The very first morning at my B&B, I was rudely awakened by the blinding sun hitting my eyeballs at roughly 5:30 am. Apparently, this Inn never heard of blackout curtains. This would not be the vacation where I sleep in. I am an early riser anyway, and this room did not give me any other option. I got dressed in hiking gear, determined to go it alone, uncertain as to where. Plus, breakfast was included and a long hike meant you must eat first.
Our hostess, M, served a typical filling B&B morning meal, including a quiche, fruit cup, and bacon. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was to be my last decent breakfast for a while.
I mentioned to M, also a local hiker, that I was thinking about doing Arethusa Falls on my own. She said it wasn’t that bad. She was what my grandmother would have called zoftig, meaning not so svelte, so her endorsement told me if she could do it, so could I. Hmm. Maybe I am remembering it as difficult because my last encounter with the trail was when I was 83 pounds heavier, absolutely zoftig myself and completely out of shape. Possible.
So, which would it be? Arethusa Falls, the difficult mental game up steep rocky steps, or The Flume, the tried and true tourist destination, with its wide paths and steps with handrails? One real issue is that when I hike at home, I am never too far from a main road. It is New York City, after all. In New Hampshire, you are in the FUCKING FOREST, one with abundant wildlife who call it home and absolutely zero cell phone reception.
The other part of my hesitancy is the fact that I am now 51, and I see death way down the road, yet in view, and have no need to hurry it along. My twenties were lined with a death wish underlying each stupid decision; now I have reverted to being overcautious to a fault.
But this is my Year of Yes, and I was determined to make the most of it. So with my backpack and bear bell, I set off to conquer Arethusa Falls on my own. Hopefully, bear bell is not synonymous with dinner bell. It is a well-traveled route, so if I were to twist an ankle or need help, that shouldn’t be an issue, at least not one worth dwelling on.
In hindsight, I made a rookie mistake before the hike. I drank not one, not two, but THREE cups of coffee that morning. With the caffeine coursing through my veins and the liquid moving through my system, I was off.
The drive was identical to the night before, straight up Route 302, and I was lucky enough to have one of the clearest days I had ever seen. I could view the weather station at the summit of Mt. Washington, which is usually perched firmly within a cloud.
The mistake of drinking three cups of coffee soon became apparent, and I stopped off at The Willey House, a historical attraction, but more importantly, a place with actual flushing toilets. These are a rarity, usually one must use the dreaded porta-potty. No thank you.
Directly across from the Willey House Historical Site
Luckily, the trailhead parking lot for Arethusa Falls was not very far from this pit stop, and I continued on my way. As any person who drinks too much knows, this first time only starts the flow. Once you break the seal, as they say, you may have to go again. I can attest to this fact. The ten minute drive was now a decision making exercise in whether I should go back to the relatively lovely bathrooms, cleaned by the Parks Department, or take my chances at the trail with the possible hole in the ground. I forged ahead. After all, I have used the bathrooms at the Staten Island ferry terminal in the 1980’s and that will never be surpassed as the pinnacle of horrific bathroom experiences. But, I digress.
I pressed on to the parking lot, and noticed the outhouse at the far end. As I was about to get out of the car, a large pickup truck races into the lot, screeches to a stop near the bathroom and a middle aged man on a mission runs at top speed to the previously mentioned water closet. Now, a man could pee on the side of any road, so I was pretty sure that wasn’t his goal. I start gathering my pack, continuing to side eye the toilet, waiting for him to exit. My issue continues to become more pressing.
After what seemed like an eternity, the man emerges, apparently victorious. He climbs into his vehicle and zooms off, leaving a trail of dust behind him. For some reason, I am still considering this as a viable option, despite the obvious. I head over to the privy, gingerly open the door with my hiking stick, and get a big whiff that screamed “FUCK NO!”
What was I to do? Drive back to the historic site and their lovely loo? It was then I remembered I had a female porta-john in my car, in case of emergency, and this constituted one to me. I climbed into the back seat, did my business, and was quite impressed with the amount of liquid my body could produce within a 12 minute time span. Solved another problem. Side note: I highly recommend having this product in your car! It has a gel that solidifies with liquid, odorless, and easy to use. Definitely a 5 star rating from me.
Now, no more excuses.
I was ready to begin.
Walking up a paved path with a serious grade to the start of the trail, I saw a sign which read “One hour each way.” It was cool weather, it was early, and I was set.
The trail was rocky and a continuous incline. I watched my footing carefully, and overall this was no joke. It was rated as “Moderate” by hiking guides, but a “Moderate” in New Hampshire is a “Difficult” to me. I am a little nervous to see what their version of “Difficult” is. It might be my “Impossible.”
I continued on for a good 45 minutes at a pretty quick, steady clip. Some areas had a steep drop off, some were narrow as hell. It was a constant up, up, up. I did have the trail mainly to myself, and pushed the thoughts of twisting my ankle out of my mind. I was doing this thing.
Arriving at the payoff, the highest waterfall in NH, was beautiful. The last time I was here, being one of the larger people on the trail, I was shocked that I made it to the end. I did hang back on the rocks, trying desperately to catch my breath and not sound like I was dying. Meanwhile, my husband and daughter scampered further, lowering themselves down to almost directly beneath where the water plunged.
Arethusa Falls
This time, it was me who took this path, scrambling onto the rocks below. It was incredibly peaceful to watch the continuing cascade. I turned and saw a multitude of multi-colored butterflies clinging to boulders. I gazed at the wonder I would have missed by not climbing down. The Year of Yes!
I started back, and although I continued to watch where I stepped, hiking out was definitely easier as I was now descending. When I made it back to the parking lot, I practically cried tears of joy. In my previous completion of Arethusa Falls, I was morbidly obese and completely out of shape. Now, I was in much better shape, and I had multiple weekly hikes under my belt. Plus, today, I did it solo. And it was TOUGH! Looking back, I don’t know how the hell I did it the first time.
So, kudos to the person I was, the one carrying an extra 83 pounds, the one who spoke to herself like an asshole. The one who pushed through when it seemed like it would never happen. The one who kept going when it was easier to stop. The one who decided not to give up. Cheers to that amazing person who persevered!
Driving and not knowing where I am going is a huge trigger for me.
Back in the day of paper maps and pay phones, I often drove with girlfriends in deathtrap mobiles, scrounging change off of the floorboards to try and put in enough gas to make it to and from our destination. We struggled to find various heavy metal clubs located off the beaten path, in places like Bumblefuck, New Jersey. Well, more like Sayreville.
Regardless, New Jersey was hellacious, with its God forsaken traffic circles and its audacity to use technical jargon, such as North, South, East and West. In NYC, we simply said turn right or turn left, none of these complicated compass bearings. I later found, to my horror, most of the country thought the same about directions as New Jersey did. But I digress.
I then graduated to MapQuest, with papers printed from my home computer with turn by turn directions. Kind of a bitch to read while driving, but I was young enough to not need reading glasses, so not as difficult as it could have been. MapQuest started loosening the noose of anxiety from my hyoid bone.
GPS completely unbound me from this one particular trigger. My first Garmin changed my life. It almost felt the same as when I first received my Driver’s License: freeing.
Now, 34 years after finally passing my road test, I am about to go off on my very first road trip alone. It was a 7.5 hour drive to a destination that I had been to so many times, I could drive blindfolded. No matter. Anxiety doesn’t listen to reason, and this monster was starting a guttural scream.
To ease the voice of doubt, I decided to have two GPS devices going. Two different computer voices admonishing me if I chose the directions of one over another, with their harsh, judging “Recalculating.” Yet, it gave me some sort of comfort, knowing that if all else failed, I could simply press the “Home” button, and I could return to my comfort zone at any time.
I listened to my favorite podcasts, uninterrupted by my teenage daughter with a complaint about the volume. One of these is Timesuck, hosted by Dan Cummins. This show is not for everyone, but it’s definitely for me. It takes an in-depth look at a number of subjects, but none interest me more than the Serial Killers he delves into. So, I was kept company for hours by stories of human monsters, Hail Nimrod! I also blasted whatever music I felt like, without the protests of my husband. I got to do whatever the fuck I wanted. It was glorious.
Anxiety rears up again over my gas tank. I fill that baby up when it goes slightly under half a tank, or else I start worrying about how/when/if I will ever locate a gas station. I do not think I have ever had a fuel level indicator land on “E.”
One of New Jersey’s redeeming qualities is that it sells gas at a lower price than NYC, and only gas station attendants can pump it for you. I pay more at home to avoid Self-Serve. I hadn’t pumped my own gas in decades.
Come to find out, most states make you get out of your vehicle and actually pump your own gas. Just thinking about this my heart races, and I, again, hear the voices of doom.
I. Just. Can’t.
I can’t drive anywhere!
GPS solved that.
I can’t pump my own gas! It’s been years!
Well, this trip, I really had no choice.
So, I did it.
And I lived, thankyouverymuch.
There’s hope after all.
I was headed to the town of Littleton NH, where I hope to retire someday. As a child, this was the “Big Town;” as an adult, it is small and quaint, the quintessential American small town. There is a Wal-Mart and a Lowe’s and a Home Depot, along with a few fast food joints dotting the outskirts, but the real draw is Main Street.
Main Street is the jewel of this area, home to an old fashioned eatery, The Littleton Diner, with its daily specials and pie and coffee continuously served to its counter patrons. The White Mountain Canning Company sells its homemade pickles and mustards and vinegars. The Little Village Toy and Book Shop, a truly independent bookstore, is a welcome respite from Barnes & Noble,’ with all sorts of books, from best sellers to local interest. The corner movie theater, Jax Jr., hosts 2 screens and a single showing on each nightly. There were obligatory churches on each end of the road.
A gorgeous photography shop is a recent addition. Shaun Terhune is an artist in capturing the way the light plays with the peaks of my beloved White Mountains. His store is funky and rustically modern, with his outstanding photographs and local artisans’ wares for sale.
The biggest draw had to be Chutter’s, which boasts the World’s Longest Candy Counter. Rows and rows of glass jars filled with candy lined the shelves to your left as you enter. You don a glove and grab a bag, and throw in whatever strikes your fancy. They have candy which I haven’t seen in decades; sesame candy, Mary Janes, button candy, sugar babies, jelly fruit slices, even all three kinds of candy cigarettes – the shitty white stick, the crappy chocolate with the paper you had to peel off, and the gum which bellowed out white confectioner’s sugar smoke when you blew into it.
World’s Longest Candy Counter Chutter’s in Littleton, NH
A new bakery, which I had read about on Chutter’s blog, drew me. It was the type of establishment I would expect to see in Manhattan, industrial looking and trendy, with eclectic combinations of flavors. Crumb Bar had my name written all over it, partly because of my carb addiction, partly because of my foodie affiliation. The server was tattooed and aloof, and I am sad to note most offerings were sold out due to my late arrival of 12:30. The girl behind the counter explained how one would have to arrive before 11 am if one was to get a full picture of the day’s offerings. They close at 2, or whenever they sell out, whichever comes first. I planned on being there at opening one of these days.
Luckily for me, there was a croissant still in the case which called my name. It was filled with caramelized onions, blue cheese and fig jam. Holy shit. Well, hello lunch! This was to replace my normal vacation lunch of homemade ice cream at Bishop’s, another local establishment within a half mile from this newfound store of pastry happiness. Bishop’s ice cream is off the charts good, but I did not want to put myself into a diabetic coma, even if it meant dying with a smile on my face.
Crumb Bar Littleton, NH
Walked through town a bit, with plenty of intention to return, and made my way to the next town over, Bethlehem. This adorable artsy town was quite different from my childhood memories. Back then, the locals were more in line with the stereotype of “country folk.” There was zero diversity. I never saw any person of color in any of the years that I had summered there. As the NY Jews, we were most definitely the outsiders, and I’m sure the year round residents weren’t too thrilled by our seasonal arrival. Now the town seemed very different, with a funkiness and artistic vibe that oozed out of the donut shop, local brewery/restaurant, theater, and yoga studio. It seemed fresher, younger, cultured. A surprising, but positive, change.
Main Street Bethlehem NH
Once you hit the Main Street of Bethlehem, it takes no more than two minutes to arrive at its end. Passing through town, I arrived at my Bed and Breakfast, The Mulburn Inn. This beautiful, classic Victorian, with stone walls, grand windows and welcoming porch was not my normal type of inn. B&Bs were not an option when traveling with my child in tow. We were more the Family Friendly Motel sort.
But it was all about me now, and I booked my first night alone at the same place as the writing retreat’s home base. I would be able to stay in the same room for the duration, which just so happens to be the room Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe stayed in. Well, at least the two framed pictures of them in the room implied that, although an actual photo of the two of them together at the inn would have made the story more plausible.
The B&B’s owner, M, was lovely and welcoming. She went so far as to carry my bags upstairs, to the room with the framed pictures. She bought the inn 9 years ago, and, as with any old house, was constantly working on the multitude of punch list items in need of improving. In came my overstuffed suitcase, hiking gear, various shoes, writing equipment and all important bag of snacks, healthy as they were. Sugar snap peas, hard boiled eggs, light cheese and mini bell peppers, to offset the caloric damage I had begun to inflict upon myself. One of the lessons I would learn this week would center on food, an unexpected side note.
M was ingratiating and warm, the best qualities any innkeeper should have. There were two other families staying there that I met. Names slide in and out of my brain, so suffice it to say neither party had names which stuck to me. The first was an orthodox Jewish couple, grandparents from Rhode Island. She, in the ill-fitting wig and black skirt. He, in his white, button-down, long sleeved shirt. The man latched onto my name and said it in full at least 4 times during our short time together, sort of piecing together my first name and completely mangling my last name. No matter, as I could not even remember either of theirs. In keeping kosher, they brought their own food, and the first night I watched them eat ears and ears of corn, and the man proclaimed it to be an excellent dinner. Really? She must be a shitty cook.
They explained they did not do much while they were there, simply took a walk to the local library and spent hours reading up on the history of Bethlehem. I was already somewhat versed in the history, and I found it odd they would rather read about history than take advantage of nature, the biggest draw to the area. Then again, their obligatory garments must make hiking a hot, sweaty bitch.
Bethlehem attracted many Jews from the 1920’s onward, as a panacea to Hay fever. My aunt bought her home in the early 1940’s, as did my great grandmother and her neighbor, all on the same block of Jefferson Street. The Colonial Theater was on the corner, 2 blocks up on the corner of Jefferson and Main Street. My mother went up for vacations as a child, and then passed the tradition on to me, driving me up for 14 years, every summer.
Then the house was sold out of our family, and that was that.
The other family staying at the inn was from India, a couple traveling with her mother, directly from Mumbai. They used the inn as their home base, taking day trips to Vermont and Maine. Cosmopolitan and upscale, they made it abundantly clear that this place wasn’t up to their travel standards, and were generally bitchy complainers.
I decided I was going to get myself a lobster roll for dinner. Not just any lobster roll, mind you, but one from this tiny joint that looked like a hole in the wall, yet served food that would bring tears of joy to your eyes. Cabin Fever, in the town of Bartlett, was an unassuming shack that my family and I always avoided, frequenting larger establishments. Well, really because it looked like a ramshackle cabin. I regret every drive past it, knowing what I know now.
We stumbled inside one summer vacation, with 4 families, all with children of varying ages and food preferences in tow. There was the kid who only ate pizza, the one who must have a burger, the one with more adult taste, and the one who ate everything. We were not disappointed; there was something for everyone on the menu. While the kids were chowing down on their food, I was being served something I never knew existed: the hot lobster roll.
You see, a typical New England lobster roll is a cold lobster salad, mayonnaise based, served on a split white bun, similar to a hot dog roll. It was a staple, and delicious to boot. The hot lobster roll, also known as the Connecticut Lobster Roll, is in a different category. The bun is toasted on a flat top with butter. The steamed lobster is coated in butter, and heaped on top of the toasty bun. It is a lobster roll for purists. Pure heaven.
Hot Lobster Roll from Cabin Fever
The promise of this lobster roll drew me out of my comfort zone. I cannot remember a time I have eaten in a restaurant by myself. Yet again, another anxiety producing issue. What does one do? Sit on their phone? People watch? Read? Beats me. So, I hedged my bets, took a book and my phone and set off, as there was no way I wasn’t eating the lobster roll of my dreams when it was within a 45 minute drive from my current location.
The drive to Bartlett is very straightforward from Bethlehem; make a right from the inn onto Route 302 and keep going until you’re there. Since the drive included a trip through Crawford Notch in the White Mountain National Forest at dusk, I needed to be vigilant in looking for animals. I wanted to see a moose, yet not be killed by one. They are elusive creatures, although quite large. Last year, I paid for a moose tour, and spent 3 hours in vain, with songs like “Merry Chris-Moose Darlin’” blasting from the speakers, on a loop. I shit you not. That’s a whole other story entirely. Onto the lobster roll!
I passed the gorgeous Mt. Washington Hotel, a resort from a bygone era that still charges a ridiculous nightly fee, and draws what I can only imagine to be old money families, dressed in their tennis whites and golf shirts, calling after their children, Buffy and Hildegarde. I slowed down to view the Flume Cascade and Silver Cascade, two waterfalls on the left side of the highway. I passed Ripley Falls, a short hike, followed by Arethusa Falls, my nemesis.
Mt. Washington Hotel Photo courtesy of Shaun Terhune
Finally, there she was, Cabin Fever, just as I remembered.
After I was seated at an odd high top table, I noticed there were 3 other people also alone. I never noticed so many single diners before. I chatted with the new owners, who kept the old menu. I already knew about that, as I followed the restaurants’ social media. Hello, my name is Samantha, and I am food obsessed. But only good food, worthy of obsession. I’m like the alcoholic elitist, who only drinks wine.
The heavenly lobster bisque was a must, and there was so much lobster in it I almost didn’t need the lobster roll. Hahaha! There’s always room for a lobster roll! Especially when you drove over 8 hours and this is absolutely the pinnacle of your day.
This food obsession is something that I soon realized most people do not have. When you possess a quirk, it must be common to think of it as “normal.” If you do have it, surely there are others? I follow the social media of Littleton’s Crumb Bar bakery and this restaurant, dreaming of the annual trek to eat their perfect versions of food. I thought everyone did that. I could tell you what I ate on practically every trip I have ever taken. Umm, nope. Not everyone does this. I was beginning to think it’s actually abnormal. Still, I plan what I am eating into every trip, like a heroin addict jonesing their next fix. I guess there are worse things in life to obsess over.
I did not eat any dessert, as I was bursting to full from my meal, which was just as delicious as I had built up in my mind. Not many things live up to the hype, but this was one of them that does. I drove back to the inn, both happy that my dinner wasn’t corn on the cob and sad for my new friends back at the inn, who couldn’t eat shellfish.
Now, I am not a person who believes in any New Age, stars aligning bullshit. I do not read my horoscope, I have zero confidence in tarot cards, and I have no faith in Faith. I do not believe in psychics. I always figured they would be winning the Lottery weekly if there was any bit of truth in their predicting future outcomes. But, this kismet was too coincidental for me to ignore.
I want to be a published writer. I have a passion for a teeny tiny town in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The writing workshop which fell into my lap was taking place in this small community, named Bethlehem of all things! (Insert Biblical reference here.)
My worlds collided, and it was too strange to ignore.
I contacted the teacher of the course and explained this odd happenstance. I found it absolutely mind blowing. I did not get the feeling she felt the same, but she humored me. For the amount of money it cost, I could see why she did so.
Of course, there were hurdles of life. My husband, who never travels for work, had a conference in Canada at the very beginning of the week I would be away. This would leave my 17 year old daughter alone, with one parent 7 hours away and another in a different country. I would have to work on that.
I asked the retreat creator if there would be another program next year. She said no, maybe in 2.
I was unwilling to let this go. I felt a magnetism, a pull, to which I had to pay attention. I could not let this fortuity pass. I would make it work.
I would solve my own damn problem.
Turns out that my best friend’s daughter, a college student who was on her own most of the academic year, was willing to stay overnight with my girl for the single night she would have been alone, as well as drive her to the weekly therapy appointment.
Sprinted over the first hurdle.
I would also have to leave a day early, as I already had plans on that last day. I was told this would not be an issue, and I navigated the website to pro-rate my checkout and hold my space for this year.
I was going.
And I was WAY out of my comfort zone.
Driving 7 hours alone was my first obstacle. I had heart palpitations thinking about it. My anxiety was heightened with all of the “What ifs?”
What if…
…the car broke down?
…I experienced Vertigo? (I had two years prior, and couldn’t drive)
…I got lost?
…I hit a moose?
What if?
What if?
What if?
Fuck it.
Time to be brave and fight the internal demons.
I had done the drive before, a million times, but always with someone else. I downloaded audio books, podcasts and packed paper maps, just in case. The thought of stopping on my own schedule and going where I wanted to go was slowly changing my fear into fortitude.
I decided to go a day early, for two reasons. First, I needed the control of being where I was supposed to be, when I was supposed to be there. Control helps to maintain the anxiety. I would eliminate the added pressure of an on time arrival. I am always early, in everything I do, because it controls the panic I endure from lateness.
Everyone watching you walk in.
Being that person.
I also wanted to conquer something that I remember as being an almost impossibility.
Two years and almost 83 pounds ago, I hiked to Arethusa Falls, the highest waterfall in New Hampshire. It was TOUGH. I remember it as being nearly impossible, never mind that I already did the thing. I was possibly conquering it again, this time by myself, if I didn’t chicken out.
The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became. Friends castigated me for hiking alone in Staten Island, where I was never more than .25 miles from a major road. They really believed I jeopardized my safety, particularly as a female of a certain age.
Backtracking in my head, I decided I would be safer to hike the touristy tried and true Flume Gorge, a simple two mile loop which was gorgeous, but not a technical hike. The more I thought about hiking Arethusa Falls, the more I had visions of being eaten by a bear, alone on the trail.
I packed a ridiculous amount of clothes, as the North Country can be cold at night. Or not. Impossible to predict. Since it was just me, I could bring as much or as little as I wanted, so I opted for the over packing route. I also included a hiking backpack, complete with a bear bell, a compass I didn’t know how to read, sunscreen and enough DEET to create a tumor on contact. I packed a laptop, various writing implements and notepads. I had no idea what we would be doing each day. I began embracing this adventure, and it felt like I was flying by the seat of my pants. Who the fuck was I?
This retreat was by no means inexpensive, either. This was a granola-hipster-new age- crystal-yoga-some sort of spiritual retreat, capped off with classes that would hopefully get me writing and teach me some way to publish those words. This is not who I am. In my twenties, I moved through a period of vegan enlightenment, although yoga never entered that timeframe. I abandoned that lifestyle and crept through my thirties and forties without taking the least bit of care of myself. And it showed.
I requested an itinerary, and received one, albeit a few days before I was to be off on this adventure. This right-brained list maker was a little put off by the structure (or lack thereof) but I was trying desperately to embrace it. The plan was more or less a loose set of suggestions, really; another push outside of my comfort zone.
And there was yoga.
Every. Single. Morning.
So, here I was, trying to embrace the possibility this trip would offer. Yes to everything! Yes to yoga! Yes to whole foods! Yes to meeting new people! Yes to doing things on my own! Just say yes!
Doesn’t mean I wasn’t without my doubts and cynicism. I’m a New Yorker, after all. Being a cynic, a realist, is in our NYC DNA. I have only taken 2 yoga classes in my life, and I wasn’t sure I could do this physically. Yes, I ran a bit. Yes, I hiked. Yes, I dropped quite a bit of weight this past year. But, yoga? I was willing to give it a try.
I stayed within a comfortable zone, managing anxiety with a simple word. I avoided the new, the unknowing, the unfamiliar. I read the same books over and over. Vacationed in the same spots, intimately entwined in their nuances, yet never branching out to explore beyond where I had been. Meeting new people stirred my anxiety. I kept friends for decades.
A risk taker, I was not.
Needless to say, I am not the most spontaneous.
Then I decided to change.
It began small, focusing inward. I simply decided to put myself first, taking care of myself physically, emotionally and spiritually. It began as a series of small changes, happening over a long span of time. Eating better. Walking more. Drinking more water. Spending time with friends. Talking about difficulties.
Positive changes followed. My health improved, my athletic ability improved, my triglycerides improved, my self-esteem improved, my BMI improved, and my relationships improved.
I started to like myself.
Then, I started to dream.
I had been living and teaching in Staten Island, a borough of New York City, for almost 15 years. I did have a 7 year break in the middle of that time to stay home with my then-newborn daughter. Within almost the blink of an eye, my daughter was now about to enter her senior year of high school, and I was reevaluating my own life. I had an amazing last year of growth and challenge, both professionally and personally. Teaching in an Intermediate School is both reward and punishment; this past year was a difficult one. The opportunity for a sabbatical came up, and I grabbed onto it with both hands. I was given a gift of time, and I was going to make the most of it.
What does one do with a year? A year where one can do anything, be anything, reach for anything they want?
I certainly wasn’t going to spend it cleaning my house. Dirt be damned.
I always wanted to be a writer. I wrote when I was younger, scrawling verses of adolescent poetry filled with saccharine love and heartbreak, and short stories filled with humor and nonsense. I found deep meaning in song lyrics and loved reading odd works of fiction. I was an English major in college before switching to Biology. My step-father was an English teacher, and the stacks of papers he brought home to grade were sufficient enough a deterrent for me to switch my major. Ironically, I now bring home lab reports to grade. Gee, that worked out well.
The joke in my family is that everyone has been published, with one exception. My father is a screen and television writer, my step-brother published a number of books in his field of Political Science, my step-mother is a published illustrator, and my husband has been published in a technical journal.
Then there’s me.
Part of me believes I have no talent, and no one would be interested in what I have to say. I really have not led a very interesting life, a modern Our Town, with the regular ups and downs of living. Nothing different from anyone else.
I decided I would spend part of this year finding my voice, and to do that, I had to step out of my comfort zone. I had to start seeking out new opportunities and saying “Yes” no matter how scared I was.
It would have been easy to not write a thing down. Not put myself out there for people to read, and judge, and critique.
Fuck that.
Growth only comes from a place of discomfort.
Another goal that I set my mind to is to hike Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. This would be no small feat, going from a person who could barely get off of their couch to an athlete who could hike to the summit of the mountain known for the world’s worst weather. Go big, or go home.
I have this affinity towards New Hampshire, one which is difficult to express the level at which this state is intertwined with my very being. I spent many of my childhood summers there, in a small summer cottage, in a tiny town called Bethlehem, a dot on the map. The nostalgia pervaded my soul, and I continued to visit my beloved White Mountains annually, long after that dilapidated bungalow was sold. I have dragged up ex-boyfriends, best girlfriends, husband and daughter. I have visited and revisited the same touristy spots, down home restaurants and family run motels, taking comfort in the beauty of the land and the ritual of each trip. It just feels like home.
One day, it will be my home. New Yorkers go to Florida upon retirement, as if some unwritten law. Not me. When most retirees look South to warmer weather and no snow, I yearn to be in those mountains. They call to me.
I began hiking this year, and fell in love with it. I read all of the books I could get my hands on, from the Appalachian Mountain Club’s guides to Cheryl Strayed’s Wild. The Appalachian Trail winds through New Hampshire, marked with white blazes from one tree to another. I set my sights to include hiking the 4000 footers (mountains whose peaks are at a minimum of 4000 feet in elevation) and, at some point before I die, conquering all 48 of them.
And just when I wasn’t expecting it, the strangest coincidence happened.
During one of my local hikes with my friend Sabrina, she asked what I planned to do with my time while on sabbatical. I told her of my desire to summit Mt Washington, and mentioned the 4000 footers. I also mentioned how I would like to write and get published.
“Hmmm,” Sabrina replied. “I know someone who has a business helping people to get published. I can give you her contact info. Would you be interested?” “Sure,” I said, and we continued walking, changing subjects the way we often did.
Now the idea was out there in the world. Writing a book.
Two days later, I was scrolling along on FaceBook, when I saw Sabrina posted the information about the person she had mentioned. A writing workshop was being offered, all about getting your book published. I clicked on the link to see the information, not thinking much of it.
Holy hell.
It was being held in Bethlehem, NH.
My world stopped for a moment. I made my husband pause the television he was happily committed to and proceeded to spill forth the details of this opportunity, and how strange that out of all of the places for this woman from Staten Island, NY to host a retreat, she chose the one teeny tiny town that held my heart.
I didn’t care about the money, or the time, or what the retreat focused on, or any other minutia.
This past July, my best friend Stacy and I completed the Labrynth and Lemon Squeezer at Mohonk Mountain House. The names do not sound particularly malevolent, yet neither did the name Kool Aid, until it met Jim Jones.
This outing was a rock scramble. Apparently, lots of people pay good money to enjoy this thing.
I had no idea what a rock scramble was.
Unlike many people who spent their childhood in The Great Outdoors, I had only recently started hiking. I grew up fearful of insects, yet I’ve (almost) conquered that. I am able to talk myself down from hyperventilating when I am face to face with a beetle. I liked the outdoors. This was a year of growth. I had run a 5k. I had run a 10k. This would just be another thing I would do.
Stacy has always been the one I relied on to plan our vacations, from South Dakota to Venice, Italy. To be fair, she had emailed me a video about this endeavor, showing the perils and the pitfalls. I was busy planning a different trip, my first alone, so I was already having stress-induced hyperventilation over that, so I wasn’t worried about this little rock thing. Besides, I trusted her.
At the entrance to this hell hole, there was a sign explaining how you should basically turn back now.
I never watched the video, and I only took a perfunctory glance at the sign. If I actually paid any attention, there wouldn’t be any way I would have agreed to this.
Rocks lay ahead of us, stretched out as far as one could see. I mistakenly brought my hiking poles, which became a shackle. Scrambling was definitely not hiking. I packed them into my small backpack, another hindrance, and continued onward.
As younger and spryer gazelles in their twenties sprinted past us, I watched every step and placement of my feet and hands. I wanted to finish, despite my fear of heights.
Oh, yeah. I have a debilitating fear of heights.
Well, once you started, there wasn’t much choice in finishing. In searching the landscape, you couldn’t perceive much in terms of escape routes.
The first twenty feet should have been a clue.
At some points you need to find footholds. At others, you needed to leap over deep crevices. At the worst spots, you had to slide on your ass to get to the next rock, all the while guided by painted red arrows of death.
Somewhere towards the beginning, I had a full blown panic attack. Couldn’t move forwards or backwards. Stuck, with my heart racing, I began to hyperventilate. Sweat poured down my face like I was a crackhead jonesing my next fix. My FitBit heartrate monitor spiked as never before, and I am surprised it didn’t auto-call emergency services for me.
Took me a few minutes, but I managed to control my breath. I knew this was mostly mental, and I forged ahead, and didn’t actually crap my pants, although that could have been a real possibility.
The trail continues for what seems like an eternity. You have no idea how much further you have to go, and rocks spread out before you like an unending mockery of your stupid decision to attempt to conquer this poor life choice.
It goes on and on and on and on, higher and higher up the mountain. Two of our friends made the extraordinarily intelligent decision to walk the easily graded gravel path up to the same endpoint that our stupidity promised. After 40 minutes I texted them to let them know we were still alive.
“Where are you?” they texted back.
“We have no idea” was our solemn reply.
We pressed on.
Finally, a sign of hope that read “Crevice and Lemon Squeezer.” It was a red sign, the color of danger and blood, and that should have been warning enough. But nothing can quite prepare you for what’s next.
The crevice is not for the claustrophobic. You climb ladder after ladder which are completely vertical, so that you cannot see beyond its top step. Once you get to the top, you are rewarded with more ladders. And more ladders. Which are now getting damp.
Foreshadowing.
You end up in a deep crevice, where you are in between two slabs of the earth’s crust. The rock walls are so close, you can merely outstretch your arms and touch both walls simultaneously.
It was cold. It was wet. It was slimy. It was slippery. And it was getting even narrower as you approached the ascent.
One small shift of the earth and you would be crushed. One rainstorm and you would drown.
I had to get the fuck out of there.
The only way out is a long, unending series of steps that resembles a ladder. By long, I mean about 30 feet up. It was by no means a true ladder, because the rungs were so small, I could not fit my whole shoe into it, compounded by being wet and slippery. Your foot was forced to be sideways on each rung.
I kept climbing, driven by the fear of being stuck there in perpetuity. This was no amusement park, with friendly faces to escort you off a ride if you were on the verge of vomiting. You were on your fucking own.
As I neared the top of the ladder, I got stuck. I could not move, and I began to panic. I somehow managed to maneuver my backpack off, without dropping it. I kept climbing.
At the very top, you had to hoist yourself a good 3 feet to the light which promised safety. One pair of the gazelles, a young couple in their twenties, actually waited for Stacy and myself. They took my backpack, and the young girl was my personal cheerleader, with rousing rounds of “You can do it!” which really did help me ignore the tears of fear as yet another panic attack began to set in as I, yet again, got stuck and could not lift my leg high enough to find a foothold.
I twisted a different way, and with sheer adrenaline, like the mom who lifts a car to prevent her child from being crushed, I somehow hoisted myself with my poor upper body strength out of my possible tomb.
Not today, motherfucker!
I was rewarded with the most beautiful of views, a panorama that encompasses 6 states.
If I knew then what I know now, I would have just bought the postcard at the gift shop.
You cannot see the fear in my eyes behind the sunglasses. Trust me, it’s there.
Now, I began to relax and sob tears of joy. That feeling was short lived, as I noticed the red arrows of death pointed around a corner.
Looking up was a vertical rock climb. Vertical. Vertical. And lots of it.
At this point, I was so pissed that there was even more to climb, that I channeled my anger and became my newly formed gazelle patronus. I sprinted up those rocks, leaving behind my bestest friend, because I could not take one more second of a rock formation.
In my defense, I did call down to her from the top, to make sure she was ok. She was, we continued on a gravel path together, and I would need the whole rest of the day to process this clear mistake in my judgment.
So, I am super proud that I finished, that I overcame my fear of heights momentarily and did not actually shit my pants.
And I wrote it all down so I will never, ever, ever do it again.
I was 6 months into my journey when one small thing sparked the start of my seismic shift as to how I measured success.
I signed up for a 5k.
Doesn’t seem monumental. People do this every day. There are people who run marathons. Who run ultra-marathons. Complete triathlons. Compete in the Olympics. Hike Everest.
For this 51 year old, this was my Everest.
I hated gym as a kid. I was forced into the school uniform as a chubby, pubescent middle schooler, back in the day when there were no participation trophies, where teachers used red ink all over your papers with abandon, and if you did something wrong, you were not only called out for it but most likely publicly humiliated in front of the class. This was also the days when parents were firmly on the side of the teacher, so no support animal or group therapy for me. Unlike those who wear the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, I wouldn’t say this environment was a better way to go. I remember these things, because they sting with a sense of worthlessness. Those scars run deep, even if time dulls pain.
My gym teacher was a tall, beautiful woman, athletic and graceful. She was also scary. She took no shit. I still remember, 40 years later, that we were expected to complete various gymnastics. I clearly remember lining up, waiting my turn to complete a somersault or attempting to vault over the horse. I made it my mission to go to the back of the line rather than complete these tasks. A gymnast I was not.
This experience left me with a feeling that I was not an athlete, either.
This feeling persisted, although I loved to swim, ride my bicycle, and ice skate. I even took figure skating lessons, which I loved, in my early teens. Yet, “athlete” was not a label that I saw myself wearing. Certainly, not a runner. I always struggled through running that mile required in Junior High Phys Ed. In high school, I took the required credits by signing up for aerobics, staying towards the back of the crowded class and not excreting a single drop of sweat. There was no way I would ruin my 80’s hair or perfect cat eyeliner that I worked very hard on that morning, thankyouverymuch. In college, I completed my required credit by taking a bicycle class, because the bowling class was already full.
When teaching ended for me in June of 2018, I had promised myself to start exercising. I knew I wasn’t going to give up on myself, and I began, albeit slowly. I walked. My walks grew longer and longer distances. I hiked in the woods near my house. My attitude towards movement changed, and I enjoyed getting outside.
But, I was no runner.
Until I made a decision that maybe, just maybe, I could be.
I signed up for the Steven Siller Foundation’s Tunnel to Towers Run in NYC. It was slightly longer than a 5K (3.5 miles), my school’s band participated, so I could take a yellow school bus to the start of the race instead of worrying about how to get there, and the race itself had an emotional, motivating back story, especially for a New Yorker, and a Staten Islander in particular.
According to the Steven Siller Foundation’s website, “The Tunnel to Towers National Run, Walk, & Climb Series was created to retrace the final steps of Stephen Siller, a New York City firefighter (FDNY) who lost his life on September 11, 2001 after strapping on his gear and running through the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel (formerly known as the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel) to the Twin Towers.”
First responders from all over the country participate in this race, which has grown to over 30,000 participants since its inception. Some run in full gear, which ranges from an additional 45 pounds to over 70 pounds. The race enters the Hugh L Carey Tunnel, which connects Brooklyn to Manhattan, then continues up the esplanade, and through a park area and ends a few blocks away. The tunnel itself is almost 2 miles, so you would continue running for over a mile and a half once you exit.
My friend Tish, signed me up and bought the bib with the chip. A chip times you from start to finish, so you could calculate your pace. I was certain that this was a waste of money; why would I care about my time? I just needed to finish it. Now I was placed in Wave A, the first group that goes out, with all of the real RUNNERS.
So, now my brain had 2 months to start worrying about things, over and over again, and when one worry was over, I would insert another. This was my first ever race, so I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I spoke with my friends who ran, asking questions which I am sure sounded inane, but until you experience something, it’s so hard to quell the inner voice which screams “I can’t.”
I worried about how I would feel running through the tunnel, the one I have only recently screwed up the courage to drive through.
I had decided that for my fiftieth birthday, I would get over my fear of driving to Manhattan. I had never done so, even though I had lived in one of the boroughs of NYC for my entirety. No more letting fear win.
Yet, here I was doing just that.
Would the tunnel be claustrophobic? Would I be able to keep up with the real runners? Would I be able to finish? Were there places to go to the bathroom? Would I be able to hear the music that I brought with me? Would my headphones work? Would my phone run out of battery?
Turns out, I worried about the wrong things.
On the day of the race, I pinned my bib to my running shirt. I drove to my school with my friend Tish to board the yellow school buses packed with 50 of our band students and a number of teachers, also running. We drove as close to the start as we could, in downtown Brooklyn. The bus let anyone running disembark, and continued its journey to let the band kids off by the esplanade to set up.
The sheer numbers of people were overwhelming. As we walked towards the start, people were milling about everywhere. There were hordes of people lined up at the porta-potties, so that was where we headed.
I have always been squeamish about public restrooms, with portable toilets at the very top of my skeevatz list. This is something I was forced to get over. When you are walking 5 miles, or hiking in the woods, or running a race, privy privileges are catch as catch can. So, I rolled with it, and learned how to hold my breath for as long as it took to finish my business.
We headed off to find wave A, the group we were part of because we sprung for the chip. The race was run in groups, or waves, emblazoned on our bibs. We walked past thousands of people, past signs with letter J, I, H, G, F, E, D, and C.I hesitated to go up to Wave A. I was worried I would hold up people with my speed, or lack thereof. I went to the back of Wave A, right where it met Wave B. So, paying for the chip gave me a much better starting spot, and was worth every penny. Looking back, I should have just planted myself firmly in the middle of Wave A, a mistake I would be sure to correct the following year. Clearly, I felt I did not belong with anyone who considered themselves a runner.
I doubted myself.
Tish went towards the front with another colleague of mine, and I lost them in the crowd. I laced and re-laced my shoes. I stretched. I looked around, and was amazed by the number of firefighters, running in full uniform, all around me. They came from all over the country. I figured if anything happened to me, I was in good hands at least. I was nervous, but I was doing this thing.
The race began, and I started jogging around a corner, towards the entrance of the tunnel. I had run/walked a few 4 milers to train, but I did not realize adrenaline kicks in and propels you at a faster pace than you had been previously running. I had my music in my ears, and the minute I entered the tunnel, I heard the piped in tunes, and realized my earbuds were superfluous. Off they went.
The tunnel was well lit, with police officers stationed throughout. The two lanes, used to cars on them, were separated by flexible poles. I ran on the left of those poles, and when I needed to walk, I moved to their right. Back and forth, back and forth. The men and women in gear propelled me to run farther, as did the idea of running in Steven Siller’s footsteps. I ran. I walked. Then I ran again. It was a lot hotter than I expected, another worry I didn’t realize I should be prepared for. You don’t know what you don’t know.
The tunnel seemed to go on and on and on. Until the incline.
When you drive somewhere, you really don’t notice small inclines. Small inclines in a car are big inclines on foot. Holy hell. I trained by running literally at sea level. Flat, flat, flat. The incline was something I was not ready for, yet here it was. It was definitely a higher grade than I was used to. I walked that bad boy. I walked fast, but I walked.
Then I saw it.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
I decided to run out of the tunnel, so that’s what I did. I ran towards the brightness, with everything I had. I mustered my energy and kept going. I edged towards the light, made it out of that tunnel to the other side and then immediately got punched in the stomach.
What I didn’t know was that upon my exit, I was greeted by hundreds of firefighters in their dress blues, each one holding huge pictures of a first responder whose life was snuffed out on 9/11. I had no idea, and I was not ready to see this sight. They were thanking each and every one of us for running, and it was so overwhelming that my eyes swelled with tears, my throat began to close, and I was having a difficult time breathing. I walked to the water station, a few yards away, and just had to stop for a few minutes until I composed myself.
You see, 9/11 is a day of infamy for the entire world, but even more so for a New Yorker, and the connectedness is even stronger for a Staten Islander. 274 Staten Islanders died that day, many of them firefighters and police officers. I taught at a school on Staten Island’s South Shore since 1997. Many of my students had parents who were firefighters, police officers, and sanitation workers. Blue collar, salt of the earth families, whose lives were forever changed that day. I taught 2 students who lost parents; there were 4 in total in my school. I think of them often, still. Colleagues lost loved ones; brothers, uncles, cousins. My ex-boyfriend lost his brother. A fellow student from my freshman year of high school perished. A current friend of mine lost her husband, leaving her with an infant to raise alone.
Everyone knew someone.
Seeing those pictures, the lives taken, murdered, was a feeling I find hard to put into words. It literally took my breath away. No matter how much time has passed, it will always feel like yesterday. I remember every second every moment of September 11, 2001 clear as day.
So, for all of the worries I had, I wish I had known about what was to greet me at the exit of the tunnel, if only to be a bit more mentally prepared.
After pulling my shit together, I continued to run. The streets were lined with hundreds of spectators, from firefighters to students to people holding signs. I realized I still had about a mile and a half to go. I ran up West Street, cutting over to the Battery Park Esplanade. I was slowing down, but there were cheerleaders cheering and bands playing, and they actually spurred me on. As I neared the finish line, I saw Tish yelling at me to finish, and that’s what I did. I crossed that finish line and I was incredibly proud of myself.
I learned a lot from this first race. I appreciated the bib with the chip, because I was able to be ahead of 90% of other people, making it easier to finish first and exit first. Turns out, I did care about my time. I finished the race in 46 minutes, so I ran a 13:14 mile, even with my stopping for water and to regain my ability to breathe. I know what greets me upon exiting the tunnel, and making me better prepared for the next time.
And I know I can finish, because I am a runner.
And that was the beginning of the seismic shift from worrying about the number on a scale to measuring my worth through accomplishments of the more athletic variety. It began with the little rumble of a 5k, but there was more over the horizon, and into my future.
Look around at the people in your life. Find ones that inspire you!
There are always people who do something better than you.
There are always people who do something worse than you.
A universal truth.
Don’t be jealous of those who excel at something you would like to do. Waste of energy. Instead, use them.
Use them as an example to inspire you, to light your way. To show you opportunity. To show you that, yes, yes you fucking can. Stay in your lane, with our own goals and dreams and hopes and aspirations. Look to them for your possibility.
This isn’t about what you eat (although it is.) This isn’t about how much you exercise (although it helps.) This isn’t about your motivation (although you need this.)
This is about finding your tribe.
I talked about my girls, my coffee klatsch. They are part of it. So are the posters to various Facebook WW groups which I read for advice. And the podcasts I listen to in order to feed my head. And my friend from 30 years ago whose runs I follow on Instagram. And the Instagram accounts of people I never met, but am inspired by their pictures.
Inspiration is everywhere, if we just look for it.
There were two people in my life that I looked at as my rabbit, the one the Greyhound chases, yet never catches. Not as competition, they will always have the edge over me. They are faster, more able, more talented. And that’s ok.
One of my best friends, Stacy, is married to the definition of Type A personality. John owns his own business, works hard and plays harder. He loves his family, the NY Rangers, the NY Mets and the band Rush. He is a talented musician that I have had the pleasure of listening to, from his sax playing as part of a friend’s wedding band to jamming with his bandmates of decades past. He gets along well with my husband, and our kids are around the same age, so this makes it easy for us to vacation together over the past 20 years. He is someone whose opinion I respect.
John used to be overweight, and we both had a special place in our hearts for any pastry located within the mountainous breakfast buffets we encountered on our travels. Neither of us have met a croissant we didn’t like.
One day, he started to exercise. Started on the elliptical, did some free weights for about a year, then he began to run.
He ran for a year, completing two half marathons in the process. By this time, he had dropped 63 pounds. He decided to run a marathon on May 3, 2015, at the age of 47.
By the time he was 51, he completed 14 marathons.
Holy shit.
He channeled that intensity, that drive, that ultra-focus, possessed by few of us, into a globe-trotting collection of medals and PRs. He did this when most people I know are sitting on the couch, watching TV, looking towards retirement.
That’s why I am inspired by him. Who wouldn’t be?
Now, I have no desire to run a marathon. I honestly do not enjoy running. I appreciate the calorie burn. I like the feeling I have after a run, after I completed something I thought I couldn’t do. I also know that growth is only possible by reaching outside of my comfort zone.
So I signed up for a half marathon in March 2020.
Why would I do this? WTF is wrong with me? There is no way I can do this. When I write about my prior running experience you will see why I say this.
I signed up because my childhood friend Tish did. And she thinks I can do it also.
Who am I to doubt her?
Tish and I grew up across the street from each other. We know each other for 41 years. It is unbelievable to even type that. She is as close to a sister as I will ever be lucky to have. When someone knows your childhood, it is a special type of friendship, especially when there were parts you would prefer to forget. We have been through dating, weddings, birthdays, childbirth, divorce, holidays, tragedy, joy, and everything in between. The stuff of life.
How does one sum up decades of true friendship?
I know that if I needed someone at 3 in the morning, she is at the top of my list. She is that friend.
Tish can run. She doesn’t think she is fast, but she doubts herself. I do not ever doubt her. She is strong and focused. If she wants something, she will figure out how to get it. She stands on her own two feet, and is fiercely unapologetic. She is brave. She is loyal. And she is fast.
She also believes I can run, more than I believe it. We have completed 3 races together (more on this in another post) and she had signed up for a half marathon in Philly, with the promise of a brisket and broccoli rabe sandwich when she finished. I hesitated. I hemmed. I hawed. I heard “You can’t do this” over and over and over.
Finally, I bit the bullet and paid the registration fee and booked a hotel.
My husband said to me, “Well if you don’t make it, that’s ok.”
What? What was he talking about? I did not even consider this as an option. Not make it? Not make the finish line? Lose out on my medal? Or my banana? (Please note: the banana is literal, not a euphemism.)
I didn’t even realize that not finishing is an option.
That’s because one of my fears is fear of failure. Failure is not on my radar. I’m a perfectionist. I will figure this out. I will train. I will face my fears. And I will fucking do it.
A person’s journey is rarely isolated. Anyone with a modicum of success will have a support network they can count on. For some, it’s their moms or husbands. I have a great mom and a supportive husband, but overwhelmingly it is my girlfriends who have my back.
I never played well with other moms.
When my daughter was born, I had left my job as a
teacher. That career defined me. When I worked in retail, I did not really care
much about my job. As a teacher, I was that job. I was proud of being an
educator. When my husband and I decided I would stay home, I did not realize
how difficult the transition would be for me. My entire sense of self was intertwined
with being a teacher. I felt lost.
I managed to find some friends through the internet,
back when we had a dial up modem and AOL was how you accessed the web. Back
before Facebook, I found a Yahoo moms group and connected with a few other moms
looking for some sense of belonging. Some of us clicked, and we still talk to
this day. Others made me think how simply having kids the same age should not
be the only criteria for friendship.
I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. And they weren’t mine.
But fuck ‘em. I drink coffee, anyway.
My coffee is in the formation of a tight knit klatch,
a group of women who have been friends for decades, all with the most valuable
contribution anyone could ask for: they are there when you need them most.
The coffee klatch were my real friends. The ones that
accept you no matter how much of a bitch you may be, how messy your house is or
how much money you owe on credit cards. They know how crazy your family is, any
past indiscretions you may have had, your embarrassing moments, and yet still
they are by your side. During this time, I had a falling out with two of these
constants; I spent 10 years without them as part of my life due to things that
really no longer matter at all. These are people who knew me before my husband,
had adventures with me every weekend of my late teens and crazy twenties, and
shared important parts of my life. Luckily, we have reconnected and I realized
how much I missed them, and how much I am glad to have them back in my life.
True friends never really leave, anyway.
I had met Stacy when I was around 10 years old, as her
parents were friends with my father and stepmother. We attended pottery class
together, took figure skating lessons together, played hours of Ms. Pacman on
Kings Highway in Brooklyn and simultaneously drooled over Harrison Ford in
Raiders of The Lost Ark. We lost touch sometime in the 80’s, but reconnected
when we were both pregnant at the same time, in 2001. She lived about an hour
(or more with traffic) away from me. No matter. We made weekly playdates when
the kids were little, really in order to save our own sanity, gossiping about
the craziness of parenthood and the lack of sleep.
The others in my coffee klatch saw each other through
these years, but most of our children were all different ages, and the busyness
of life sometimes got in the way. Texting was not yet a thing, so we did catch
up by phone as often as we could. Still, we made sure holidays were spent with the
friends who felt like family, Girl’s Nights Out were scheduled (with more
frequency as the children got older), and I made sure I did a few Atlantic City
overnight trips with a friend or two, even when I didn’t have two nickels to
rub together.
My next life hurdle involved returning to work seven
years after I had left. I was forced to navigate technology, from emails to
Smart Boards, which did not exist the last time I had stood in front of a
classroom. Also, I now had a more important job that began when the last school
bell rang. I had a child to sit and do homework with, making sure she was fed
and bathed and ready to begin again the next day. I was consumed with the business
of the mundane repetitiveness that is the life of a mom, working or not.
Fast forward to my daughter’s teenage years, navigating her daily battle with anxiety and depression, the catalyst for my transformation. I needed my friends to save me from drowning. I do not even know how I was functioning on a daily basis.
One thing I have learned is that some people do not
know how to respond when others need them the most. Rather than reaching out,
they disappear, wrapped up in their own issues. Maybe they just do not know
what to say, or maybe their life simply takes precedence. Eventually, they
become just somebody that you used to know.
Then there’s the coffee klatch. The true blue. The friends who give you what you need, right when you need it.
I had started exercising slowly, covering ½ mile in the beginning of my quest to start a walking regimen. My friend Sabrina began to accompany me on some of these walks.
Sabrina was a friend from high school. Two years older
than me, I really didn’t think she would remember me at all, but there she was,
reconnected through the magic of Facebook. She hadn’t changed much from what
she looked like in high school; pretty with long blonde hair. Always
exceptionally photogenic. I remember her as the object of affection of many of
the high school boys.
Sabrina’s girls were older than my daughter, so she
gave me some sage advice on our walks. We dubbed our outings as “Bitchwalks.”
We would walk and bitch about everything we needed to, alternatively listening
to each other and offering some wisdom. Always level headed, and never judging,
she was the perfect foil to vent to. I always, always, always felt better after
we were done. In the process, I walked farther and farther each time, a clear
physical benefit on top of the mental one.
Sabrina loved nature, and we walked through trails and
paths that I hadn’t even known existed prior to our exercise. She appreciated
being in the woods, and I was finding that the more time I spent in them, the
more I loved them as well. They became my church, my religion. They helped me
find peace.
Heather is a friend from decades ago, when we spent
most of our time putting a hole in the ozone layer via layers upon layers of
Aqua Net Extra Super Hold Hairspray. As it happens, we lost touch for a few
years and reconnected when she was pregnant with her second child. At the time
our children were teenagers, I recruited her to Bitchwalk with me, always
grateful for the time she spent listening to me and allowing me to grumble
about whatever meds we were trying, or the cost of premiums not covered by
insurance or how getting my daughter to do her homework was like pulling teeth.
She is much taller than me, so I have to walk a bit faster to keep up. It is
always a great workout!
We share a love of Disney, food, vacations, good restaurants and music. We both love animals, frequently visiting a local pond, home to a beaver who constructed not one, but two dams. We spent many miles at the Boardwalk at the shore of our island home, stopping to stare at the waves and search for sea glass, all while covering 4-5 miles at a pretty good clip. Having friends to exercise with has helped me on my journey, kept me accountable and saved me from being pulled underwater.
These are 3 of my good friends that are part of my
coffee klatch. Stacy is still one of my best friends, too far away to
Bitchwalk, but just a phone call away. I will introduce you to a few more in upcoming
posts, ladies who are inspirational and motivational, talented and trustworthy.
I cannot explain how lucky I am to have so many good friends who are behind me
all the way. Not only are they there for the fun times, but they help me when I
need it most, encourage me all of the time, and pick me up when I am at my
lowest. Just as I would for them, any time, day or night.
As we get older, and see life is shorter, we realize
that you cannot sweat the small stuff. The drama is pointless. So, might as well
laugh as often as you can, spend the money on the vacation, and drink the wine.
There is no great opening line to explain the
consistency of my life for months on end.
Get up. Go to work. Plan my food. Drink some water.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
It isn’t exciting. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t magic.
Yet, change was happening.
I felt it. I was beginning to see it.
My gazelle-like focus was on weight loss. My intensity
was directly connected to a number, the number which showed up daily on the
omnipotent scale. The scale controlled how I felt about myself, and whether or
not I was having a “good” day or a “bad” day. It made my day into some sort of
moral issue, which was then deeply connected and embedded into seismic shifts
of my self-esteem.
My worth as a human being was connected to that number
on the scale.
My success as a human being was being measured by the
literal pull of gravity.
All of this was about to change.
I decided I needed to add in something new. The way to
lose weight, get fit and ultimately change your life is in very basic ideas.
Eat healthy. Drink water. Get sleep. Exercise.
Time to add in movement.
Luckily for me, summer was coming.
As a teacher, I was fortunate in having a block of time off where I no longer had to spend all of my hours as my daughter’s social director. I was now downgraded to an Uber driver, chauffeuring her to plans of her own making, when public transportation was not an option. I promised myself, or threatened myself, that I would begin some sort of exercise the day after the school year ended. June 27, 2018.
The date hung in front of me, and sparked more worry,
as I would no longer be restricted to eating whatever I brought with me to my
job, but now would have to deal with a seemingly unending time in the kitchen
to make bad choices if that was what I so desired.
With change, comes concern. My schedule was changing, and my anxiety was heightening.
I just decided to put one foot in front of the other.
On that first day, I strapped on my sneakers and took
a walk. That was it. I was completely out of shape, so I would just do what I
could do. I walked as quickly as I could without wanting to pass out. I walked
down my block, passing the bakery and the bagel store. I noticed the cracks in
the sidewalk, the upkeep of each yard I passed, the music blaring from cars
that whizzed by. I was keenly aware of the world around me. I made it about ½ mile
away from my house to a wooded area with a beaver and his (her?) dam.
I checked out the area, marveling at the two homes the
beaver had built, which a friend and I would later dub the Winter Home and the
Summer Home. Beavers are nocturnal, yet I would get to have a few encounters
with this one over the next few months. After regrouping and slugging down some
water, I walked back to my house. And I did not stop at the bakery.
A journey of one thousand miles begins with a single
step.
Little did I know, that one walk, that first step,
would change my life, shift my focus, and start to make me into the person I
was always meant to be.
The one who doesn’t use gravity as her sole measurement of worth.
I had spent the two months prior to my birthday
planning, obsessing and tracking every food choice. I meal prepped food on
Sunday so I had a pre-planned, pre-portioned meal every day of my work week. I
controlled my food with a military like precision. It was the control I knew I
needed, as my life had seemed so out of control in the months before.
Fifty was the point where I decided to not give up on
myself.
This change was supposed to have happened a decade
earlier. My best friends from high school decided we would be forty and
fabulous, but, as things happen, there was a falling out, a rift which
splintered our decades old group. I plummeted into the throes of being a
working mom and fell prey to the “I’m busy” mindset, when in reality I chose to
be the very last on my list. For years and years.
Fifty was part of the reason I woke up. I wasn’t ready
to die, and I knew I was closer to the end rather than the beginning. I didn’t
even have hopes of being fabulous at fifty, simply healthier.
Emotional eating does not disappear. After decades of
stuffing down emotions by stuffing my face, it lies underneath the surface,
waiting to reemerge through the cracks of any pain or hurt. Or celebration.
As my birthday inched near, I fixated on cake. I love
cake. I can eat cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I don’t, but I could. I
decided that I would have every cake I wanted on my birthday and bought 3
different kinds – carrot cake, chocolate cake, and cannoli cake. I ate a piece
of each and threw out about 90% of them. Then my attention went to the next
eating fest, a month and a half away.
To celebrate my birthday, many of my friends were coming
together for a girl’s weekend in my favorite place on earth: the White
Mountains of New Hampshire. We rented a huge house, complete with indoor pool, and
I began planning my food, many days away from vacation. I worked my plan every
day, with the vision of pancakes, lobster rolls, pastry and maple syrup as a
reward for my steadfastness. Not the
healthiest relationship with food, but it was the one I had to work with. Going
from one food reward to the next.
The result of the food control, the planning, cooking,
and tracking, began to show. By the time Memorial Day rolled around, I was down
twenty pounds. It was the first time in years that weight began to come off. 18
years before I had followed a low carb diet to be at my lowest weight in years.
Then I put all of the weight back (and more) over time
and life – life which happens while you are planning other things. Miscarriage.
Pregnancy. Birth. Post-partum depression. Leaving my career. Losing my
identity. Working a side hustle to make ends meet. Not having 2 nickels to rub
together. Losing my stepfather to leukemia, after struggling through a bone
marrow transplant. My mother moving away. Evaluations of my child which
blindsided me with the level of delays she had. Dealing with IEPs, 504s and
therapy sessions. Marital stress. Father in law with Alzheimer’s. Work stress.
My career changing in front of my eyes, yet being tied into the medical
insurance and the pension.
You know. Life. The roller coaster that it is.
When you manage your emotions with food, you will
never get healthy.
My mental health was struggling, and it showed on my
body.
Yet, here I was, down 20 pounds! I went on this trip, and reality set in when I looked at the pictures.
I did not look any different.
I was so morbidly obese, that 20 pounds was just a
drop in the bucket. I was still in the same size of clothing (2x shirt, 16
jeans.) When I put on 5 pounds, it was hard to tell. When I took off 5 pounds,
it was impossible to see, also.
At work, seeing the same people every day, no one
noticed.
At home, none of my friends noticed.
Months and months of hard work. The scale inched down
to the tune of twenty pounds.
No one noticed.
Disheartening. Depressing.
I spent the Girl’s Weekend completely off plan, and,
to be honest, I did not regret one single bite. Not one. That’s because of one
thing that changed.
When I went home, I went right back onto my journey.
Back to planning. Back to cooking. Back to tracking.
Normally, I would be derailed. I would think, “Well, I
screwed up. Fuck it!” And Fuck It eating would be the new norm. I would go back
to eating whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
This time, I just decided to continue on with the
planning, cooking, and tracking.
Productive Midlife Crisis 