I'm a Toys R Us Kid

Remember those commercials? "I don't wanna grow up, I'm a Toys R Us kid!" They were great.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about that lately.

I went on a job interview on Tuesday. It was a great job with a great organization. And I really think I would have had a chance. If, say, I had an MBA and about five more years experience.

And I came home and started thinking about getting an MBA. It's a conversation I've had with myself many times.

But then I took a step back.

I'm currently being forced to curb my exercise habit. For better or for worse, I will be getting home much earlier than 7:30/ 8 p.m. these days. And I will be significantly less ravenous when I get home. So, in theory, I should have much more time to write.

And, truth be told, I've got a LOT of ideas kicking around in this ole head of mine.

Then I remembered back to the words of a well-respected member of a previous writing group. Who told me (and I paraphrase) "You've got style and ear. When you figure out what it is you want to say, you will be a great writer. PLEASE find an MFA program and enroll."

You can't exactly get an MFA and an MBA at the same time.

So it seems I'm at a crossroads. On one hand, getting the MBA will allow me to earn the money that could - potentially - allow me to take the time to do the writing that makes me happy. On the other hand, getting the MFA will help me to better do the writing that makes me happy. Of course, while both expensive, one is considerably more expensive than the other. See employee Continuing Ed section of contract.

I don't need to decide this all at once. But given all of the stuff that's been coming up for me in reiki and meditations, in conversations and dreams, I do think it's got to be decided relatively soon.

I don't want to read the headline in the Boston Globe, "Novelist, at age 85, has first work published."

What a Day

I've been meaning to post all day. My phone started ringing around 10:30 a.m. and did not stop. You know the easiest way to have a really busy day at work? Hope like hell to have a nice quiet one.

All things considered though, it wasn't a bad first day back. Long Napoleanic conversation, which was to be expected, but otherwise I managed to put out most of the fires and even meet some very friendly people over the phone. (Of course, drop a huge gourmet chocolate truffle order in the laps of a mom & pop gourmet chocolate shop, and they'll be nice to you.) So non-stop, but not necessarily in a bad way.

And then ...

I had reiki tonight.

And whatever else is going on in my life will have to wait. I feel positively blissed out. Drunk on energy.

Oh yeah - and I need to get in touch with my inner child. But what else is new?

Sigh. I love spring.

Beltane

Tomorrow night is the celebration of Beltane (or Beltaine as I prefer). The sabbat of the Great Marriage of the God and Goddess, the unity that results in harvest. It's the time when, long ago and far away, men and women retired to the fields and made like the beasts. There was much wine, much song, much dancing.

And so, to celebrate, I'm having my womanhood sliced and diced.

I know I've mostly moaned and whined about how I won't be able to do yoga or kickboxing. But that's all a really good cover for what's going on.

Because, you see, even though this is a fairly routine procedure, I'm pretty sure what's going on down there. And it ain't good.

I've had decidedly strange/odd/abnormal twinges, feelings, pains for a few months now. I've chalked it up to paranoia, to pulled muscles, to anxiety, to bad Chinese food. But, when my reiki practicioner mentioned that she felt something "going on down there" and when I felt such a blockage in yoga that I literally cried out and collapsed onto the mat, well.....

So, maybe it's nothing and maybe it's something. I guess we'll find out a week or so after tomorrow. But I'm scared. And worried.

And I wish I could just be ignorant and celebrate Beltaine and prepare for the upcoming bountiful harvests and be happy.

Ah well...

Last Days of Freedom

Since I won't feel much like moving for a week, I decided to honor myself with yet another hike. And this time I remembered my camera. Look how purdy the city looks when it's far away...

Despite the fact that all the radio stations were saying it was going to rain, I had clear skies and puffy, white clouds the whole time. A little rain would have been welcome, as I wound up sweating like a banshee - yes, I know you're shocked.

I was amazed at how many people go for hikes and leave stuff behind. I wound up carrying so much trash back to HQ I looked like a vagabond. Must remember to bring trashbag on next trip...

And so I was all blissed out and yes, actually hugged some trees. And on the way home I had not one but TWO road rage incidents. First one, woman pulls out onto the highway, into my lane, and decides to decelerate. So I slam on the brakes and honk. And then she tears off like she's on fire. Then, I'm getting off the Pike, got completely cut off and so I honked. No big deal right? Except apparently, the nimrod driving decided I offended his manhood. So at the next traffic light, he swerved - almost barrelling into my car - and then peeled out. What is up with this people?

I honestly honestly am ready to write my own manifest on how if everyone would get out of their cars, go for a walk, and be nice when they drive, we'd all be a much shinier happier world.

Giving Up the Ghost

I wouldn't consider myself vain. Others might, but I don't see myself that way. I don't wear makeup. I tried to, for awhile, but I wound up breaking out and that kind of defeated the purpose. I don't spend a lot of time or money on my hair. It's gonna wind up limp and stringy anyway, and I think an extra five minutes of sleep is worth the tradeoff. As for fashion, well, I'm no Sex in the City gal, that's for sure.

But there is one thing I'm pretty vain about -- my body. Maybe it comes from 19+ years of dance. Staring into floor to ceiling, wall to wall mirrors clad in nothing but pink tights and a black leotard three days a week for your formative years might have that affect on a gal. Maybe it's because I wasn't exactly what you'd call popular in school and I suffered under the delusion that I'd go away one summer, do the swan nee duckling routine and BAM! be popular come September. Maybe it's because there was a time, not too long ago, when I was wearing a size 10 and it was snug. (For those gorgeous size 10s out there who are reading this and saying, Hey!, I submit this -- I'm 5'3" and not exactly big-boned. Size 10 means about 30 superfluous pounds on my frame...) So I'm proud that I can still dance and kickbox and do yoga and cycle and hike and everything the way I do. And I'm proud that those things have the side effects of leaving me with a fairly decent physique.

Which leads me to last night. It was my last kickboxing class with the crazy-pregnant-awesome-fun instructor. So I wanted to make it a good one. I was kicking. I was jabbing. I was (jumping) jacking. I was sweating and panting. And, at one point, I looked at the clock and realized there was still 20 minutes left in class. OH MY GOD! For a second I actually thought, "thank God I have to take a break from this stuff for a month. I need the rest!"

Because, you see, I'm probably the oldest person in the class. But heaven forbid I take it easy, allow my kicks to be anything but the highest or my squats the deepest. It might just be competitiveness, but I think it's probably vanity.

Now, today, I walked up to the courthouse to file my application for a new passport. If you don't have your old one to turn in, you have to re-supply all your documentation. And I didn't have my "long form" birth certificate, so I got turned away. Annoying, right?

The thing is - I have my original passport. I know where it is. I could easily avoid all this hassle by just turning it in. But I really - REALLY - don't want to.

Because it's the only good picture I've ever taken.

In the photo, my hair is long and blonde. I am tan. I am smiling. I am young.

It comes down to this. As I prepare for this ridiculous procedure which will force me into a month of relative relaxation and as my 32nd birthday looms off in the distance, I must not only come face to face with my vanity, but also my age.

No matter what they say, 32 ain't the new 22. No way, no how.