50-50

My headlights pierce the predawn darkness as I wend through central Virginia horse country. Fog settles into low lying fields and some wisps of it linger in my sleepy head. It is not unusual for me to make these early morning treks but they are never fun. I am not a morning person. I yawn and try to switch the car over to autopilot. Then I remember that I didn't invest in that option 5 years ago when I thought buying a stationwagon was a good idea. I have changed my mind about station wagons. They no longer suit me. They make my butt look big. Next month I will hand the keys to this car to someone else and I will move on to a little two seater. No one's butt looks big in a two seater.

My cell phone rings and casts an eerie blue glow onto the dashboard. The time reads 5:02 and the caller ID says it is "Private." What it should say is "OnStar." I groggily answer.

His voice is chipper as he tells me that the woman at check-in told him he was 5 lbs over weight and must charge him a $50 penalty. I want to meet this woman! I would gladly pay her $50 if she could tell me I am merely 5 lbs overweight.

"I wasn't going to pay $50," OnStar says. "So I took out one of my boots and I'm taking it as carry on."
"You have 5 lb boots?" I ask sleepily.
"Yes. They are steel toed, you know."

No, I didn't know. To be honest, I don't pay much attention to guy footwear. Girl footwear is another story. I pay very close attention to that. I consider my boot collection as the horizen turns a deep purple and then dark gray. The seasons are changing. Day breaks later. It is almost boot weather.

Back home, I rummage through my closet until I find my favorite pair of boots. Black, 3 inch stiletto heels, knee high, and laced up the back, these boots all but shout "Naughty!" Paired with a peek-a-boo black lace negligee and they make a gal feel like she should be in a Victoria's Secret window display. Pull a calf length burgandy velvet dress on over that and "Naughty!" becomes a mere whisper. They are the perfect boots. But how much do they weigh?

I take them into the bathroom and hop onto the scale. I weigh myself holding a boot. Holy Cats! I never knew a boot could weigh so much! Obviously this is a 10 lb boot! I don't need to weigh myself without it to confirm that fact. I just know...

Time Travel

It isn't often that I have the luxury of traveling backwards through the time-space continuum, which is probably good considering the expense. Time travel requires a nice outfit, new shoes, my hair done, and make up. It also requires stamina. Gripping a steering wheel for 8 or more hours while I drive back through the decades is tiring. Having to deal with TSA if I chose to fly back in time is tedious. All in all, time travel is hard. But it's worth it.

The gin and tonic hummed happily in my veins and I smiled as I sank my bare feet into the grass. The Winner sat across from me chattering. It didn't matter what she was saying, her words were animated, happy, adolescent. Next to her was "her best friend from high school," his face as familiar to me today as it was decades ago. He did what he has always done, listened, watched, and grinned his Cheshire cat grin. The years spin backwards while tales of prep school are told.

Yes! This is how it was in 1978. The Winner and I blathering on and on, our best friend taking it in and smiling. It is possible to go back. Time travel doesn't require atomic powered Energy-To-Matter Converters. Time travel simply requires surrounding yourself with the people who love you and who remember what you looked like when you were a size 8.

Miracle on 34th Street

I never expected to be in midtown Manhattan on the fifth anniversary of 9/11. I simply headed due west on Long Island to I-95 south. I didn't consider that the shortest route would mean crossing through the heart of NYC. I am glad that I blithely traced my fingertip along 495 W without thought. Otherwise I would not have experienced my own miracle on 34th street.

Those who know me well, know I was born in Brooklyn. And those who have been with me when I'm fatigued know that I occasionally lose my hard earned diction and slip into the Brooklynese of my childhood. That is, I tawk funny. It's Noo Yawk Tawk. The nuns at St. Joseph's beat most of it out of me. Can you think of a harder way to earn diction? But they couldn't beat all of it out of me. And I suppose that's the miracle I experienced today; the unexpected recognition of self as I came face to face with a part of me I thought was left behind.

My car and I, used to the winding roads of Virginia horse country rather than the stop and go of city driving, creapt up 34th Street. The Empire State Building rose on my left and Macy's beckoned to me on the right. People of every conceivable type brushed past one another on the sidewalk. Their movements were economical and had a no nonsense air of determination that said, "I am getting to where I am going now, not later."

As I watched this urgent dance between the city dwellers, tourists, kamikazi cabbies, and unflappable bus drivers, I suddenly realized why I approach the world with an in your face, I'll grab you by the short hairs if you cross me aggression. I understand that some people find it hard to reconcile the highly educated world traveler they know me to be with the tough fighter that emerges when I feel threatened. There is no doubt that education, professional achievement, travel, and affluence all acted as a finishing school. But in the end, I am a Noo Yawka. If you peel away the veneer of refinement you find someone who can push herself through a crowd, fearlessly crosswalk, and deep down hates the BoSox with an irrational passion.

I am a Noo Yawka. I had almost forgotten that I am a Noo Yawka. But at 11:06 am today I sat absolutely still in the streets of New York City and I remembered. No cars moved. No horns honked. No one impatiently offered vulgar gestures. All of us sat there in silence, all of us New Yorkers, and all of us remembered.