So…I got married.

We got married.

The wedding was beautiful, and perfect, and everything I had hoped it would be. All the excellent parts were better than I had dreamed, and nothing was disappointing because I had mapped out all the potential for All That in advance.

Is that weird?

Before you judge me for saying that out loud, try managing your expectations before some big event. (Hint: The holidays are coming). Try not expecting a drop more from people than they typically produce, just because it’s a Big Occasion, and They Should Be On Their Best Behaviour.

For instance, if the average orange yields 3oz of juice on an ordinary day, than there is absolutely no reason to believe people will be Extraordinary Oranges on special occasions. Rather, people will be nervous, or petulant, or self-interested, or any number of other things that will impair their juice production. At best, they will produce the same amount of juice as usual. But you’re definitely not getting a half-gallon out of them simply because you’re the one getting married – it’s against the laws of nature!

For example:

My brother is not…an experienced traveller. He was booked on an 7:00am flight out of LAX the day before our wedding, which he missed. I had fully prepared for this – in part, because Matthew is a poor traveller. But also because that’s my brother. Before he left, I had inputted his flight details into an app I use to track travel simply because it spits out “Alternative Flight Options” in the event he missed his plane.

Which he did.

Which was how I wound up spending hours on the phone with American Airlines the day before my wedding and not writing my toast or vows.

Which is not to say I expected any different, rather, it is to say that the whole endeavour took up slightly more time than budgeted towards “Matthew’s Potential/Likely Screw Ups.” Save for my own lack of foresight in time-budgeting, the entire weekend was perfect. And I did (eventually) find time to write the vows.

But when the moment came for me to give the toast, which I’d decided to give cold, the best man and wedding planner came to me with the microphone and I looked around the room – this ancient farmhouse filled with everyone I love, and decorated with roses, and thistles, and reminders of the Sierras – I realised I didn’t need to say anything more.

And what I am further saying is this:

When I was a very little girl, I loved this movie called Pete’s Dragon. If you’re a child of the 70s or 80s, you probably know it well. In fact, I still love Pete’s Dragon.

If you know the film, you know that there are several stories within the main story – one of them being that Nora, the lighthouse keeper’s daughter, is holding out hope that the sailor she loves will one day return home. He has presumably been shipwrecked and lost at sea. I watched that film throughout my whole childhood and adolescence, holding out hope that I too would find someone worthy of a ballad like the one Helen Reddy belts from the lighthouse.

Before Paul and I got married, I read through my old journals – partly out of curiosity, and partly out of wondering what my marital hopes and dreams had once been many years ago, and how accurate my predictions for myself might have turned out to be. Until then, I had mostly forgotten about my youthful obsession with Pete’s Dragon; I had even somehow forgotten that Nora had been holding out hope for a seemingly impossible to find Paul.

And I had not realised that I had once written: I wonder if I will ever love anyone like that. I wonder if I will spend my life searching for my own Paul and if I will ever find him. Or if I will be disappointed.

I had found him. And that was really all that mattered, wasn’t it?

As I looked around the room at the moment I didn’t give my toast, on that one, perfect Autumn day, it was if I had finally accepted that I had never had to be perfect and Paul would still be waiting. My family and friends would have been there no matter what.

And it dawned on me that maybe it’s true that you’re not guaranteed great results simply because you’re planning a special occasion. Maybe the result you get from people is a direct product of the love you put in.

I was lucky then, on our wedding day, to be blessed like a California girl might hope to be: Surrounded by Extraordinary Oranges.

mere paul roo

This is the 15th in a series of posts about New York – a re-post of an essay I wrote about four years ago. The original post is reprinted here with no editing.

When I used to live in Tribeca, non-New Yorkers would ask me “Oh, you run?  I bet you love running in Central Park!”  Back then it would irk me, even though their geographic ignorance was not their fault.

“No,” I’d say sweetly, “I prefer to run along the Hudson.”  Which was, and is still a fact, even now living only a few blocks off the Park and running it frequently; racing it most weekends.

New York, as you probably know or have surmised, is ferociously neighbourhoody, not merely in the borough-to-borough sense.  Each neighbourhood has a distinct personality, evolved and evolving over time.  Nothing is static: growth, rot, gentrification, construction — all constants.

One other thing that remains constant, and perhaps is a neighbourhood in and of itself is Central Park.

Central Park has not always existed.  It is, by historical standards, a relatively recent phenomenon.  New York traces its founding to 1624.  It wasn’t until 1844 that American poet William Cullen Bryant began to romanticise the need for a public park in New York City.  Perhaps Bryan’s words were not so much “publicity,” rather a reflection of public sentiment — by then New Yorkers had resorted to using cemeteries as public parks because there were so few green spaces left in the growing city.  In 1857, the City approved the development of a 700 acre public park, and in 1858, Frederic Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux were selected to design the space.

In 1873, Central Park (originally dubbed “the Greensward Project”) was completed.  For the first 60 years of the Park’s existence, largely due to the City’s demographics and politics, there was little interest in using the Park for its intended purpose.  But in 1934, newly-elected Republican Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia tasked Robert Moses with cleaning up the park — an effort that was, all things considered, a success.

Throughout the 20th century, the Park was not immune from the upheaval that City experienced.  The Park was opened to events in the 1960s — drawing crowds; protests; concerts — but the City lacked the expertise, budget, and general wearwithall to manage the impact.  Despite being named an historical landmark in 1963, the Park fell into serious disrepair once again, which continued throughout the late 1970s.

In 1980, the Park informally came into the managerial hands of the Central Park Conservancy — a public-private partnership that formalised their management agreement over the park in 1998 and manages the Park to this day.  (And does a fantastic job!).  The Central Park Conservancy began restoring the Park in the early 1980s, and today, the Park is the most visited urban park in the country.

Perhaps I am not alone in saying my feelings on the Park change with the seasons.

In the Winter, the Park is a tundra — the Reservoir frozen over; the surface crackled and full of mystery like an ancient skin.  The horse-drawn carriages ferry blanketed passengers like it’s something romantic, and I suppose it is in a way.  But the dirt and grime and smell of horse-shit and other people who have used those blankets make the idea very unromantic to me.

Spring has rolled directly into Summer in Manhattan the last few years but during the few Spring days, one can practically see the cartoon steam lines rising out of moist lawns.  The Spring growth brings itchy eyes and pollenshowers from every tree.  Then comes Summer with its lazy picnics and sunsoaked Saturdays with sangria secreted in under cover of Gatorade jugs.  We play games of catch until we’re too dizzy from the wine.  But beware the young couples necking; petting; going through the rituals of love behind boulders, trees.  Every Summer seems a Summer of Love — sweet, gentle love — but only until Dusk.  Because everyone knows that after dark, the Park is still the Park.

In the Fall, the Park is magical: the trees are a canopy of fire!  I used to — don’t laugh — have my hair done at the salon at Bergdorf’s and sometimes I felt like asking the stylist for silence so I could drink in the view.  (That salon was another life; is another post.)  Walking in the Park under the Autumn trees may be life’s greatest pleasure — the heady, sneezy smell of maples, elms; the peaty smell of dying grass.

November brings my favourite day of the year — Marathon Sunday.  There is no more welcome or glorious sight than Central Park on that day.  The air is crisp; the leaves are fireworks of celebration; my fellow New Yorkers are screaming my name and carrying me to the finish.  Even in the late afternoon shade, as the sun sinks into the Hudson on the other side of town, the Park glows golden that day.

Central Park, like all of New York, is glamourous, dangerous, ever changing.  It is a place where the robber barons and beggars mingle with ease.  It is perhaps not where all New Yorkers feel at home — even the most seasoned City-dwellers among us — but it is a place that is uniquely our own.

Sources: Central Park Conservancy;; Wikipedia: Central Park

Reverb14 is a prompt-a-day series for the month of December designed to reflect on 2014 and project hopes and dreams for 2015.  Throughout December,SarahKat and I will post each day with a new prompt.  Join us by writing, or join us by reading.   Follow us on Twitter @project_reverb and #reverb14.

Leap of FaithWhat decision did you make this year that was a leap of faith? Did it work out? Or not?

It began in the wee hours on Monday morning, 24th of November.

I’d gone to bed just after midnight, in my half-unpacked new apartment, due to leave for California for Thanksgiving that evening. I was missing my long-dead grandfather for no discernible reason. He had been gone for nine and a half years, and yet I was overcome with the desire to send him photos of Roo; to tell him about Paul; and, to tell him to his face: Look, your being dead has been highly inconvenient for me.

He would’ve laughed at that.

I went to sleep and woke up with a start around 2.30am. The house was silent, then I heard hysterical laughter. My grandfather’s distinctive laugh. And then it was quiet again.

I hadn’t heard Bop’s raucous laugh in a decade and still, there was no mistaking it. It was like the laughter was trying to tell me something, and I didn’t yet know what.

I flew to Los Angeles that night, and the next morning was getting ready to leave for the drive to Yosemite National Park, where my family spends Thanksgiving (and indeed, has spent the last 31 Thanksgivings.) I mentioned the story about Bop to my mother, who was a True Believer in the supernatural, so virtually nothing was too batshit for her. Whereas I was feeling marginally self-conscious about being the type of person who had just heard her dead grandfather laughing in the night, my mother was the type of person who whole-heartedly embraced that sort of thing.

Of course, my mother said, I’ve been feeling Bop nearby too.  As if what I had just told her was the most normal thing in the world.

There was nothing more I could say to that, so I began to blow-dry my hair and got ready for the long drive to Wawona.

Paul and I drove to Yosemite, and were planning for a Big Hike in Yosemite Valley the next morning. I thought nothing of this, because we’d discussed doing this the year prior, and hadn’t gotten ’round to it. But he was pushing the idea again this year, and asked me to plan it, so I did. (And if you have ever run a race or done a Sierras climb with me, you know that this is my specialty). We had initially settled on Half Dome, but after further consideration, decided upon Upper Yosemite Falls.

At 5.30am on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we set out for Yosemite Valley from Wawona, and embarked on a Big Hike.



And so we climbed.

We didn’t talk much on that first mile up. It was early, and cold. And I was thinking a little on how Paul and I had met. It was the end of May 2013, and I had been in Scotland for the Edinburgh Half Marathon. I had been dating a Random Finance Guy, and the relationship clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

In the course of hanging out with a friend who was also in Edinburgh for racing; eating Mexican near the University (shockingly, not half bad); waiting in a hotel room for the northern sun to set around 10.30pm; and, running in the sunshine along the North Sea, I had sent a message to Random Finance Guy calling it quits. He wanted to be a senator, and had told me time and time again that I wasn’t senator’s wife material.

I didn’t want to be with someone for whom I wasn’t enough. Again.

After the race, I left Edinburgh and went back to London to see PG, and then flew back to New York. And I listened to my mother moan at me for breaking it off with Random Finance Guy because No one is just going to walk into your office and sweep you off your feet. You need to put yourself out there.

That following Friday, Paul walked into my office for a meeting.

We’d talked on the phone and by email for some time — his firm had done work with my company for years, and I’d worked with him on a few projects. But we’d never met. And he was looking to talk to me about some European directive, however, the conversation never got that far. Instead, we spent an hour or so talking about life and friends and California and how we’d both been to Easter Island.

At the end of the meeting, he said he was in town for the weekend, and asked for some suggestions on what he should do. I gave him some and wondered if he was asking me out.  But at the end of the meeting when no date was forthcoming, I shrugged it off.

I would later learn that Irish men are oblivious.

He emailed the following Monday, confessing his obliviousness, and asking me out. He booked a trip back to New York, and…on a leap of faith, I booked a trip to Dublin. From there, it wasn’t all smooth sailing (for instance, we didn’t really get along that first weekend), but we’d been together ever since.

So fast forward a year and a half or so to the present day, there we were, climbing the trickling falls above Yosemite Valley in the place nearest and dearest to my heart. It was the place I sought shelter in times of trouble. It was the place I went to feel triumphant.

Look at that view, Paul remarked, a couple of hours into the climb.

Gosh, it’s gorgeous.

I pulled out my phone and snapped the view. I had been taking photos all the way up, but this particular vista seemed especially breathtaking.


When I turned back around to him on the trail, he was, down on one knee, asking me to marry him.

Of course, I said yes.

And then I knew immediately why I’d heard that laughing in the night earlier in the week.


To borrow a cliché, they say that a second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience. But I don’t necessarily look at it that way. I would say that I waited my whole life to meet someone who I don’t have to explain myself to; who is perfectly receptive to my batshit suggestions like Let’s go to Japan, and then doing it; who knew my heart so well that he proposed in the Sierras halfway through a strenuous hike, with Half Dome in view.

I would say that this is the sum of experience and a hopeful willingness to look stupid with someone.

One might even call it a leap of faith.

Reverb14 is a prompt-a-day series for the month of December designed to reflect on 2014 and project hopes and dreams for 2015.  Throughout December,SarahKat and I will post each day with a new prompt.  Join us by writing, or join us by reading.   Follow us on Twitter @project_reverb and #reverb14.

The PlankIt has been said that you must learn to take care of yourself before you can be effective at taking care of others.  How did you take care of yourself in 2014?  How will you take care of yourself in 2015?

This year has been a lot of…surviving. In fact, I’m breathlessly surprised it’s December again, because I’ve been living Lord, just get me through this day! for enough days that it’s a bit odd to wake up on the cusp of another year turning over.

And I haven’t been good at taking care of myself. In fact, I slept for 12 hours on Saturday night, and I knew it was the only sleep I’d get all week. I hadn’t slept more than four hours a night before that, and I haven’t since. I could give the excuse of Too Much To Do, but that’s a rookie excuse.

Too Busy is, in my view, the stuff of amateurs who can’t budget their time appropriately. But if that’s the excuse I’m giving to myself, then I’ve become one of those people who doesn’t know how to prioritise. Who can’t tell the difference between what can be delegated or outsourced; what can be put off; what needs to be Done.

The truth is that I’m anxious; I’m thinking about too much. I can’t focus on any one task for long enough to get it done, so everything takes longer than it should. I’m tired, so everything takes longer anyway. And an additional truth is that sometimes life is just that way.

I’m an optimistic and joyful person in real life, but I’m not going to lie to you or to myself: Sometimes this whole middle-part of being an adult is…a slog. Marriages, and divorces, and babies, and pregnancies, and fertility treatments, and jobs, and job loss, and meetings in cities nobody ever wants to travel to, and parties where everyone is sitting around moaning about mortgages and school fees, and all of this punctuated occasionally with death, and destruction, and chronic illness, and baby loss, and everyone’s parents getting older.

True, the middle bit beats the alternative, but it’s still a weird emotional Thing when just moments ago you were some lithe little girl who didn’t think twice about your age or attractiveness whilst standing on line for an event or nightclub, and then one morning you wake up to a hurricane, grey hair, and a cancer diagnosis, all the while hobbling around on a hip that needs fixing.

Oh no. Even having this discussion is becoming the world’s biggest cliché.

So what have I done to take care of myself in the middle of this perfect storm?

Probably not as much as I should.

However, I’ve learned a lot.

So what will I do next year?

Talk with friends more. Ask for more help. Create more sacred spaces. Read more. Spend more time with Roo. Practise yoga twice a week. Write more letters. Get massages. Continue to order delivery via Seamless and care not at all whether anyone judges my domestic skills. Not buy a crock pot. Cut fewer corners with my health. Spend more hours on the people that matter, and give less time to the bloody irritating people who try to wish me a blessed day and try to give advice on things that are frankly, none of their business.

Develop a thicker skin.

I spent many, many years being less. Trying to disappear into myself. I am okay now with taking up the space to which I am entitled; being loved; being…more.

Reverb14 is a prompt-a-day series for the month of December designed to reflect on 2014 and project hopes and dreams for 2015.  Throughout December,SarahKat and I will post each day with a new prompt.  Join us by writing, or join us by reading.   Follow us on Twitter @project_reverb and #reverb14.

HeroWho was your hero this year? Tell us why. What makes a hero in your eyes?

I tried to define this term, so like any human living in the 21st century, I googled it, and came up with this:

noun: hero; plural noun: heroes; noun: hero sandwich; plural noun: hero sandwiches
    a person, typically a man, who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.
    “a war hero”
    • (in mythology and folklore) a person of superhuman qualities and often semidivine origin, in particular one of those whose exploits and dealings with the gods were the subject of ancient Greek myths and legends; the chief male character in a book, play, or movie, who is typically identified with good qualities, and with whom the reader is expected to sympathize.
    North American
    another term for submarine sandwich.

(Source: Google)

Hmmm. None of this sounds correct.  The chief male character? A submarine sandwich?


One of the interesting, lasting effects of a couple of bad relationships in my 20s is that I have a lot of female friends. I’d spent my teens hanging out with boys — mostly because I felt alienated by the high school politics of Mean Girls. But after dating a couple of jealous guys (then marrying one), it got to the point where having friendships with men became…challenging. And less important to me.

This is not to say I don’t have close relationships with my male friends — because I have those relationships, and they’re great. But I’ve spent the last decade or so cultivating friendships with other women, and sometimes I’m sad to think of what I missed out on in my youth because I didn’t actively nurture these sorts of things.

My girlfriends are amazing. From all angles, these women blow my mind. Athletes, writers, artists, musicians, parents — they are all genuinely beautiful souls. My friends have crossed marathon finish lines with me; they have battled terrible travel circumstances while pregnant to be in the hospital with me while I had cancer surgery; they have taken care of my dog while I’ve had to travel to advance my career (or simply to allow me to face the sometimes challenging circumstances that come with having a job like mine); they have supported me when I have insisted that I totally knew what I was doing and that it was a great idea to chase married men; they have tended to my wounds, and nursed my broken heart, and listened to my endless rants about my favourite thing to whine about that I’ve been ranting about for 3.5 years.

But aside from who they are and how they are in relation to me, each one of these women contributes to this world so meaningfully, it breaks my heart with beauty. Whether it is how she manages charitable grants, or how she donates time and money to the communities in which she works/lives, or how she raises her children, or how she creates art, or how she has turned immeasurable loss into an opportunity to give, each of these ladies is a meaningful example to me of who and how I want to be.

I am surrounded by women who show up; who raise me up; who create things. Sometimes this makes me absolutely furious with jealousy because I love them so much, I want to be the things that they are.

I suppose that’s what a hero is, isn’t it?  Not somebody’s lunch, or the sympathetic guy in the story. It’s the person who makes you better than you think you are; it’s the thing that keeps you striving for better; it’s the part of the story where the going gets good. And in my life, that role is played by a bunch of bad-ass (mostly) blondes.

10455333_10100816542558975_8905051251616596360_n 10552598_10100801366596725_4533157435397808785_n 10516646_10100741764739325_1555784628252722919_n 579215_10100644519235095_936531730_n 250451_887790998065_8104496096105546350_n 1147684_10102577141270056_1119692153_o 1015388_10102448087180486_823906101_o DSC_0927 IMG_1686

Reverb14 is a prompt-a-day series for the month of December designed to reflect on 2014 and project hopes and dreams for 2015.  Throughout December, SarahKat and I will post each day with a new prompt.  Join us by writing, or join us by reading.   Follow us on Twitter @project_reverb and #reverb14.  

At the Start | Where did you start 2014?  Give us some background on this year.

It was prophetic.

It was also a Category 3 Hurricane.

Paul and I went to La Reunion, in the Indian Ocean, for the New Year, because some travel agent had convinced us that nothing else was available, and wouldn’t a tropical paradise off the coast of Africa be lovely? Said travel agent had conveniently failed to mention that this was also the shark attack capital of the world, and that the island had been hit dead-on by hurricanes three of the last four (now four of the last five) years.

I had been preoccupied with health issues, and hadn’t bothered to do a lot of research on the place before we went. And Paul had assumed that since we were headed to a full-service resort, we wouldn’t have to do a lot of studying the island before arrival.

That was…one of many mistakes we made.

Upon landing in Saint-Denis and discovering that basically all activities on La Reunion were cancelled in the short term, and non, there were no cars available for hire for us to explore on our own…it began to sink in just how screwed we were. It was then and only then, that someone even bothered to tell us about the sharks and the impending cyclone.

It was at that point that I demanded we leave.

But we were trapped.  Trapped like rats, in a resort teeming with cats (?!?!?!) and the French. Unable to leave; unable to see the sights; unable to even go out for a proper dinner because we hadn’t been able to hire a car…we were forced to eat pre-packaged resort pizzas and stare longingly at the beautiful water we couldn’t even dip a toe into because it was swimming with sharks.


(False advertising.)

Needless to say, I continued to demand that we leave.

Needless to say, Paul and I were basically at each other’s throats, with a serious storm bearing down on us.  A storm that neither we, nor the resort, were prepared to handle. And it wasn’t just that — before I left New York for Dublin, and Dublin for Paris, and Paris for La Reunion, I had been told that I needed to have some surgery. That my inflammation levels were high, and all the testing had come back extremely suspicious, and I couldn’t get into the surgeon till the 10th day of January to confirm whether or not I had cancer.

In other words, I was sitting on an island in the Indian Ocean surrounded by sharks, a hurricane, and cancer, and Paul couldn’t figure out why I was so tense. And I couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t see that after I’d just lived through Hurricane Sandy the year prior, and was due for surgery for what seemed like an inevitable diagnosis, I couldn’t put on a happy face and shut up about the sharks, and the cats, and the insufferable Frenchman who kept pacing by our patio in his Saint James stripes and his electronic pipe.

(I still have irrational anger every time I think about that electronic pipe.)

So we were on the cusp of a new year, and we were at an impasse.  Not even an impasse. We were actively not speaking to each other.

Which presented even more of a challenge, because we were basically the only two fluent English-speakers in that whole damn place.

Then, on New Year’s Eve, we had to go to a fancy dinner with all the other resort guests who were stuck there because there were no flights out. We were just going to ride out the storm. It had an element of watching the dance band play as the Titanic went down; a weird solidarity of people eating a fancy dinner while the early stages of a cyclone made landfall.

But the travel agent had screwed up our reservation, and they’d left my name off. We were just M & Mme Paul’s Last Name. And we sort-of had to laugh, for the first time in days, because through all that had divided us, something was finally uniting us.


(At the time, it was so striking, I took a photo of it!)

Sometime in the wee hours of the New Year, the hurricane began battering the island. At first, Paul thought it was kind of cool, but when the food and water ran out, I think he began to realise it wasn’t so great. And when we were finally able to leave the island, and the trip to the airport took something like six hours because the roads were all blocked or destroyed, I think he began to grasp that what we’d just lived through had been a bit of a narrow scrape.



But we made it out.

And our relationship survived.

I guess it’s easy to go through life with no sharks, no surgeries, no tropical storms, no differences of opinion about safety and comfort. And it’s funny now, even just a year out, to look back on that trip and go: Man, never again!

Which is why it was all the more amusing and prophetic that the card at dinner on New Year’s Eve suggested that we shared a last name, since Paul proposed last week (more on this story to come, I promise!). But in the short term, I suppose the moral of this story is…there are happy endings even when the story begins under the most dire of circumstances; even when the year has a most inauspicious start.

I find myself in a series of situations where I have to sit through a lot of complex feelings — quickly — to restore the status quo.  Not just restore order — I must Get Excited.

Would that the heart and head could be so cooperative.  I am finding this whole thing…Difficult.

Paul and I are buying an apartment, and while this should be an occasion for champagne and celebration, I am Freaking The F*CK OUT.  Having now lived by myself for five years, I know I should be excited about How Great This Is, and I am.  Also, I am Terrified. I am scared of the quotidian struggles that destroy relationships.  I fear the burden and expectations of others looking in and saying, WHAT DOES THIS NEXT STEP MEAN?!?!  (Ans: It means we are buying an apartment.) I am even afraid of picking the wrong paint colours and window treatments. 

My problem, really, is that I am terrified of being tied down; stuck. Like tonsils, or an appendix, the only purpose this fear serves is to become infected and engorged — becoming bigger, heavier, and harder to bear than it needs to be.

I have always been light on my feet.  Because what if I suck at whatever comes next?  Better to make a quick and graceful exit than be caught flat-footed like a fool.


Because what if I have to be a Real Girl, Living a Real Life? My entire life for the past few years has been a 1990s romantic comedy. You may get that impression from some of my writing, but in reality it has been more like a Nora Ephron written-and-directed-film-starring-America’s-Former-Sweetheart-Meg-Ryan than you may actually believe.

I have been taking Adventure Travel Towards Self Realisation, and have swooned over the Wrong Men in the lobbies of the World’s Finest Hotels. I have had the kind of romances that most women only dream of, but these men — they’ve always left me at the doorstep.  And now, now I’m going All The Way, with someone who might actually be The Right Guy.  Now we’re opening the door; we’re buying the house, we’re going through the threshold and building the future and doing it together…

And I’m scared.

About paint, and walls, and curtains.  And, for that matter, what if I’m no longer Interesting if I am suddenly so tied down and boring and solid and staid and … I am making all of the silly excuses that serve to prevent the real thing from happening. I am stalling. I am buying time.

I’ve always been good about being good. I’ve always been a know it all; I’ve long been obsessed with being right, and preventing myself from getting hurt. I’ve protected myself from some of the More Bad decisions I might’ve made.

But this has kept me from some of the More Good.

Tonsils and an appendix can easily be removed by a surgeon. My own fearful ego is not so easily excised. At this stage of my life, I just need to get out of my own way.