#64 Thanks Giving.

There is a certain buzz in the air on public transportation today. Essie is thinking about the small plastic bottles, textured in the shape of fruit that held sugar powder. Emptying a pile of grape on her tongue when she was ten and letting the tart sugar dissolve in her mouth and sour pinch her jaw. Imagining a bowl of jello powder dissolve when boiling water is added to the stainless steel mixing bowl.  Mix with a stainless steel tablespoon and gently scratch the surface. A pleasing sound of sweet and tart. Clear and colorful. Orange.

There are people smiling under their breath on the 6 train today. The evaporation and condensation on the crosstown bus window where a ghost of a happy face emerges. Like sweet sugar, yellow jello light.

Strangers drag their suitcases through slush down 95^th street: some are heading for the drenched subway platform where umbrellas dripped on seats and are waiting just for them. Others are hailing cabs. Snow, sleet, whining windshield wipers swiping back and forth wiping the window of rain and there it settles. Wipe. Gone. Wipe. Raindrops. There is a creamy cheesecake from Veniero’s in that box. Or maybe a fresh Strawberry Shortcake; it is perfectly wrapped with red and white twine which will be snapped off for a bunch of rounds of Cat’s Cradle.

There is the crowd at Penn Station staring at the sign. The clicking clicking digital letters jerking everyone's head toward Track 1, or is it all sparking Christmas lights on a marquis? Everyone is alone, but everyone is all together. Essie has her soft overnight bag on her shoulder, closes her eyes,wishing for something wonderful.

Something to be truly thankful for.

#63 The Three Little Pigs And The Cowardly Lion.

Essie has been thinking a lot about courage. One thing on her mind is the tale of the Three Little Pigs, especially the picture of the brick house with bright pink piggies safely inside: the wolf foiled.  The grey wolf is sweaty, red tongue hanging out of his sharp toothed snouty mouth with an exasperated look on his face.  That last little pig outsmarted him. Drat.  Essie was always glad to see that sturdy red brick house with the skinny chimney: no one could fit through that. Not even Santa. It was safe and cozy in there with those cute fat little pigs. Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin! Yay Piggies!

 She is also thinking of The Cowardly Lion with his droopy eyes and curly-q’s framing his puffy cat face. The motley crew on the Yellow Brick Road making the journey to Oz to find what is missing: a way home, a heart, knowledge and courage. When she was young the scariest scene was when they all finally made it to Oz's castle in Emerald City, and were whimpering down that last forever mile to his throne. Quivering, bolstering each other along to get them there. Finally.  His glowing ghostly head threatening by huffing and puffing, blustering. All their hopes and dreams relied on him.

And of course, The Wizard of Oz was just the travelling magician hiding behind the curtain.

Essie is trying out courage. Should she be the wolf? Oz? The piggy? The Cowardly Lion? All of the above? Sometimes she is the wolf and nobody likes her because her teeth are so sharp and they think she just wants to eat them up. Except maybe she is projecting her fear and anger and they aren’t characters in a child’s story and are cool with her being a wolf, and don’t perceive her as predatory at all. It’s all in her mind. Kind of like the guys in Oz looking for something outside themselves more powerful than a locomotive. Faster than a speeding bullet. Able to jump tall buildings in a single bound. Oh darn, it’s hard not to end up in some superhero’s lap again and again!

So, the courage thing is hard for her because sometimes going out on a limb is like building a straw house and the wolf will definitely blow it down. And sometimes she is the wolf.  Wait! Essie stops herself AGAIN. “My life is not a fable.” Oh dear.

Going back to that forever walk down the aisle to Oz.  The Lion is with his pals. His pals are with him. This, Essie thinks, takes the most courage of all. To stick with the group that for better and for worse is on your side.  When the Lion protects Dorothy and surprises himself with the realization that he had courage all along, and he could not have done it without his friends pointing it out to him.  The Great And Mighty Oz, the little man behind the curtain, was probably trying to help, too.

Essie is going to still work on courage because it is deceptive at times. But she knows it is there and is keeping her eye out for it. To Oz? To Oz!

#62 I Turn 53 on Friday: Clown Time Is Over. Not Fun.

In the scheme of tragedies, and miracles which surround us- it is no big deal. But that is wrong. I just finished Lowlands, by Jumpa Lahiri, in which she describes two generations (spanning 1950-2000’s) of a family impacted by India becoming colonized by Britain. What resulted were reactionary violent splinter regimes in Calcutta and individual lives were impacted by war and political resistance. One son lived and died, standing up for his independent beliefs with passion and pride against all odds. Risking, and losing life. Life. Lahiri elegantly weaves lives disrupted, ruptured, torn apart by oppression impacting one unsuspecting family. Death, loss, birth, abandonment, hurt, rejection, loyalty and love. How does love survive: abstract love has palpably deep roots and then is severed by fear, war, courage and death? Read the book and you'll find out.

So, I will be 53. I am exhausted because for 45 years I’ve worried about 1^st world problems like being fat. For 45 years I’ve worried about every stupid thing I’ve eaten. If that isn’t a waste of time, I don’t know what is. I am sick of it, but if I abandon my obsession then surely I will get fat. I already am becoming fat. 53-year–old menopausal women usually get fat or form fat rolls which are resistant to leaving unless you battle them to their death. You kill yourself doing it. Trust me. I’m getting too old to do that, or to give a shit.

This scares me. If I give up on that then there is a slippery slope of giving up on the next thing and the thing after that. If that happens I am sliding into my grave feet first, because I am lazy and tired.  I will embrace this eventually and see that there is a more moderate way of perceiving and executing this experience. I’m working on it and it definitely has to do with letting go of being such a fucking good girl.  I have to be okay with being totally hateful and bad. Revel in it. That would be delicious and fat. 

I know that I am not alone with this. All the Obama and Lena Dunham haters out there are also infected. We all are. And if you deny it, well, good for you.

But I’m turning 53 and even though my life is vital and fabulous, it also feels like gravity is with me and I am on a steady decline. My friend Anet just died from ovarian cancer. Just like that. Healthy, alive, vibrant and just snap your fingers and she is gone. It’s cruel, wrong, sad unfair and god-fucking-damn-it, life.

If you want me to feign joy and enthusiasm about turning 53, well you’ve got the wrong person. And if you are 83 and think I’m silly, screw you. You know exactly what I’m talking about. At some point you looked in the mirror and knew that clown time is over and this is serious. However, at some point, you realized that clown time is elusive and there really isn’t anything you can do about it except count your blessings for another day and think about Mount Everest. That trip that you think is a good idea to make before it’s over.