The Reality of Realty

As many of you know (because I have been whining and complaining for days), I have been asked by my husband to contribute to the family real estate development business by obtaining my realtor license.  Under great duress, I agreed to undertake the 120 hours of classes plus exam prep and completion so that I can become A Real Estate Professional.   Because I am part of an equitable relationship,  I fully expect that when I finally begin my novel, Blake will merrily agree to take 120 hours of grammar and spelling classes to support the publishing/editing effort.

This is the worst thing he has ever asked me to do (OK at least in the top five things) since our relationship began in 1987.  It ranks up there with helping him complete his senior college thesis on the Economy of China, or doing that sprint triathlon where I nearly drowned, or when I climbed Mount Washington with a 40 pound pack.  With these other events, I never detected any remorse about putting me in uncomfortable situations.  However, this latest experience has induced some unfamiliar behavior. I think he realizes that he may have over-extended the call of duties implied in the marriage contract (vs. an express contract which I now know are two different things) and that, just possibly, he feels a little bit guilty. Case in point – while I was taking some of these classes online, he actually made me lunch and brought it to my desk (granted it was two turkey/cheese roll-ups and a jar of yogurt – not exactly what Barefoot Contessa makes for her employees, but it is a start).  Not at anytime during college, courting, grad school, breast-feeding, NEVER has he made me lunch or brought it to me. So I know he feels badly and I plan to capitalize on these new found emotions.

When I attended grad school, I identified two things that I never, ever wanted to be when I grew up: an attorney, and an accountant.  Well, guess what friends, as part of the family business, I now possess a healthy understanding of Quick Books and can define eminent domain as well as the best lawyer.  (I am not intimating that Realtors are anything as complicated as lawyers – but even the legalese involved in realtor training is more than I ever wanted to know).  I feel as though I’m trying to learn a new language while in the throws of early Alzheimer’s.  I can’t even remember why I walked into a room, no less the definition of abrogation.  I have been using the alpha part of my brain for too long.  The beta version is atrophied.  I recommend that all of my friends take a class immediately, before it is too late.

I completed 18% of my 120 hours online, at home, in my office.  Sometimes slumbering, other times scribbling away at math problems that remind me of the SAT (which of these four things is NOT part of The Bundle of Rights).  I tried to toil in the evening before bed, but the same screen repeated itself in my head all night and I ended up having to take a two-hour nap the next day because I didn’t sleep a wink.  (I think this is when Blake’s guilt started to kick in)

Today, I adopted a can-do attitude and decided to take some of the classes live.  I reason that if I can take two full days of classes (16 hours), my completion rate will jet up to 30%.  The physical classes take place in a newer building in a strip mall in Murray – a rather industrial part of Salt Lake City.   I have to admit, my first four hours of class were rather pleasant; I had a great teacher who entertained us with real world examples of real estate in action.  There is a big difference between learning something versus memorization - especially when you have Alzheimer’s.  It was refreshing to sit in a classroom after the banality of the online experience (although I missed the Pavlovian clapping sound I receive when I answer a question correctly online).  Anyway, the teacher was the plus in this equation.  The minus is that within the first hour of my 8-hour real estate journey, I consumed one bag of Swedish fish, two Reece's peanut butter cups, 2 large peppermint candies, and a bite size Butter finger.  I created the following word problem in my head, “If Kristie eats 400 calories per hour and does no exercise and continues this for the next 7 hours, how much fat will be on her muffin tops when she is done?  How much after 120 hours?”   

For the next 3 hours, I managed to refrain from the candy offerings in the classroom.  Thankfully I had a short break before my remaining four hours of instruction began.  I decided to explore the strip mall with greater scrutiny.  When I first pulled in, I noticed a sign that said ESPRESSO in front of the mall. No brand names or colorful logos, just ESPRESSO in red caps.  No messing around here, this must be the real deal! – I thought to myself.  I walked maddeningly around the mall in search of perks (pun intended).  Nothing.  I did, however, take note of the following retail gems at my disposal:

• Two insurance companies
• Tio’s Mexican Restaurant
• Papa Murphy’s Pizza
• Golden Isle Chinese Restaurant (At least all of the ethic food groups are represented)
• Smokes 4 U (I got a lot of good xmas shopping done here)
• The Best Hair Salon (ironically, I saw no clients)
• A similarly titled A+ Nails (also without patrons)
• Shoe Repair (obviously decided there were too many false superlatives in the mall already and just went with the basics)
• And the true golden nugget of the strip mall – Smith’s market

Fearing certain gastric distress for the next 4 hours if I chose the ethnic options, and hoping to repent for my earlier poor nutrition, I opted for a ready-made spinach salad from the Smith’s produce section and ate it on the stairs in front of Tio’s.

I’ve always wondered where the STRIP acronym originated and after some assessment, I’ve come up with a couple of options:

Shopping That Really Is Pathetic

Stores That Require Improvement Pronto!

Shitty Tasteless Retail Is Painful  

Worried that I might be gang-raped by some of the clientele burning rubber through the parking lot as they frequent the Smokes 4 U, I retreated to the safety of my vehicle.  (Hmm, if they see my JHilburn car magnet and are interested in high-end Italian clothing, should I risk my life for the sale?)   As I looked out my window from the annals of this hellhole of a mall, I see my salvation shining in the sunlight– right across the street (of course) is a Mormon church.  (Now I know why the ESPRESSO store was no longer in business but there were at least 10 vending machines advertising coke).  I contemplate going to pray for Blake to take the realtor classes instead of me, but realize I am too far in atheist debt to request anything of God at this point.  Appropriately, I trudge back in for my final class of the day, Settlement Procedures.  I need to stop whining, sleeping, consuming sugar, complaining, and settle in for the next 100 hours. 

Guilty Admissions

I’m not talking about the false essays we wrote to get into college.  I’m referring to the fact that we all have little addictions that we delight in; yet do not want to admit for fear of judgment from family and friends.  Sometimes we have thoughts that are embarrassing and probably shouldn’t be shared with others.  In the spirit of friendship, commiseration, and free therapy, here are mine.  Judge away…

I love shopping.  In the department store, small boutique, online – it doesn’t matter.  Not so much in Salt Lake, but oh well – probably divine intervention that I moved here?!  I feel at ease and comfortable in the surrounds of a store.  Sometimes I can even stand in the entry of an establishment, perform a quick overview and be able to depart within ten seconds knowing that I will not find anything there.  I’m proud to say that my shopping radar is well-tuned and astute.  When I’m having a bad day, the sparkly cosmetic counters at Nordstrom or Bloomingdales bring a grin to my face and my shoulders drop down to their pre-stress position.  It is the perfect dreamscape for me.  As I waltz down the aisles taking in the stylish ensembles featured on the perfectly posed mannequins, I feel like I’m at my own personal fashion show.  I envision myself in that shiny pair of burgundy booties, with the newest skinny jean, a creamy silk blouse casually drapes my torso and some dangly gold earrings complete the costume.  Then I drift to the make up counter for a makeover.  Armani foundation that makes my skin look like Audrey Hepburn, a blush that restores the rosy luster to my ruddy cheeks, eye makeup that makes my eyes pop and the wrinkles recede.  Armed with new face and attire, I head for the handbag sector.  The array of colors and sizes looks like an east coast hillside in the height of fall.  Only better because you can select one and stuff it with personal belongings and carry it with you every day.  I choose the Prada doctor bag even though it cost as much as a ski camp for my kids – I say “what the hell” and throw it on the Amex card.   I am the quintessential 21^st century white suburban gatherer after all.   Of course, I do not buy any of these things, and I depart looking as drab as when I entered the shopping complex.  But I did picture myself in a new way, if just for a few moments and I feel a lurch in my step.  I even feel a little prettier, although the overly made-up MAC representative never touched my skin.

I love Botox.  Those little eleven lines between my eyes that I spoke about earlier this year make me feel old, tired, and unhappy.  When I am able to go for the shots (I literally rolled change to go most recently) I can feel my face getting lighter.  It isn’t possible for me to frown and so I feel happy.  My eyes look wider, my forehead looks clearer.  I feel 5 years younger.  What about the Frownie you inquire?  I use that at night to supplement the botulism that I have injected into my five-head.  Am I crazy?  Overzealous?  Yes, but can you really put a price on a smooth five-head?

I love More Magazine.  Usually at the gym I reach for the always entertaining People, or the fashion forward Bazaar.  However, on this dreary overcrowded day at the gym– none of these mags were available.  Forced to choose between Bicycling and More, I chose the mid-life publication.  I know this might seem shocking given the previous paragraph but I don’t consider myself to be middle aged.  I think that Julia Roberts and I are still 28, and so when I see her on the cover of More – I stop in my tracks and say, “shit Julia – when did we get so old?”  Contemplating reading a magazine that is intended for the over 40 year old reader is depressing to say the least.   However, I figure if Julia and I had things in common when she was on the cover of Vogue, then her wisdom might prove helpful now.  To my astonishment, I read every article and stayed on the stepper for 45 minutes.  Totally enthralled was I with the pertinent articles:  helpful tips on applying foundation to aging skin, products and clothing that are actually age appropriate, how to deal with a rocky female friendship – I forgot that I was huffing and puffing away.   The tag line (which could be taken a number of ways) even made me feel good about myself, “For Women of Style and Substance.”  I hope that is me.

I love the gym.  Wow, this is a doozy.  When you live in Park City with the mountains at your whim, saying you love the gym is almost like saying you hate chocolate.  What in the hell is wrong with me?  I love the orderliness of the gym.  The equipment is lined up neatly, follow it along and work every muscle.  I appreciate the efficiency of being able to knock out cardio and weight training in one session.  I enjoy listening to the music and watching what others are doing for fitness routines.  The gym, large concrete building that it is, is made for suffering and sweating.  I go, I suffer and sweat, and I emerge a stronger, happier person ready to eat ice cream and chocolate with less guilt.   When I’m hiking or biking, I want to take in the scenery, talk to my girlfriends, and sing like Julie Andrews.

I ate a whole bag of Heath bar Crunch that was supposed to go in my kids’ cookies for school.  Sometimes I used a spoon; sometimes I just poured the bag into my mouth.  It took me three days, but I’m proud and embarrassed to admit that the bag is gone.  No cookies for you, kids!

I had my first successful gravy making experience last week.  I guess that is somewhat embarrassing given my middle age, but I always thought that gravy was only something that grandmas were capable of making.  My daughter has been begging me to make it with mashed potatoes for weeks. Usually we have it twice a year – on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  With the chilly onset of fall, I thought Why not?  I searched through recipes from my go-to chef, Barefoot Contessa, and found a wonderful gravy recipe.  I probably only had about ¼ cup of chicken droppings and the rest I made with canned chicken stock.  The brandy or cognac adds a surprising depth of flavor.  We were all full and content; I didn’t even want to raid the bag of chocolate chips that I have hidden in the freezer.  I think perhaps the reason that gravy is so satisfying is that it is comprised of solid fat (butter), liquid fat (chicken grease), flour and salt. 

I colored my hair darker and I hate it.  In an effort to be more frugal, I asked my hairdresser to use more of my natural color so I will only have to highlight every 2-3 months instead of every 6 weeks.  I look like a mouse. My hair is flat.  My face is ruddy.  I like to be blonde.  I need to be blonde.  I am a shallow, terrible person.

I made myself cry thinking of my son going off to college.  Mind you, I have another four years before this becomes a reality.  The thought of him not coming and going, putting his arm around me, yelling “Mom” in his funny voice literally brought tears to my eyes and a small panic to my heart.

The backside of my body has completely gone to hell.  I suppose this makes sense and is why our creator only gave us eyes in the front of our head. How am I supposed to see that my flabby back fat is bulging over my bra, my muffin tops are leaping out over my pants and my saddle bags are one with my butt when I have to use two mirrors in an awkward position to examine these problems?  If I did have eyes in the back of my head they would pop out in disbelief and a complete lack of recognition.  It looks like someone took a meat mallet to the rear side of my thighs, while a poor tattoo artist drew bluish-green lines like a curvy highway going up my legs. I could start a massive workout routine solely focused on my rear silhouette at the concrete, sweaty, suffering, gymnasium or I could choose to look ahead for something More.   

Fall Frenzy

 I forget about the frenzy of fall. 

After the savory pace of summer,

Fall can be a real bummer.

First:  Back to School Necessities

Child A has white days and red days; he needs a gargantuan backpack, a binder for each day as well as separate folders for each subject matter.   Grim PE uniform is also essential.  Assorted pens, paper and pencils complete the package.  Since he is a boy, he doesn’t fall prey to some of the more trivial school supplies. 

Child B has white days and blue days and requires similar items for her studies.  In addition, she feels entitled to all of the cute items  (character themed thumb drives, tie-dyed book socks, locker decorations, computer sleeves, etc.) that Staples is hoping you are tired and rushed enough to buy.  Which I am. 

Second: Back to School Clothing

Both Child A and B would appear to have enough attire to clothe a Chinese province, but upon closer inspection – “Nothing FITS!”.  Both children are then instructed to wade through their closets and create complex categories such as “fits” and “doesn’t fit.”  The end result being, they probably get new clothes!! In their minds, this does not warrant an exclamation point.   If someone asked me to clean out my closet so I could get new clothes, I would perform like the Tasmanian devil.  But for my children, it was as though I asked them to pull out their own teeth.  With pliers.

Third:  Back to School Homework and Sports Schedule

My lazy summer evenings comprised of BBQing some sort of animal product and throwing together a pasta salad, eaten out on the patio and washed down with a vodka drink will be replaced by:

• Retrieve Child A from middle school bus stop, bring child home, fix snack, adopt proper tyrannical tone to maximize home work completion
• Extract Child B from Junior High, repeat snacking and homework steps above
• Deliver Child A to sporting activity 1 on Field X
• With record speed, peruse Whole Foods for healthy dinner material, check out and deposit in home refrigerator
• Deliver Child B to sporting activity 2 on Field Y
• Attend informational meeting about Sporting Activity 3 (children A&B) and hope that carpool delivers Child A safely home from practice.
• Pick up Child B and 2 friends – take them to their respective places of residence
• Return to abode to assemble dinner
• Resume duties as homework director (rack brain for algebra II and biology terms)
• Sign at least 9 documents per child
• Remember that you forgot to attend Child A’s back to school night, curse and pay Child A and B  $.50 each
• Wish you had a vodka drink
• Make nutritional lunches for tomorrow, clean up kitchen, get children to bed, give husband best I’mexhaustedareyoukiddingmeyoureallywanttohavesex? look and initiate middle aged beauty routine. 

Repeat for the next 9 months, and then for twelve years.  Hope you can afford college and a recession doesn’t result in a 'failure to launch' scenario. 

If and When

I was talking to an old friend recently who was going through a rough period and during our discussion we both admitted that we had given up on our dreams, or at least don’t think about them anymore.

My senior yearbook quote was from Hamlet “Dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.”  The accompanying picture shows me at the end of a dock with my hands poised as if in flight – hurrying off to conquer the world.  Wow, what an optimistic, idealistic young woman I was.  Ambition?  I can’t remember the last time I felt ambitious.  (Well - I did clean out the kids’ lockers last week – THAT required some serious ambition.)  Now I am a jaded, middle aged, independent who no longer believes in our political system, and can’t even muster a dream (other than some about Christian Grey, but those don’t count). 

I looked back on a few of the dreams I had when I was younger to see how they turned out:

1. Be a successful business woman

After grad school, I joined one of the many high tech start-ups in the Boston area.  I was determined to put my newly acquired business management skills to work!  People were getting rich over night left and right at these companies.  When I started, stock options were at $40/share.  Within a year it doubled and split, and then doubled again and split.  I never sold any stock – thinking it would go on like this forever and one day I would have 100,000 shares worth $100/share.  This was the late 90’s when we were riding high on bloated budgets and money on paper that meant nothing in real life.  By the time the company was sold to Intel in 2000, the stock price was $6/share, well below the $40 I had options for.  I remember being in Florida for a sales meeting and we were dancing at a bar yelling along with the song “I get knocked down” by Chumbawamba.  We substituted the catchy yet more appropriate lyrics “I got 6 bucks, but I’ll get up again.”  While I considered myself successful in terms of being a good manager and getting promoted, etc., financially speaking it was a less than a windfall.

2. After my vast prosperity achieved in the business world, I planned to use my new- found high tech fortune to buy my mom a new car and a new house.

My mom is quite frugal and seems content in her house that is paid for and car that gets around town just fine, which is good news, because at $6/share, I couldn’t even afford to buy her a Hyundai.

3. Buy my grandmother’s historic home in Connecticut and turn it into a grand summer country retreat with a pool and horses for my extended family.

My grandmother’s house did come up for sale in 2008 and sold in less than a week to someone who had a family history in the house back in the 1800’s.  I never even knew it was on the market.  Thanks a lot Grammie!

4. Own or rent a beach house on the Vineyard or Nantucket shore where I would "summer" with my family.  My kids would have their “summer friends” that they looked forward to seeing every year.  They would scoop ice cream at the local sweet shop when they were old enough to get a job.  We would have nostalgic family reunions with my east coast family each June.   In the fall and winter I would return to our beach home solo once a month and walk on the beach in a bulky warm sweater, hair blowing in the breeze like the protagonist of a Danielle Steele novel.   I would drink Earl Grey tea, paint ocean landscapes and write my best selling memoir.

When we moved to Park City, this dream evaporated (just like every other piece of moisture in my life).  You have to be quite ambitious (or have friends in the right places) to get to east coast beaches from Utah.  Second home ownership is something I don’t even contemplate in these uncertain economic times.  In fact, renting my primary residence is sounding increasingly attractive. 

About a year ago, I constructed a second list entitled "If I sell the house, I will....."

5. Live in Italy for 3 months and explore the countryside, tour museums, take art classes, flirt with Italians, and eat eat eat. 

This seems to be a common fantasy among us cougars.  So much so that there was a book compiled and a movie produced in which Julia Roberts experienced it all for us.  But then she had to repent in some strange Indian land with silence and yucky cuisine.  I will put this on the back burner until it becomes less popular.

6. Vacation on a Greek island just like the one in Mamma Mia with Colin Firth, but without Pierce Brosnan attempting to legitimize his vocal chords. 

I could probably get a lot for my $$ in Greece these days, but alas – no big European vacation is on the horizon any time soon.

Looking back at these notions, I realize that they all sound simpatico in theory, and they aren’t completely selfish. In fact, they were damn good dreams.  But they mostly rely on “if” and “when”, which places me in a purgatory of yearning.  I’m never quite satisfied and always looking back or ahead.  However, when I cease to live in the “if and when”, there are some pretty awesome things taking place in the “now.”   Yes, Eckhart Tolle, I did read some of your book!!

Exhibit A) Being present and enjoying a quiet evening on my patio looking at the mountains with my husband and a cold beer (after a marathon weeding session).

Exhibit B) Driving my son around for the 8^th time yesterday because I know next year he will have his license and we won’t have that time together in the car to “bond” (aka argue, philosophize, bicker).

Exhibit C) Taking my daughter to an animated film – I know our days for these are numbered.   Pretty soon, she will want to take her friends to see Magic Mike (not sure where she gets these seedy objectives from!) 

Exhibit D) Waking up and viewing 5 hot air balloons outside my window, billowing around in the puffy clouds.   

Exhibit  E) Mountain biking through wild flowers for two hours and still feeling strong when I'm done.

I am living the dream, I just need to wake up every once in a while and acknowledge it!

Birthdays

Today I am 45 years old.  I knew that my birthday was quickly approaching when all of my friends started sending me cards.  My friends at the Sunglass Hut, my friends at the Vittoria Spa, even my friends at Knead a Massage (although I’ve only been there once) sent me a nice birthday card with a special offer.   My daughter pondered why “I even bother to celebrate my birthday at this point.”  This from the little blonde demon who plans her birthdays six months in advance!  I have to admit, I’m not terribly excited about this birthday and birthdays in general seem to have diminishing returns.  I picture myself standing in the middle of the see-saw looking back at my early forties and teetering on the edge of fifties.  Madly pushing weight on both legs back and forth like I did as a kid to see who got bumped off.  

A while back, I paid $14.95 to post my mug on the Internet and view myself in a variety of different hairstyles and colors.  Somehow, my female brain believes that all of the woes of turning 45 will be resolved with a new hairdo.  I will look and feel younger, spend less time styling my unruly mop, and in the process -- forget that half my life is over.  On the bright side, my kids are very supportive of the change and both chose the same new hairstyle and color for me.  They don’t think there is anything erratic about my behavior; I’m just playing some games on the web. 

My husband seemed to take this last act in stride.  “You’re crazy” was all he said as I emailed picture after picture of me sporting a chestnut bob, eggplant waves, or an auburn shag.  He insists that I’m crazy several times a week, so this was nothing new. Yet another friend said she would continue to like me no matter what my “frickin” hair looked like.  This of course leads me to another revelation that I’ve had as I get older.  Women were meant to live with other women.  If my husband had made this type of comment (or perhaps worded even more thoughtfully like “your beauty comes from within, I will love you no matter what your hair looks like, or how fat your ass gets, or saggy your neck...”) I probably wouldn’t have madly tracked down my hair stylist for an emergency appointment after my online recon mission. 

One of my friends looks forward to the day when all of our husbands move on to their trophy wives leaving us divorcees to live together in a blissful state of female utopia. Painful hair removal, anti-wrinkle injections and marathon workouts will be things of the past.  We will all be fat, lazy, hairy, and happy.

I still feel like I’m 28 years old most of the time (except when I’m climbing royal street on my bike, trying to exceed that 5^th mile on the treadmill, or consuming that third cocktail).  If I could turn back the clock, that’s where I would set the alarm.  I was confident, successful, happy in my job, I lived in the city, I ate healthily, worked out moderately, my skin looked clear and non-wrinkled, children had not yet wreaked havoc on my body, yanked away my memory, and created fine lines around my eyes.   28 was a damn good year. 

The twenties are all about finding yourself and defining what you want to do and who you want to share your life with.  The thirties are about taking care of that person and the little people you create with him.  In your fifties you are back to taking care of people, most likely your parents.  In your 60’s, you’ve got to take care of yourself again, but it’s no longer about manicures and facials, it’s colonoscopies and cardiograms.  There is a lot of pressure to make the forties a truly superb decade, one with no regrets.  Thus the great buildup, the incredible pressure to reinvent, rejuvenate, re-evaluate, and if necessary re-do. 

I keep wondering why my husband didn’t have any of these issues when he turned 45?  He just breezed right through it! He seemed happy, fulfilled and confident.  He didn’t buy any night creams or spend hours at the gym.  He didn’t even contemplate a facelift. 

Then I performed the old compare-and-contrast exercise that I learned in college.  First, he believes that he will live to be 120 (with the help of the human growth hormone) thus placing his mid-life point at 60 – no need to worry for another 15 years at least (he is blissfully unaware of the trans-fats I inject into his dinners).  Second, he has accomplished many of the dreams on his list (with support from that other person in her 30’s that patiently followed him around the country and watched his triathlons), and third – there isn’t the huge societal pressure on him to look ten years younger than he is.  Women will still be attracted to him well into his 70’s.  What, in God’s name, does he have to worry about? 

The optimistic side of me (those that know me well will agree, my optimistic side rarely reveals itself) says I should be grateful for what I have accomplished during the first half of my life and modestly adjust my goals for the future.   I should be thankful for the good genes that I got from my parents, and reserve hope that I can alter or buy new ones if things take a turn for the worse.  I should smile (even though that will create the need for Restylane in my smile lines) and take every day that comes to me, enjoy the wonderful children that I’ve nurtured, and look forward to tomorrow.  Maybe even 50 years of tomorrows.  And above all, maintain faith that some scientist will discover a replacement for Botox that lasts years instead of months.

A Real Conversation

Date: February 13, 2012

Me - “I’m heading into town to pick up some Valentine’s things for the kids”

Spouse - Long groan - as if in stomach pain, “Oh my God is Valentine’s Day tomorrow?”

Me - “Yes”

• Translation - Valentine’s Day has always been on February 14th.  Every year since you were born, and more importantly, every year since we have been dating/married since 1987.  It is not like Easter which is tied to some random, dubious religious myth, it is always February 14th.

Spouse - “I’m buried and getting on a flight in a couple of hours, there is no way I will have time to get anything”

Me - “That’s ok, I will get cards and small gifts from both of us for the kids.  Valentine’s Day is a manufactured holiday by Hallmark, I don’t need anything - really.  And please, no chocolate.” 

• Translation - (I already consumed a bag of hershey kisses yesterday) I am truly sympathetic to his lack of time and agree that it is a lame holiday that puts undue pressure on the already overwhelmed male psyche.  And if at other points throughout the year, romanticism was prioritized, it might be ok to overlook the processed holiday that V-Day has become.  However, that is decidedly not the case.  He did propose on February 13th, exactly 20 years ago - thus acknowledging and in some way rebuffing the holiday all at once.   His relationship with Valentine’s Day has been strangled ever since.

Spouse - “Ok thanks”

Me - “No problem.”

• Translation - Disappointed again.  Why do I set myself up for this?  As a reader of both the male and female brain books, I know that men cannot read our thoughts and are not on the same frequency as women.  In the back of my feminine brain, I knew this was going to happen, yet I continue to maintain some hope that things will change.  That some year in the future, in early February a bell will go off in his head (or on his calendar) that says, “hey - a romantic holiday is coming up and perhaps I should prepare myself with some token of affection - or pick up the phone and make a reservation.”   For now, I continue my work on the next generation in the hopes that my son will be thoughtful, romantic, and check his calendar where his mother has placed alerts for the next 20 years.     

Fight or Flock

If someone had told me ten years ago that I would be hopping into a pick up truck with a twelve pack of Fat Tire beer and my road bike to head off for a weekend of hiking and biking with my girlfriends in southern Utah, I would have laughed in utter disbelief.  Clubbing in NYC or South Beach was more my style for the occasional female getaway back in the day.  Now that I’m a more mature woman of (gulp) nearly 45 years of age, I opt for the low maintenance, high calorie burn vacation.  

Honestly, in my thirties, I enjoyed my share of fun times with my lady friends.  A day in South Beach might be filled with a walk on the beach (if we weren’t too hung over), shopping, mojitos by the pool – constantly on the lookout for celebrities, (dining was not on the list of activities so we could look good in our bathing suits) getting our hair blown out and nails done, espresso martinis, and dancing at a one syllable club till the wee hours in a couture outfit.  

Nowadays, I still look forward to a vacation with the gals, but our days are drastically different.   Instead of small dresses, short shorts and bikinis – I pack hiking clothes, biking attire, and maybe some jeans for dinner.  When we arrive at our desert destination, we do a quick 30-mile ride to warm up through the red rock canyons of Moab.   After a beer by the pool, we head out for Mexican food and Margaritas.  In the morning we beeline to the nearest bakery and shovel in as much food as we can handle to fuel our action packed day.  Then we head off on our bikes for an 18-mile ride that seems mostly uphill.  We proceed to ditch our bikes, quickly change into our hiking clothes behind the disgusting port-a-potty and hike for an hour and a half to some arch or other.  Visa versa on the hike/bike thing and pedal home another 18 miles, which for some strange reason also seems to be uphill, even though I know this is not feasible.  Beer by the pool, eat, chat, repeat the next day. 

In response to stress, the human brain has a few options  – strong people will tend to fight, weak people take flight, men like to f&%k and women – we are inclined to flock.  During our girls’ weekends, we wallow in female bonding.  We talk for hours about topics ranging from world peace to menopause to death to childbirth.  I’m pretty sure that if you put a group of women together for a weekend and gave them a world problem to solve, they would have it nailed within 48 hours – in addition to hiking 20 miles, biking another 40, and coming up with a week’s worth of dinner menus.  It is the ultimate in multi-tasking – exercising, being a good friend, benefitting from free therapy and recipes, and appreciating nature.   

In High School, I didn’t have many women friends.  I prided myself on being a tomboy.  Boys were easier to understand, simple, not caddy – what you see is what you get.  I was perplexed by the female figure.  I had a few more friends in college and grad school, but it wasn’t until I had children that I found the value of the female companion.  Now I can’t imagine life without my girlfriends; they fulfill nearly all my needs.  They pick me up when I’m down, throw me birthday parties, make me dinner when I’ve been moving all day, retrieve and feed my kids, loan me clothes, put up with my flirty husband, send me cards, texts, and emails.  They listen to me complain, make me laugh until I cry, they stick up for me when I’ve been wronged, make me a drink when I need to relax and I know that they always have my back.  I feel lucky to have so many amazing women in my life.  I learn from them every day.  I imagine us all growing old together and living in an assisted living facility – taking art classes and silver sneakers together (finally I will get to kick their ass at some sport!) and laughing, eating pudding and not caring at all about the world’s problems.