April 20, 2009

I didn’t grow up having to worry about my safety while I was in school. If I should have, I somehow managed to survive my ignorance.

There were no metal detectors or visible police presence in my hallways. There were occasional locker checks, but the worst the drug sniffing dog ever came up with was some weed. The most trouble anyone caused was the occasional pulling of the fire alarm, but nobody ever died from that.

It is in these moments when I start to feel my age creeping up on me. The anniversary of today, a reminder that I existed in a different time. The worries of the 90s, nothing compared to the worries of now and beyond.
My beloved phrase “endless possibilities” has a very ugly side.

I wish I could remain blissfully ignorant just a little longer.


Some days the news is all bad. Economy sucks. Job loss numbers on the rise. Tornados, Floods, Famine, War.

And then once in awhile, a day like today comes along. The US strikes down hostage holding pirates and the Obama children get a puppy.

Thank goodness it wasn’t the other way around. Pirates with new puppies just doesn’t seem as newsworthy.

More than anything I wish I could be fearless.

As the cliche goes, as you get older you start to regret not what you’ve done, but what you haven’t done. I definitely look back in amazement at all the things I’ve done in spite of my proclivity to fear, but also know there is so much more I could have done if I wasn’t battling myself every step of the way.The older I get, the more fearful I become. The more I see, the more I fear. I refuse to let the fear close my eyes to the world, but some days are harder than others to keep them open.

If I was more fearless, I know I would have loved more, experienced more, just lived more. I also probably would have gotten myself in more trouble, but sometimes a little trouble is good for the soul.

I think it’s not so much that I regret what I didn’t do, as it is I regret that I had the feeling I couldn’t do it.

I said goodbye to my favorite pair of jeans today. However, they didn’t go down without a fight.

I am fortunate to work in an industry where I do not need to dress up every day. Jeans, t-shirts and even pajamas are perfectly acceptable work wear. My favorite “go to” jeans were my perfect length, perfect fit, perfect wash pair by Michael Kors. I’ve had them for years and they were like a reliable old friend.

About a month ago, I ripped them. A small-ish hole on my inner right thigh, just low and hidden enough I felt I could get away with putting off replacing them. Sadly, I even threw them in the wash a few days ago, hoping to ignore the hole and keep wearing them, and even wore them to work yesterday. In hindsight that was probably one wear too many.

I found myself near Macys last night, so I decided to take the plunge and see if I could find another pair of jeans to replace my ripped ones. Any woman knows that shopping for pants, especially in the NYC Macys store is the fashion version of Where’s Waldo, except it usually involves rude salespeople, tailors and even some tears.

I armed myself with a stack of potential contenders and headed to the dressing room. As I bent to take off my shoes, I heard a loud riiiiiiiiip. My small-ish hole had exponentially grown northward, rendering the jeans unwearable, even for lax NY standards. Faced now with the potential of either being arrested for indecent exposure, or arrested for suspected theft if I attempted to leave the dressing room sporting a pair of the store’s jeans complete with ill-placed blinking security tag and all, I found a pair of the contenders that I loved, put them on and headed out of the dressing room (minus my shoes, because in that moment I for some reason felt I would look less like a felon without my shoes). I searched for the nearest grandmotherly-type sales person I thought might be most sympathetic to my plight and explained to her my predicament.

She kindly rang up my purchase, helped me remove the oh so attractive size tags stamped on my ass and sent me on my way.

She at least waited until I was (almost) out of earshot before laughing.

I need retail therapy after my retail therapy. Talk about a vicious circle.