was trouble, it’s true.  A small heartbreak.  But hearts are built to break.  Race.  Open.

Life is one big chance, broken into little chunks of uncertainty.  If nothing is certain, why not take more chances?  Take the chances that use our hearts for what they were built for?  Breaking, healing, loving.

I’ve realized that change and chance aren’t very different.  To change is to take a chance.  To take a chance, you often have to change.   

My new job, for example, has nurtured change.  Because I don’t work until 9 am, I now wake up earlier.  Sometimes I brew coffee and burrow under my quilt next to the fireplace.  Other times I order a latte at my favorite cafe, listening to the world waking against the sound of steam and clinking cups.  Having the day begin at a leisurely pace is a change I appreciate, and as life has settled a bit, I’m even spending mornings writing the manuscript I’d abandoned last summer.  Finishing a manuscript is definitely creating chance.

My new job, great opportunity that it is, also weighs heavily on me.  It’s no longer the quiet office from December.  The work load could fill a moving truck.  Not only do I manage the accounting, I haul around odd things like 26 cases of Coke (that topple onto my innocent feet) and 50 pound boxes of buttons and tee shirts.  I’m starting to show more bruises than pale Scandinavian skin.  Taking this job was a chance, one I sometimes question.  Although difficult, I’m learning a whole new kind of business that will allow me to take another chance (job) in the future.  Good or bad, I’m moving in a direction that feels right.

It’s true, some chances are called “mistakes” and bring regret.  There’s no way to avoid mistakes.  Even, sometimes, the ones you’ve made several times before.  Being alive means doing things imperfectly.  You’ll say the wrong words.  You’ll do the wrong thing.  You’ll move to the wrong city, date the wrong person, take the wrong job, extend a benefit of the doubt too many times.  Isn’t it awesome, though, to be making mistakes, living life, and taking chances?  And recovering from those mistakes, appreciating what you have, finding new motivation to do better and feel better - because mistakes are an incredible motivator, aren’t they?

Going back to The Beard.  Our relationship, short-lived as it was, revolved around booze.  Vodka tonics.  Jameson on the rocks.  Winter Warlock stout.  Tanqueray and lime.  In my long years of dating - too long, it seems – I should’ve known better.  A lot better.  After each date we had, ridiculously hungover, I’d wonder why. Why was I doing this?  I knew my values weren’t being honored, but he was The Beard.  A much stronger personality, and I allowed myself to be overpowered.  Dating him became un-fun.

Whenever I think things can’t get worse, I’m proven wrong.  Take my last night with The Beard.

“Coco,” I whispered into my cell phone.  ”It’s Sunny.”

“Why are you whispering?” My friend asked.

“Because I’m hiding in the pantry.”

“You know, nothing you say shocks me anymore,” she said.  ”Whose pantry are you hiding in?  And why are you hiding?”

“The Beard is having phone sex in his bathroom.”

“Um,” she paused.  ”I need a moment for that to register.”

“I’m hiding in the pantry because I can hear everything he’s doing, and I don’t want him to hear me.”

“I’m gonna guess that he’s not having phone sex with you, then?”

“No, it’s some girl he’s been texting all day. I gotta say, he’s not really good at phone sex, which is oddly satisfying to me.”

“Why aren’t you in your car driving a hundred miles away?”

“Because my purse is locked in his truck.  It’s a long story.  We were only supposed to pick something up quick, but he’s been in the bathroom for forty-five minutes.”

“Taxi!” I screamed, gaining on it as quickly as my legs would move.  Thank God I wear sneakers .  “Taxi!” I screamed again, not bothering to slow down, letting the car door stop me with a thud.  I yanked it open and dropped myself inside.

In the midst of this affair, that’s when my towels went missing. Toast crumbs decorated the carpet.  Work was still tiring, sure, but something wonderful waited for me at the end of each day, so every hour ticked by excitedly.  I missed that chaos.  I missed the feel of our hands clutching together.  Missed his energy, the way he took two steps at a time up the stairs.  Wished to be in his kitchen once again, washing dishes and pans, him stepping behind me and wrapping both arms around my stomach, nudging my head to the side with his head before sliding a languorous kiss from earlobe to collarbone.  The dishes never got very clean.

 

Why had I ended something so wonderful?  Why had I not just called him in California once to say, “Hi!”  Who cares if I bothered him?  We were dating, for heaven’s sake!  By definition, I was supposed to bother him.  I didn’t call because of uncertainty.  Nervousness.  I’m not gonna be all needy and vulnerable, I told myself.  That’s not my style.  It makes much more sense, obviously, to hide and run away.  I wasn’t willing to take a chance.

 

That Sunday, after my snorting cry session, I did take a chance.  I sent him a message (admittedly not a particularly confrontational or daring chance as far as chances go). 

 

 I don’t have any reason to think that you’d want to talk to me or hear from me, but I can’t stop thinking about you.  I’m sending you this message because life isn’t about the chances you don’t take, it’s about the chances you do take, even knowing you might fail.  I keep remembering our last weekend together and ….

 

For the record, I was completely sober while writing my lengthy note to him.  I hit send, heart beating faster than the first time he kissed me.  Hands shaky.  Tears welling up.  Then I had a much needed drink . 

 

Two hours, no answer.  Six hours.  Twenty-four hours.  

 

I called Coco.  “Hello?  Coco?  Is my phone working?”

 

“Yes, so please stop yelling into it.”

 

“The Colonel didn’t write back.”

 

In typical Coco fashion, she didn’t see this as a big deal.  “Then camp out on his doorstep until he lets you in.”

 

“But, but…”  I considered it very seriously.  “Isn’t that a little much?  What if I get arrested for stalking?”

 

“You get one call from jail.  Just let me know how much your bail is,” she said.  “Anyway, who cares?  Do what you feel is the right thing to do.  Call him until he answers.  Sit at his door.  If you really want another chance, you’re gonna have to do something.  Look,” she took a breath.  “If you get there and he sees you in the driveway and starts throwing rocks at your head, then I’d say you’re outta luck.  Until then, you’ve got options.  It’s your choice whether you use them.”

 

I swallowed.  “Rocks at my head?”

 

“Or, you know, some variation of violence.” 

 

I didn’t find that particularly encouraging.

 

Later that night, I sat cross-legged on the floor.  I stared at the Colonel’s name on my phone, finger poised on the call button.  I’m not good on the phone, especially in these situations, and my nerves buzzed painfully.  I hit the button.  Pulled the phone close to my ear.  Ring.  Buzz.  Ring.  Buzz.

 

The click of voicemail.  His voice came to me for the first time in two weeks.  It shot down my spine, settled into the pit of my stomach.  I remembered how much I loved the sound of his voice, especially late at night when all his words were slower and deeper.

 

I left no message.

 

Phone still glued to hand, I slipped onto my balcony.  The night air cooled my heated cheeks.  A long, quiet while passed.

 

Then, somewhere between cursing my stupidity and then cursing his stupidity, because both of us could’ve handled things better, I realized there was nothing left for me to worry over.  I’m human and made a mistake.  I apologized and lay myself bare.  I wrote to him.  I called him.  I did what I could, took a chance in saying that I was wrong and that I was sorry, and for this reason I could no longer wallow in self-pity and regret.  (Wallowing in heartbreak, however, was and is still acceptable.)  On my balcony this past Monday night, I accepted my humanity and released my regret.

 

Since then, I’ve thought about how to prevent myself from feeling regret ever again.  Because it’s mighty unpleasant.  I don’t believe all regret can be circumvented, but I’ve decided there is a cure.  To say you’re sorry.  To admit you’re wrong.  To see where you are at any given moment, without judgment, and change course as necessary. 

 

There’s another cure still – an even better one.  To lay yourself bare from the beginning.  To admit your weaknesses.  To share your feelings the moment they’re hurt.  To say what you want, what you need – without apology.

 

This morning I awoke to perfectly dusted baseboards.  Freshly ironed clothes.  Bathroom grout gleaming.  I miss the toast crumbs.  But, from now on, I won’t be missing another chance.  Even knowing I might fail.

 

Oh… the Colonel.  He…. he just wrote.

A few months ago I met my friend Coco for lunch.  Coco is a fellow Midwesterner, but she could easily claim Brooklyn as her ‘hood.  She’s sassy, New York style.  She never hesitates in saying what she wants.  She exudes authority.  When she tells me I shouldn’t do something, then I do it anyway – knowing that she’ll discover my disobedience  because, well, she knows everything - I’m afraid of her.  But, afraid or not, I love her.  Her laugh is infectious.  I’ve tried not to laugh when she laughs, just to see if I could do it….and I can’t.  She makes life fun, even when she’s yelling at me for being a fool.  And if she ever reads this post, I hope she knows how much I admire and appreciate her .

I arrived before Coco at our lunch date and took the nearest available table.  I gazed, with an expression somewhere between dreamy and zombie-like, out the window.  To keep my head from crashing into the table, I propped my chin onto my hand. 

Coco arrived, the dimple in her right cheek glowing as it always does when she’s smiling.  She took a look at me.  The dimple crashed.  She slid into the opposite chair, staring intently at my face.  “What the hell happened to you?”

“Do I really look that bad?”

“Uh, yeah.”  She’s not one to mince words.  “Your eyes are bloodshot.  I’m pretty sure you’re about five minutes from passing out, and – hate to break this to ya – but your shirt’s inside out.”

I looked down, unconcerned.  “Oh.” 

“Are you hung over?  Did you spend the night in jail?  I mean…,” she paused to gesture at my disasterous appearance.  “What happened…?” 

I grinned.  “I met a man.”

Then I told her my story.

Several weeks ago I was strolling downtown when my stomach itched for pizza.  As luck would have it, half a block up was Poor Richard’s, where they serve pizza by the slice.  Not the Chicago-style that my Midwestern heart beats for, but good nonetheless.

I entered the small bistro, basil and oregano dusting the air.  Chefs threw dough up, way up, dangerously close to the ceiling, before letting it land back onto their dancing fingers.  I didn’t need to peruse the menu.  I have a favorite pizza combination and consider deviating from it Pizza Adultery.  Anxious, then, I went to the counter … reached out to ring the silver bell on the counter to signal a chef.  Wrist about to snap, someone grabbed my forearm.  Startled, arm dangling in mid-air, I swung around.

I don’t know what I expected to find – so quickly it happened – but a handsome, six-foot cowboy wouldn’t have been on my list of guesses.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow and pointedly looked down at his hand around my arm.  My treacherous arm, tingling under the heat of his grasp.

He pulled away, but not quickly.

“Lookin’ to get your nose broken, cowboy?” I asked, brow still raised.

He stepped toward me, audacity in every inch of that movement.  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”  He grinned.  “And I wouldn’t mind if you did it.”

I did my best to scowl at him, but some things are uncontrollable.  Like blushing. 

He leaned across me, not touching, yet I could feel the vibration of him.  All my will power struggled against leaning into him.   

“I’ll forgive you, though,” he said, dinging the bell while steal leaning dangerously close.  ”If you let me buy you pizza.”

I stepped back.  “I’d rather we just punch each other and go our separate ways.” 

A white hat rushed over, ready to take an order.  “Two slices,” Cowboy said.  “Pineapple and ham.”

Clearly Cowboy suffered a listening problem.

Then it registered and I shook my head.  “What did you order?”

“Pineapple and ham.  I took a guess.  It’s my favorite.”

My jaw dropped. 

“Ah-ha!”  His triumph wasn’t subtle.  “I guessed right.”

I put both fists on my hips, refusing to acknowledge that he was, indeed, completely accurate.  “I don’t know where this nerve of yours comes from, but you’re creeping me out.”

His bravado instantly faded.  “Really?” He asked, boyish uncertainty making his face even more handsome.  “If you only knew how much my palms are sweating right now.”

I gave a satisfied nod at his humility.  “That’s better.”  I stuck out my hand.  “I’m Sunny.  Your nose, for now, is safe.”

We ate our pineapple pizza on the patio, laughing and talking.  He was like an old friend.  Well, except that every time he smiled, my heart thumped a little faster.  And I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  When we decided to go to an Irish pub another block up, I was so intent on staring at him that I actually stepped in front of a moving vehicle. 

Cowboy pulled me back onto the curb.  “Careful, Sunny, geesh.  I don’t want you to die on our first date.”

“We’re on a first date?”  I asked.  “Who authorized that, hm?”

“I did.”  Cowboy doesn’t lack confience.  “And I saved your life on this first date, so now you gotta kiss me.”

And after three whiskeys, a Black & Tan, and a leisurely walk back to my car - I did.

Our second date was mini-golf.  At the end of the night, he gave me Belgian chocolate, decorated with a sateen bow.  On our third date we strolled a neighborhood with big, old houses.  Fingers linked.  Dodging sprinklers.  We pointed at attics that were surely haunted.  When the street lamps were far away and dim, he’d pull me close, hands supporting the small of my back, curving my spine until it was almost parallel to the sidewalk, and then – finding myself bent and blanketed by him – he’d claim my lips for a kiss that, if not for his arms, would’ve left me falling into the concrete.

It was this third date that he presented me with a gift utterly sweet.

“I didn’t have the chance to wrap it,” he said.

“I don’t care,” I said with a laugh.  “Just gimmie!”  (I may be a minimalist, but I also possess the occasional greedy tendency.)

And, there in my eager hands, he placed a pumpkin carving kit.

“Oh, Cowboy,” I said with happiness.  “This is the best gift ever.”

Our fourth date, then, was carving pumpkins.  With his-n-hers pumpkins, he also brought me peach tulips, their edges carved in yellow.

There, in my empty kitchen, we stood side-by-side carving the pumpkins we’d affectionately named Harold & Kumar.  We scooped out seeds and pumpkin guts, the smell of fall – fresh and spicy – made my kichen the epitome of what the season is about.  Namely socks, chilly air, and warm kissing.

The beauty of the fall season enveloped me like he enveloped me. 

Thanksgiving came and went – uneventful and that was okay.  Christmas, though is the season.  When the world – streets, living rooms, hearts – are lit with excitement.  Excitement for gifts wrapped imperfectly.  For a kiss under the mistletoe – not just any kiss, but the meeting of lips, lips that tell you you’re loved, lips that know every inch of your skin.  Christmas is the season of love, family, and hope for the New Year so close ahead. 

For some of us, Christmas can be a lonely experience.  No kiss, no family. 

This past Christmas, I rolled over and awoke with a heavy chest.  I pulled the quilt over my head and cried noisy, embarrassing tears.  The kind where, if someone overheard you, they’d think you’re either being tortured or simply five years old.

I felt a little of both.  Like a self-centered grade schooler and a torture victim.  Alone and lonely.  Cowboy and I weren’t dating anymore.  I missed him.  My empty apartment housed no Christmas tree.  Or cookies.  No mistletoes.  No wreathes.  Definitely no lips to kiss. 

While blowing my nose, the view of my puffy face stared at me from the bathroom mirror.  “Wow, I haven’t looked this pathetic in a long time,” I said to myself, smiling at my absurdity and my selfishness.  I straightened my shoulders.  I scrubbed the sticky, salty dried tears from my cheeks. 

“Deep breath, Sunny,” I told myself, curling my hair and applying my mascara ever so carefully.  “Deep, deep breaths.”

I had somewhere to go this past Christmas, and for this I was very happy.  I’ve been to holiday parties over the past many years, but Christmas Day isn’t an actual day I get to celebrate often.  This year I did have that chance and I wasn’t going to allow my mascara to run beforehand.

I drove to my friend AW’s house, parking in the midst of the other cars meant for their gathering.  AW’s house is Christmas all year, actually.  Cookies and warmth.  Love inside its walls.  Ironically I usually housesit for them during Christmas, but now I was at their house – with them in it – on this particular 25^th of December.

This year they were home because they’d just had their baby in September.  The most gorgeous baby I’ve ever met.  I’d felt him kicking inside of AW’s extended stomach months earlier.  I’d seen him in his first ultrasound.  I got to meet him when he was days old in the hospital, where I saw the love of a brand new mother as AW – my beautiful, exhausted friend – kissed her newborn son on his forehead, and whispered to him, “I love you.”

That was one of  the coolest gifts 2011 presented me :)  .

I walked into AW’s warm house this Christmas and, like magic, no longer felt like crying.  First off, there were homemade cinnamon buns at the ready.  If AW’s cinnamon buns don’t make a person immediately happy, that person is simply not human.

I was the only single person there.  And, I can’t lie, it hurt at first.  It hurt because I was surrounded by amazing couples – best friends who happen to married, who elbow each other in the ribs, tease each other mercilessly, who love each other unconditionally – and I wanted so badly for myself what they had.

Then there were the babies everywhere!  That, too, hurt at first.  When you’re 30, your friends start having babies and no one warms you how hard that’s going to be when you’ve always wanted babies, too.  When you didn’t grow up with a family, but always told yourself that was okay, because you’d grow your own one day. 

Being in AW’s living room on Christmas day, though, made me realize that being me – alone, yet suddenly not lonely – was absolutely wonderful.  That your happiness can be defined, not by whether you are who you thought you’d be, but rather by how much you appreciate what you do have.  Seeing the beauty, recognizing the beauty, that’s around you.  And this Christmas I appreciated every moment of beauty.  AW icing cinnamon buns in her kitchen while wearing her husband’s slippers.  Mrs. B’s baby girl, who sat next to me while we played Catch Phrase, who smiled at me with abandon, and grasped my index finger when I couldn’t resist touching her translucent skin.  Of course, I got to hold AW’s son, too, who, in his baby exhaustion, dropped easily into my arms and molded to my chest.  Who sighed every couple of moments in his sleep.  Whose cheeks curve just like AW’s, but whose brow is exactly like Mr. W’s.

Yeah, being me means sitting on the sidelines.  I can tell you that I’ve got an amazing front row seat.  I get to contribute in my own way, too, by basking in their happiness.  Happiness is always compounded by sharing.  I get to provide awe and excitement.  That’s significant in its own unique way.

I must also admit, too, that after spending Christmas day surrounded by babies, I’m not meant to ever have them.  Love them?  Oh, yes.  But care for them without dropping them accidentally on their heads?  Um, no.  I’m too klutzy for that kind of responsibility!  My wilting philodendron would agree . 

Driving home later that night, smelling like babies and sugar and peppermint coffee, I felt Christmas for the first time.  I thought back to October, and of Cowboy, and pumpkin carving and remembered feeling Halloween for the first time.  The year had provided me with a true celebration of its seasons.

Celebrating seasons isn’t about following a cultural recipe.  It’s about simply feeling good as the year unfolds from summer barbeques to turkey dinners. 

So, for Valentine’s Day this year, single or not, tip toe into a red dress or knot a red tie, and go dancing.  For your birthday, get your favorite cake – party or not – and celebrate this brand new year.  Celebrate each season.  Celebrate your every season.  No matter who you are, where you’re at, or where you want to be.  Celebrate regardless.  Celebrate always.  Celebrate with abandon.

What more, I ask, is needed for a Friday night?

If you answered banjos, you’d be correct.

A band played for us whiskey-loving patrons.  Two banjos and a smooth alto reminded us that - yes, oh yes - life’s good.  Chocolate and whiskey supported this mindset.

Knees tucked beneath my chin, foot tapping on the wooden seat, I took everything in.  Wine bottles lounged promiscuously on the bar, the warm light kissing their curves.  Floor boards creaked under quick feet, servers moving in rhythm with the band.  Heat drifted from the kitchen, the aroma of sourdough and marinara forcing hungry breaths. 

There, in the corner, a young couple relished a first date – smiles shaking, hands trembling.  He leaned in and whispered something, lips grazing the top of her ear.  She blushed.  His fingertips trailed her cheekbone, tucked her hair behind an ear.  Life here, at this table, was fresh.  Nerve-wracking.

Eight grey-haired ladies sat front and center, their belly laughs contagious.  They dug into creme brulee with greedy spoons.  Carelessly interrupting each other, wild hand gestures flying.  They were luminous in their enthusiasm.  Life at this table was unrestrained. 

Then, over to the right, I noticed a man and a woman.  Her hand rested in the crook of his arm.  His head nodded to the music, an easy smile strolling along the curve of his lips.  She watched him, smiling too.  How long they’d been married – five years, perhaps, or twenty - I don’t know, but it was a timeless love.  They unconsciously leaned into one other.  Human magnets.

A retractable walking stick leaned against the side of his chair.  He was blind.

I took a moment to wonder about him.  Had he always been blind?  Had he ever seen his wife?  Did he know that her hair was the color of honey?  Did he know about her freckles and bright eyes?

Drifting back to the banjos and my imagination, I closed my eyes, relaxed from the whiskey.  In the middle of my daydream (involving a hammock, wool quilt, and three dozen books, if you must know), I heard the blind man ask his wife, “Dance with me, baby?”

Opening my eyes, I saw that he’d brought his face close to hers, noses almost touching.  Rico’s isn’t a dancing kinda place.  She darted a look around, looking suddenly uncomfortable.  But then she returned his smile and rubbed her nose against his.  “Of course,” she answered, grabbing his hand.

There, to the left, they claimed 9 square feet of dance floor.  She maneuvered their steps around the tables and servers, letting him lead as much as possible.  His face became enthralled.  Thrilled.  He pulled her closer, buried his nose into her honey-colored hair, slid his lips across the base of her neck.  Gave her a twirl.  He was - very simply – happy to be dancing with his wife to the strumming of banjos – in a place he knew only as warm and aromatic. 

He didn’t see the curious glances.  He didn’t know that they were the only two dancing. 

Despite his lack of sight – no, because of it - I’d say he was the luckiest person there.

What would be different if I, too, were blind?  If I could rely only on my feelings, with absolutely no regard to how it looks?  What if I were blind, but felt my urge to dance, my itch to sing, my pull toward love?  Well, I’d dance a helluva lot more.  I’d sing a lot louder.  I’d dig into love with a greedy spoon.

Soon they stopped dancing, breathless and pink-cheeked, and settled back into their chairs.  Life at this table was… blinded by sensation.

I’ve also been reading many complaints about technology.  The Internet. Texts.  Facebook.  The ways we’re manipulated by Smartphones and e-mail is an often discussed topic.  Digital sabbaticals abound.  We supposedly suffer at the mercy of technology by losing our connection to real life.

I recognize the benefits I, myself, receive when I disconnect.  Time I spend in nature (or in the bathtub) rejuvenates me.  Dinners I share with in-the-flesh friends nourishes my spirit and my tummy.  On the very same hand, though, I give thanks to technology.

I’ve always known that I’m odd.  There are a plethora of things about me that make me weird.  After discovering the world of blogs, I realize there are many of us eccentric folks who scatter the world.  I’ve found peace in this discovery.  I’ve found a sense of connection that would never exist if not for technology.  Online forums.  YouTube.  If not for miss minimalist, RowdyKittens, becoming minimalist, zen habits…  If not for my own blog.

I’ve been blogging for almost two years and during this time of revealing myself freely through the online written word (albeit anonymously) I’ve learned how to be more open and honest with those I meet in person, too.  Being part of my online community, surrounded by like-minded friends, has given me a ridiculous amount of courage to enter the real world, unafraid of what makes me different.

When I sold my stereo on Craigslist, which I wrote about at the beginning of my blog here, I found myself uncomfortable with the buyer’s strange glances at my empty apartment.  I told him that I was moving to Uganda to become a missionary.  (I don’t know why I didn’t say something more believable.  What pops out of my mouth can never be predicted ).  That was me then.  In contrast, I recently had a coffee date with a new co-worker, and five minutes into our lattes I said, “It’s only fair to tell you upfront that I’m a crazy person who, among other strange things, lives without furniture.”

“Well,” she said, giving it thought for a moment.  “It’s better than living without clothes, right?”

As the evening progressed, she shared herself easily with me, after I’d shared easily with her.  We had four lattes that night before heading home, having solidified a friendship. 

This new friendship is one example of how I must thank you, dear reader, because you – your support, your kind words, your friendship – have given me more than I can ever give you.  You let me be myself here, which allows me to be myself out there, too.  Which means that life’s pretty great, thanks to you.  There’s nothing better than getting to be who you are… all the time.

My blog, and the use of technology, has given me friends, revelations, and self-confidence.  I’m thankful to technology and the way it brings us all together.

My blog has brought me into contact with a young woman from Portugal, whose English is written elegantly and warmly.  She’s sent me photographs of Lisbon.  How wonderful it is to learn about life across the ocean!  Glimpsing something that can’t be seen at Wikipedia.  Reading her emails is a treat. 

There’s Amy, the sweetest redhead I’ve ever met.  She contacted me through my blog shortly before spending last summer interning in Denver.  A year later I’m blessed to have her as my friend.  A friend I admire for her spunk.  She relocated to Washington state a few months ago and, during her road trip west, she went camping in the middle of desolate Wyoming, surrounded by gorgeous foliage.  I’d worry about bears and mountain men, but not her.  I’m pretty sure that girl can do anything.  Each time she accomplishes something, I think, “Wow, she did the seemingly impossible, so I bet I can, too.”

And there’s Kel, who mentioned his love for the Kindle in a comment a few posts back.  “No electronic books for me!”  I proclaimed.  But my curiosity was piqued and, in the space of one day, I’d uploaded the Kindle for PC app and read an entire e-book in one sitting.  Now I’m convinced.  I need a Kindle.

Of course, there’s Bradon, too, who moved to Denver a few weeks ago from Texas.  On a hot Saturday in Boulder he kept me company, reminding me how important bare feet and chilly creeks are.

Without technology, I’d not have Amy’s adventures to hear about – and take great pleasure in.  I’d not have pictures from Portugal.  Or Kindle lust.  Or your comments to learn from and respond to.  Most important, without technology, I wouldn’t be this person I am today.

It’s with great sincerity that I offer you all my greatest thanks.

This blog wasn’t created of my own volition.  The most fabulous things in my life rarely are.  My friend A.W. suggested it.   Because of her, I’ve found an outlet that’s made me appreciate myself exactly as I am.  A hobby that’s given me friends, a sense of community, and countless happy hours of typing away.  A.W., I don’t think I’ve ever told you properly, so here goes – “Thank you!”   

This isn’t my blog as much as it is our blog.  I reserve the right, of course, to share my stories because it’s in my nature to monopolize a conversation.  But that’s how I like to think of SBS – a conversation.  A little corner of the Internet that’s our home, albeit minimally decorated.  A place to explore living simply, living minimally, and (best of all) living eccentrically.  So, I ask for your help.  If there’s anything you want me to write about, please leave a comment or send me an email at ColoradoSunny@live.com.  I don’t have all the answers, but together we might figure a little something out.

Action may not always bring happiness; but there is no happiness without action.  Benjamin Disraeli

I’m the kind of person who doesn’t feel (at all) guilty about eating bon-bons while soaking in the tub, literary posh in one hand and Chianti in the other.  Laziness, in my opinion, is required for a life worth living.  But the day I was laid-off was not an appropriate time for bubbles and chocolate.  Despite the four-month warning I’d been given, despite how emotionally drained I was, and despite having no idea what my Plan of Action would be, I made immediate changes to my finances.  And to habits that require money. 

Although my lifestyle and priorities are different from yours, I wanted to share these changes anyway.  And if you have ideas for living on the cheap, don’t hesitate in sharing them with me!  I’m determined to become Madam Sunny ~ Master of living elegantly & happily on barely any moolah.

1.  I put Netflix on hold.  This was tough because I have an emotional attachment to my queue list, but instead of canceling it outright, I used their option of placing my account “on hold”, which can be done for a maximum of 3 months. 

2.  I visited my barista and told her she wouldn’t be seeing me for a while.  I love my barista.  Her personality is a better wake-up device than espresso.  I stopped by and let her know that I wasn’t abandoning her, but wouldn’t be around as often.  I’ve since cut out fancy coffees during the week.  I’ve found an excellent substitute (Sunny can live without fancy coffee, but not without any coffee!) for my summertime iced coffees.  I use a Melitta single-serve coffee maker  – it’s RED, which further sweetens the setup.  It sits on top of my 16 ounce mug, which I fill half-way with double-strength coffee.  I allow it to sit for 5-10 minutes as the heat blows off, and then fill the rest of the cup with ice.  Perfecto! 

3.  I reset my A/C and purchased a box fax.  I love A/C.  It’s one of those luxuries that I consider a necessity.  My tolerance for heat has lessened after my years in Florida, but even so I increased the temperature in my apartment and purchased a box fan for $10.  I’m still chillin’, just at a lower cost.

4. I researched good wines under $8. The soon-to-be unemployed need the luxury of intoxication. I’ve got a list of wines under $8 that are reportedly decent.  I’ve already found an ally in Barefoot’s $6 red zin. 

5. I made a list of extremely cheap eats to make at home. Since I don’t cook, it’s not a complicated list. On it I have different forms of the peanut butter sandwich, pita pizzas, chips & salsa.

6. I electronically bookmarked the weekly ad for my grocery store, so I can plan ahead on how I’m going to feed myself with only a little bit o’ money.

7. I filled out an application for refinancing my car at the credit union, where the rates are cheaper.  Hopefully it’ll save me on my monthly car payment.

8. I paid the remaining balance on my car insurance. There wasn’t a large amount left and paying it now saved me $15 in transaction fees that are normally added in with the smaller monthly payments.

9. I needed an oil change for Eddie. I found an online coupon at the dealership that reduces the cost to less than the Quickie Lube.

10.  I listed my digital camera, hiking gear, and a few other valuables on eBay.  Although not entirely necessary at this point, I feel better liquidating stuff sooner rather than later.  And it’s not as awful as it sounds.  I have a 8 MP digital camera in my Android phone, and I still have the ability to go hiking.  Life hasn’t lost its meaning, just some of its accessories .

11.  Using yelp.com, I created a list of cafes that are located within 5 miles of my apartment.  I can drink my Saturday & Sunday cappuccinos while using free Wi-Fi, but burn less gas (a.k.a. money) doing so.  I tend to drive around like a gypsy (perhaps my worst remaining complication to my otherwise minimalist existence) and need to chop down my gas expenditures.

12.  I created a list of cheaper living arrangements if I should need to move before my lease is over, either because it’s too expensive for my next income level or too far a commute.  I can break my lease for the tune of $1,500 + 30 days’ notice.  It’s impossible to know which will be better - to stay or to go – but I’ve already got some ideas ready.  There are roommate and sublet options listed on craigslist and inexpensive studios downtown.

As a minimalist these past three years, I’d already simplified my finances.  No cable TV or Internet.  No gym membership.  No contracts that require sweating over, except my apartment lease.  When I sat down with my monthly budget, I wasn’t nearly as overwhelmed as I expected.  No difficult phone calls to make or panic buttons to press.  For now I’m doing all that I can do.  I’m cutting back and changing my expectations.  I’m having fun, too, as I learn to blend frugality with contentment.

Every list that I’ve made, budget I’ve designed, plan I’ve looked forward to, is now obsolete.

With the economy unwilling to forgive since 2008, and me working in commercial real estate, I’d been prepared for a job loss.  But not prepared for it last week.  I’ve fantasized about quitting my job at least once every day.  Once before lunch.  Once after lunch.  But imagining a voluntary runaway is different from being told your job is no longer needed.

Before it’s assumed that I set fire to something or mooned the CFO (things I’ve imagined, but refrained from), my job – along with everyone else’s job in my department – is being erased because the large company I work for is cutting off its real estate arm.  Our portfolio of buildings is up for grabs.  With great luck, if it can be called that, I’ve been given a four-month notice because selling commercial properties is a complicated process and I’ll be needed to see it through.  So, I have four months to prepare whatever path is ahead of me.  I’ll be given a small severance and letters of recommendation.  Well, only if I don’t set fire to anything in the meanwhile. 

I was given the afternoon off to absorb the news.

The sun was bright.  The sky blue.  The temperature 95 degrees.  I crawled into Eddie, shivering despite the summer heat.  I slipped on my sunglasses.  I backed out of the parking spot that I’ve occupied for the past four years.  I rolled down the windows, breathing in hot dry Colorado air, and wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.  I reached the stop light and grabbed my phone.  But there was no one to call.

For the first time in four years, I yearned for my dad.  We haven’t spoken since the day I left Florida, for mutual reasons.  I couldn’t call him and ask for his advice.  All of my friends were either working, or not the kind of person you call and say, “How ya doin’?  Just lost my job, wanna get loaded?” 

There was no one to go home to.  No one to call. 

I’ve never felt so lonely.

Eddie and I drove without a destination except away.  With the windows down, air whipping in and out, hands shaky on the wheel, I didn’t head to the mountains like I usually do when I need a drive.  Instead I found myself on Hwy 83 where the two lane road is surrounded by red barns and dairy cows.  Where there’s flat pasture and cranky old pick-ups.  Tractors mowing lawns.  It’s a landscape reminiscent of my hometown in Wisconsin.  I sought the familiarity of it.

I parked on the side of the road, next to the black-and-white cows, and cut the engine.  I climbed onto the hood of my car so I could see the countryside clearly.  Grass shuffled against the breeze and it sounded sweet.

Then I cried.  Quiet, polite tears. 

I didn’t cry because I’d miss my job.  I’d been wanting to leave it anyway.  I didn’t cry because there weren’t options ahead.  But I didn’t know, and still don’t know, how this will affect my expensive apartment.  Or my plans for the nursing program.  Or my wine habit.  All of the progress I’ve made since moving to Denver  – would it all disappear?

Looking across to one of the peeling barns in the distance, I thought back to when I was a Midwestern kid.  The whole world a land of opportunity, to be bent and shaped as I saw fit.  I remembered all the trouble I was back then.  Being escorted home by the sheriff for trespassing.  Cheating on my calculus exams.  Skipping school.  Smoking in the bathroom.  Racing stolen four-wheelers through the backwoods of northern Wisconsin (we returned them eventually).  Sneaking into bars at seventeen by flirting with the bartenders.   

There were, of course, consequences to these things.  I was a bad kid, a troubled kid, and paid the price for it.  Detention, being shunned by the “good” kids, treated unfairly by teachers, and my dad avoided me at all costs. 

There are some good memories, too.  Fishing on the Peshtigo River.  Swimming at the YMCA every morning before school, ears submerged in chlorinated water, the vibrating silence and movement of my limbs providing peace when it existed nowhere else.  Sledding in Meadowbrook Park.  Camping every weekend at Potawatomi State Park in Door County, lounging barefooted in canvas chairs next to a campfire.  

The good.  The bad.  Back in the Midwest, when I was a rebel child, life wasn’t divided by these things.  Because every time I got knocked down, deservedly or not, I always popped right back up.  There was endless energy within.  Invincibility.  And naiveté, of course, which isn’t always a terrible thing.

That’s why I cried on the side of Hwy 83.  I wanted to pop back up, but after so much heart break and struggle - some of which I’ve created enthusiastically and stupidly on my own, some of which a result of circumstance, some of which have brought hidden gifts, but have hurt just the same  - I no longer possessed endless energy.  I’d never felt so tired as I did that afternoon, sitting on top of my car in the middle of nowhere.

I held up well through the rest of that week.  Until Friday afternoon.

While driving along a deserted country road, this time Hwy 105, a police officer pulled me over for doing 62 mph in a 50 mph zone.  I sat, completely dejected, waiting while he wrote my $162 speeding ticket.  Was this really happening to me?  Getting laid off and being slapped with a ticket… within the space of three days?

He ripped off my copy from his little metal clipboard and said, “Now drive safe, you hear?”  Implying that  I wasn’t a safe driver, despite never having been in an accident and never having been pulled over for speeding.  (Okay, once before in Florida I was caught speeding, but it’s required to speed on I-95.)

I seriously considered backing him over with my car, but despite the sense of satisfaction it would’ve given, I’m too sensitive to be thrown in the slammer.  I allowed him, then, to drive away in a dust cloud of self-righteousness.

When he was gone, I stumbled out of my car, steadying myself against Eddie’s strong outline… and threw up in the ditch.  Exhaustion and stress had taken me over.

I slid to the gravel road, slumped against the car tire, hung my head between my knees. 

I’m not sure how long I stayed that way, but when the roaring of a motorcycle slowed, sputtered, and stopped a dozen feet from me, reality came back.

The driver kicked the stand and dismounted.  He had the look of a serial killer.  Or a joyrider.  Who could predict?

His booted feet thudded toward me.  If he pulled a Smith & Wesson from beneath his untucked tee-shirt, which looked possible, it was of little concern.  Just kill me and get it over with, I thought. 

He eased close enough to talk, but allowed a comfortable distance to remain.  He scratched the heavy whiskers darkening his chin.  He looked left to the mountains, then right to the open field.

“Well, now,” he drew out, words dripping out like honey, his tone very unlike his dangerous appearance.  “Seems like you’re lost or in some kinda trouble.”

He was obviously Texan.  His accent belonged from nowhere else.

“Trouble,” I told him.

“Mm hm,” he murmured, hooking thumbs into back pockets and rocking on his heels.  “Trouble’s a damn unfortunate circumstance.”

“You betcha,” I said, obviously a relocated Midwesterner.  No one says “you betcha” unless you’re from smack dab in the middle of the U.S.A. 

He pushed back his red bandana, giving me a thorough look-over from atop his Aviator sunglasses.  I took him in fully, too.  Mid-thirties.  Sunburned.  Barb wire tattoos circling very large biceps.  Wranglers a bit too tight, but he had nothing to be ashamed of.

“What kinda trouble?”  He asked.

I scrunched up my nose.  Should I tell him the truth?  “I just got a $162 speeding ticket.”

He whistled through his teeth with what could’ve been appreciation.  “Those pigs,” he said, referring to policemen.  “Sonsa bitches, all of ‘em.”

The left side of my mouth lifted, understanding the sentiment.  “And I got laid-off on Tuesday.”

“Damn, lil’ mama.”  He gave a kick to the dusty road to show sympathy.  “Luck ain’t on your side.”

I sighed heavily.  “I thought about vehicular homicide.  For the cop, I mean.”

“I woulda helped burn the body.”

He said it so seriously, but I knew he was joking.  I laughed.

He laughed, too, muscled shoulders moving up and down.  “You know what I do when I’m down and out?”

I was afraid to know the answer, but he supplied it anyway.

“I take a long ride on Miss Harley over there,” he gestured to his bike.  It was a Super Glide.  My mouth watered slightly.  “And all my worries go’on an’ disappear.”

He stepped forward, right in front of me, and held out a hand.  “Take a ride with me, darlin’?” 

I hesitated.  Really, though, what did I have to lose?  And it was a Super Glide.  You can’t simply say “no” to it.  “It’s been a while since I’ve ridden on a motorcycle.”

He grinned, suddenly looking quite sexy.  “The only thing you gotta remember,” he said, words like honey again.  “Is hold on tight.”

I lifted a brow.

“Real tight.”

I smiled.  And I took his hand.

I climbed onto the back of his Harley, feeling a tinge of excitement.  Feeling, just a little bit, like a kid again.  I scooted close so that my thighs hugged his and wrapped my arms around his middle.

“Tighter,” he said.

I obliged.

We blazed forward.  He took the corners fast and we dipped low into the road.  My stomach lurched and I buried my forehead between his shoulder blades.  Connected to this mysterious man, the heat and steel of him dangerous yet comforting, I wasn’t lonely anymore.  My troubles flew away, as promised.  There was nothing except hanging on tight and leaning into the curves.  The scenery zipped by, colors flashing, and I saw, once again, that the world is a beautiful place.  Soon I tilted my head back, way back, until the fire of afternoon burned my face. 

On the back of that rumbling beast of a bike, I became a rebel again.

When the ride was over and he idled next to my car, where we’d left it, I hopped off.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling light and breathless.  And happy.

He winked at me.  “Pleasure’s mine.”  He revved the engine and nodded to my car.  “Drive it like it’s stolen, baby.”

“Shiny side up,” I returned.

Back behind my own (four) wheels, I shook out my knotted hair and examined my sunburn in the rear view mirror.  The face that looked back, lobster-like as it was, had strength and resilience once again.  I refused to let any “sonsa bitches” ruin my day.  Or any lay-off ruin my life.  At any moment, after all, you can fly away on a Harley and escape your troubles long enough to get some perspective.

I’m renewing the Midwestern rebel kid inside of me.  Not be the girl who always got detention, but be the girl who always pops back up.

Go ‘head, do your worst to bring me down.  Throw every obstacle in my way.  Throw me heartbreak.  Throw me uncertainty.  Throw me pain.  And disappointment.  Loneliness.  Hunger.  Fear.

I’ll catch it all willingly.  And keep it close to my hopes.  My dreams.  My desires.  My fantasies of vacationing in Bali .

Nothing will fuel my run toward succeeding faster than being told success is impossible.  Or having everything taken away.  Or being told “no” too many times.

Because, after all, a rebel loves a challenge.

I’m the kind of person you avoid at the water cooler because you’ve got better things to do than suffer my inability to shut-up, but I’m undeniably valuable at the corporate Christmas party because I prevent awkward silences.  When a new co-worker stops by my cubicle for the first time, I introduce myself as a verbal Venus Flytrap, but assure them that they’re allowed to escape me whenever they like.  (Since I sit alone at the end of the hall, my only company a cranky boss and a Philodendron, I get pretty lonely down there .  So, when a wonderful person visits me, I want to keep them prisoner for as long as possible.)

Such is the case with MM, one my favorite prisoners – I mean, co-workers.  Poor MM.  But she visits my cubicle even without a work related purpose, which makes me think she sorta likes me.  She and I talk about lots of things.  My colorful dating life, her children’s shenanigans, movies, and the meaning of life.  Work, after all, isn’t so much about work.  It’s about dissecting our life’s happenings in extreme detail thirty-five out of forty hours per week.  When I decided to enter the nursing program, then, she was one of the first people I told.   

I was taken aback when she got super excited on my behalf and said that she, too, had always wanted to be a nurse and had started the nursing program years earlier.

“What happened?” I asked.  “Why didn’t you finish?”

She shrugged.  “After I finished my prerequisites, we moved for my husband’s job.  The timing was awful, that’s all.”

Every day thereafter MM and I shared thoughts on the health care field – how vast it is, how interesting… how gross, but in the good way.  Sharing our thoughts was fun, especially for me.  MM’s eyes light up as she talks about nursing.  The only thing I love more than wine and chocolate is seeing my prisoners – I mean, my friends – happy.  

One day I said, “Why don’t you go back and finish?  Obviously nursing is something that still interests you, and I’d take you for my nurse any ol’ day.”

She pursed her lips and thought for a moment.  “I dunno.” 

Grabbing one of my purple Post-its, I scribbled down my academic advisor’s name.  “Give this guy a call to see what it’d take to finish.  What would it hurt?”

And she did.  As I write this, her credits are being transferred and she starts the nursing program this fall.  My enthusiasm for school rubbed off positively!  How exciting to know I can influence people in ways that don’t require bail money.  (Just kidding, that rarely happens anymore .)

Speaking of work, I recently dealt with a broken circuit breaker in our building and I hired an electrician to come save us.  Mr. Electric’s handsome smile, a welcome surprise, made me wish I’d prepared accordingly with fresh lip gloss.  

After showing him the electrical panel, I rushed into the bathroom armed with my toothbrush.  As I’d eaten Italian for lunch, I brushed with gusto, hoping to transform my breath from garlicky to minty.  In case Mr. Electric, once I’d dutifully signed his work order, decided to haul off and kiss me.  Stranger things have happened.  I’m sure of it.

A new co-worker of mine entered the bathroom in the middle of my scrubbing and joined me at the sink.  “Wow,” she said.  “Your dentist would be really proud of you.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I answered, toothpaste mumbling my words.  “This is my vain attempt to scrub the garlic off my breath because there’s a good-looking electrician down the hall.” 

She raised a brow.  “Where down the hall exactly?”

I grinned with co-conspiracy.  “Accounting’s conference room, left of the projector.” 

Minutes later, after I’d returned to my desk and was fluffing my hair, she rushed to my cubicle, breathless and pink-cheeked.  “I think he’s related to Bradley Cooper.”

“I was leaning toward Wentworth Miller, but I can see it your way.”

As we continued chatting, utilizing the female talent of bouncing from one topic to another one that’s completely unrelated, we discovered a mutual love of coconut.  Before our conversation ended, we made a coconut coffee date for next week.  A new friend!  One I made because I’d shared a slice of girly behavior with a stranger.

Last week I had dinner with my friend Becky.  We were burning our tongues off with inferno-rated buffalo wings while swigging 90 Shilling Ale.  After our second beer, I told her about the stories I’m writing.  I shared my dilemma of Manuscript #1 versus Manuscript #2, mainly the troublesome plot issues of the former.   Normally, I don’t talk about writing.  Before a few months ago, I’d never told anyone about my dream of finishing a book.  Lately, though, I’ve been sharing this part of myself more easily.  It’s proven beneficial.

“I can’t describe how excited I am about finishing a novel,” I told her.  “And I really want to finish the first manuscript, but the problem with the plot is ruining everything.  Oh, Becky, I don’t know what to do!”

“How ’bout flag the waiter?”  She fanned her tongue.  “I need more sour cream before my mouth bursts into flames.” 

“I meant about my manuscript.”

“I know, but I can’t problem solve if my entire head is sweating!”

So, I did as instructed.  After licking sour cream from our forks, she knitted her brow and suddenly said, “How about if you …..”

And, within the space of one sentence, she solved my manuscript’s plot.  Thank goodness I shared my enthusiasm for Manuscript #1 with her, otherwise I’d still be wallowing

I can’t write about enthusiasm without mentioning my friend A.W., who’s having a baby.  A baby!  I’ve seen his little baby bottom in an ultrasound.  I’ve felt the flutter in her stomach as he kicked, my hand experiencing life at its very beginning.  I’ve been able to pick out baby clothes with her, an event that requires long-term smiling.  As I watch A.W. become even more beautiful in pregnancy, her belly growing daily, and hearing all of the prep work she and her husband are doing (and, boy, is there a lot of it), I’m infected by her enthusiasm.  I’m reminded of how awesome life is.   

The power of enthusiasm should never be underestimated.  Get excited and share your excitement.  Whether it’s about a project you’re working on, a dream you have, or a blue-eyed electrician.  Enthusiasm is contagious.  When you share it, you shine more brightly and the people around you shine, too.  

Speak up, dear shy friends!  And tell me – and everyone else – what you’re excited about.  Who knows what problems it’ll solve?  What friends it’ll bring?  What happiness it’ll give someone?  Or how simply sharing your enthusiasm will keep it alive.

It was with great gusto, then, that I laser beamed all effort into the manuscript I intend to finish this summer.

I set my stage perfectly.

“Laptop?” Check.  “Lucky earrings?”  Check.  ”Booze?”  Of course!  Since it was before noon during this particular checklist, at my side was coffee… smothered in Bailey’s.

What more could an aspiring writer require?  Exactly!  So I rectified my lack of music by popping in ear buds.  How can you drink Bailey’s and not listen to Ella Fitzgerald?

I often write at a bohemian cafe downtown, a cozy little spot where everyone sports dreadlocks and calls you “dear sister” or “fellow brother”.  It’s really not as creepy as it sounds, but it does require an open mind .  The first 50 pages of my manuscript were constructed on its sidewalk patio.  And it was there, too, that my fingers stopped their ratta-tat-tatting on my keyboard.

“Uh oh,” I whispered to myself, leaning slowly away from my laptop.  “I’m stuck.”

The story’s details weren’t matching up, its plot becoming less and less plausible with each page.  Because I was in public during this revelation, I couldn’t cry about it.  Tears or not, my heart ached with overwhelm.  How could my manuscript be so disrespectful?

A week passed that I didn’t touch my story.  It had spurned me and I’m stubborn about such behavior.  Especially from stories and characters I’ve extended such excellent good will towards.  After being spurned, or feeling in any other way morose, I yearn for the mountains.  So last week Eddie (my car) and I drove ourselves into the Rockies.  During the drive, mind wandering, hair tangling up with the wind, a miraculous event occurred. 

The entire plot of my manuscript fell from the sky and dropped, like magic, into my brain. 

With a gasp, I yanked the wheel and pulled Eddie off the road.  His tires screeched.  Dust blew up.  “Pen! Pen!”  I chanted with excitement.  “Need pen!”  As the dust settled, my foot still heavy on the brake pedal, I scribbled words and names and places.  I drew arrows here and there.  I chewed my lower lip as it spread wide into a grin.  And when I was done, I shifted into park.  I twisted the stereo dial and sent Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” pouring out the windows.  I hopped out and danced around my car.  “Yippee!”  I shouted.  And when Steppenwolf was done, and my dance was over, I slumped against the bumper.

“Now,” I said to myself.  “If I could figure out the plot to the manuscript I’m actually writing, that’d be great.”

See, the plot that had dropped magically from the sky pertained to a story I’d started, but never finished, a year ago.  Though I should’ve been focusing on Manuscript #1, I became obsessed by Manuscript #2.  That afternoon, instead of heading further into the mountains, I swung around and raced to the nearest cafe.  I scribbled for hours, consuming enough cappuccino that I switched to Type C blood.  My scribbling produced the best outline of my entire life.  I still can’t believe how marvelous it is.  (This isn’t to say that it’ll wind up being marvelous once finished, but it’s marvelous in its present state.)

I’m guilty of cheating on Manuscript #1, having found solace in the arms of my new story.  I did miss my characters from M#1, though, and yearned for them as if they were flesh-and-blood.

An interesting thing has happened in the midst of rolling around with M#2.  Solutions for the plot of M#1 have started coming around.

As the theory goes, when you stop thinking so hard, or stop thinking altogether, answers will reveal themselves.  On their own timeline, unfortunately, which is never as fast as I’d like it.  I know this theory to be true, and I’ve also come to believe that working on two (or more) of the same kind of projects helps them both flow.  There’s less pressure with two related projects, but the same skills and thought patterns are being practiced and mastered.

Writing, for example, becomes less intimidating to me when I’m constantly crafting words in a variety of different ways.  Emails, blog posts, poetry, Manuscript #1, Manuscript #2.  My pen becomes my cohort and playmate.

Working on two pieces of music, almost simultaneously, has helped me while playing the flute.  I’ve played since the age of seven.  While mastering a solo piece, a challenge worthy of excitement and fear, I constantly switched from my seemingly impossible solo to silly show tunes that I’d known for years.  Listening to me play back then, I sounded like a crazy musician who couldn’t make up her mind between Bach or Webber.  Keeping the flute to my lips was all that mattered.  While forcing my fingers to squeeze and release the open-holed keys, switching from the familiar to the foreign every couple of minutes, I eased my hesitancy and awkwardness.

Rather than abandon a pursuit completely, halting mental and physical momentum, just switch pieces for a while.  Set up a new canvas.  Sing a different song.  Bake a tried-and-true cake.  Hike an easier trail.  Switch to something easier, finding confidence in the familiar.  Or start something new, allowing your brain to air out.

This isn’t an invitation to start projects and never finish them.  This is a way to circumvent an obstacle (usually a tired brain!) and move forward.  Even my two manuscripts will require a choice.  Which comes first?  The light-hearted adventure?  Or the heavy character-driven dramedy?  Whichever one I choose, and it’s proving to be a hard choice, they’ll both be part of my writing journey this summer.

Another way I’ve been multi-tasking, in a good way, is by visiting new cafes throughout Denver, Boulder, and Colorado Springs.  I drew up an extensive list of cafes and bistros to try over the next several months.  My purpose of cafe hopping is to have something to look forward to every week.  It also gets me out of my comfort zone, has saved me money (sitting in a cafe is remarkably cheap), and encourages my writing habit.  By securing one bistro table and an overflowing mug of caffeine, I’m accomplishing four things at once.  Now that’s multi-tasking at its finest.