uncommom

Hard-living novelist Harry Crews wrote “There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with,” in his book Scar Lover.

The problem with that, is it’s not always true.

I know. I have a few.

We all do.

The physical ones are the easiest to resolve.  I have a scar on my back, perfect placed right in the middle. There’s no hiding it. It’s worn with age but it’s still there. A divot out of my landscape, that marks a particularly challenging segment of my life.  A warning. A reminder of a time when I was living by the seat of my pants.  A time where, had it not been for my roommate, I’m not sure I’d still be here.

I was sick from an infection inflicted by an angry bee sting. I was not taking care of myself. I was 20 and invincible, untouchable.  The precarious mix of youth and New Orleans does that to a girl sometimes.

I had stayed at school, missing Thanksgiving at my, at the time,  hopelessly messy home.  My parents were divorced. My mother had remarried and had another child, my father had been living in London, engaged to a person who I refer to as “she who shall not be named.”

None of us were exactly seeing eye to eye.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to stay there. I was a mess.

So I did what anyone in my position would do (not) – I hooted and hollered, paying attention to everyone and every thing, except myself.  I was goofing around al fresco with a Philosophy PHD candidate with one name, like Bono, and whose style icon was Judd Nelson in the Breakfast Club. Looking back, we were so insufferable and cliche. It’s a shame. I guess we all have moments where we are common.

Subsequently I was stung by a bee.  I’m mildly allergic to bee stings plus, hello Diabetes! The wound got infected. I paid no attention.

Three days later, I was in ICU.

Just so I’m clear, I wasn’t trying to hurt myself really. Consciously. But I did, as a result of not handling my business. Had it gone on any longer, it could have killed me.

the divot

Although you can’t really see it well in the photo, it’s there. Right smack in the middle of my back.  I feel that scar all the time.  Kind of like Harry Potter.  It flares up when I get close to doing something incredibly dumb.

I know it’s not a huge, obvious scar but it’s emotional footprint is large.

I left that part of me in 1990.  Literally and metaphorically.

I worked on getting to the bottom of why I have that scar through therapy and self actualization.  For years. Still am, every day.  It’s a badge of stupidity but it’s also a badge of redemption. I am not ashamed of it. I chose a wedding dress that showed it off.  I show it off as much as possible. It got me here.

It’s healed.

The scars that don’t show are the ones that scare me the most. I know I have them. I felt one of them prick up the other night.

I was having a conversation with the MS about us.  I felt my scar present itself and some of his too.

If my emotional scar could talk it would say this (Imagine Joe Pesci as Nicky in Casino as the voice) Scar:  Heyo! I’m here and I’ve got my fists in a ball. Try to get me and I’ll get you the same way I got the last one.

It’s weird how those scars have more interaction with each other sometimes,  than we do.   They’re going to have their input on everything we say and do. The key is not letting them lead the conversation.

I tried to explain myself and my scar yesterday. “This is what was happening blah, blah, blah –  I know it and I just want you to know as well.  I’m not assuming you’re doing the same thing as I experienced in the past, but I want you to know where I’m coming from…”

And as Robert DeNiro (Ace Rothstein) describes Joe Pesci’s character in Casino: “You beat Nicky with fists, he comes back with a bat. You beat him with a knife, he comes back with a gun. And you beat him with a gun, you better kill him, because he’ll keep comin’ back and back until one of you is dead.” 

I’m trying to make sure the scar is the dead one.

Visualize this as the face of your scar…

Easier said than done, right? Tell me about it. I have a dear friend who is going through something now that is definitely, unconditionally going to leave her with a scar.  There’s no other way to slice it. My advice to her is to let it.

Let it sear into your memory. Do not fear it.  Learn from it. Let those lessons guide you in the future.

Scars are for fighters and you are a fighter. You’re fighting for your happiness and your son’s happiness.

Wear it with pride. Own it.

Become a scar lover.

It never occurred to me that other people didn’t see words in the air, whistling around their eyes and in their ears, vying for attention.

That’s what happens to me when I’m inspired.  The words start rustling around. They present themselves to me. I can hear them ringing and ringing until I pay them some attention.

To me, words are living and breathing. They carry power and distinct sensibilities.

Why wouldn’t they graze up against you playfully, leaving their imprint on you,  like a hungry cat?

It never really crossed me as unique, until yesterday.

I was having an email conversation with a friend, and I described this word presentation process as it happened to me. “The words swirl around in front of me when I’m ready to write.  They’re percolating in there. Bubbling at the surface.”

I realized that I’d never actually explained this experience to anyone. It just happens.

Now it sounds a little bizarre.

I imagine this is what happens to people like my mother, who is a brilliant mathematician. She sees the numbers in action, a la Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind.

And while I normally don’t have any issue communicating, I find myself a bit tongue tied when it comes to explaining this process. And how important it is to me.  We find inspiration in the smallest and biggest things.  What we do with them is the difference.

My inspiration takes the form of words and the only way I can really explain it is to show you:

It’s so important to be able to express yourself in a way that’s satisfying to you.  I’m clearly not an artist, but I had to get this out today. No reasoning with it.

If words are not your thing, find what your thing is.  Music, art, baking, cross pollination of seeds, writing code until your fingers bleed – there’s certainly something that makes you, you.

Puma just came out with this Dance Dictionary, that puts a passionate back beat on the physical representation of words.

It’s a form of non-verbal communication that enables people to speak with their bodies, encrypting words into dance moves. The website states “Going back to the times before there were words, texts, tweets, we had body language, and the PUMA Dance Dictionary takes us into a new world of visual language.”

And you thought Puma was just about stylish shoes.

Find your spattering. Share it with the world.

I spent over half of my life thinking that I could not have a baby, because of my Type 1 Diabetes.  Part of it was misinformation. Part of it was fear.  At some point, some internal movement as small and quiet as the tick of a watch, empowered me to refute the cards that I felt fate had dealt me.  I found a doctor who educated me, who included me in the decision making process. A doctor, who was on my side.

Nine, or so, years later, I have a fiesty, mini-me on my hands who is eight going on eighteen.

I have a friend who has been longing to be a mother for a very long time. Her road has not been smooth. A lovely, kind spirit, she’s a giver.  Sometimes that puts your desires and expectations in life, last in a long line.   Accomplished in other areas, the drive to be a mom and the subsequent sadness clung to her like a signature.

She needed someone on her side.   Someone to fight for her and even someone to fight with her, for her.  So I introduced her to another superstar friend/doctor. I encouraged her to go.  I was fairly obnoxious but I figured that she needed someone rooting for her.  She’s got that now. Plus a whole spectrum of resources and  support. All cheering her name.

And things are going really well.  Although it’s early, she’s well on her way to fulfilling her dream.

(Subsequently, I cannot stop smiling)

Another friend is already a mother, to a spitfire of a seven year old boy.  He’s a wild man, grabbing life with both hands, and taking a bite at the same time.  He is a wonderful soul.  It’s no wonder why she wanted to have more.  She’s tried and succeeded to get pregnant several times over the last few years.  The initial joy however, was always sucker punched out of the way by nature.

It happened again recently.

She just told me about it the other day.  With great frustration, she started our conversation out with a justification. “I’m going to tell you the end first, so you know how this ends up…”

I sat there and listened. I, too, always wanted to have another child, it just never worked out. It is with tender ears that I hear her stories.  She told me the latest incident, very methodically.  We have been through this a few times.  The problem with pregnancy in general, is that there are so many hormones involved.  The body just knows you’re pregnant, so things start to happen, in preparation. So when the pregnancy doesn’t grow, you’re left sitting like a teary-eyed, bloated, tired vessel.

And yes, although she is a brainiac, accomplished career woman, her agony feels like water twisting out of a thick, wet towel. It’s heavy and it cries all over you. She just needs someone on her side. Someone who listens. Who supports whatever she says or does.

And the stories like that go on.  Motherhood is not for everyone. It’s the hardest job you will ever have.  It’s mundane.  It is tireless.  It’s also sublimely satisfying and wonderful.  Kudos to those who figure out what side of the fence you’re on, before doing something drastic.

So many girlfriends are amazing mothers. Ones who advocate for their children tirelessly. Each one has a different story. A different experience. A different challenge. We are all uncommon moms.  each with our own path.   No one’s story is flawless.  Not all the sticks in a nest are straight.  Ad that’s what makes us beautiful.

That’s what makes us real.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you wonderful women.  I hope you always have someone on your side.

As the song says “It’s a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll.” And boy is that true.

I’m not talking about work. I’m talking about life. Real life. Where our own perception of our own worth impacts everything, really.

I was talking with my mother this weekend and she had some comments on last week’s posts.  She said, “You tackled some sensitive topics.” I asked her which ones, she said “the sex and confidence link.”

Interesting.

She went on to say that it’s hard for people who have been beaten down in life, who have lived with constant unraveling and undermining from a partner or themselves, to find the courage, strength and ability to muster up confidence.

I have a few friends now, struggling so much with self-worth, that this conversation seemed particularly prescient.  It was like talking to the Oracle in the Matrix.

So, I sat back and marinated in the real bottom line of the self-worth/confidence relationship. I honestly believe that I could write about nothing but this relationship over the next 20 years and people would still need to read it.

A lack of self-confidence acts as a restraint. It dominates us and holds us back from living the life we want. The life we deserve.  Without confidence, we can’t even define what that life is, or allow ourselves “permission” to seek it out.

That’s bullshit.

Self-confidence, self-worth and self-esteem are an incestuous group, all based on our personal belief system. Beliefs are rarely about reality. Case and point: I firmly believe that one day Lenny Kravitz is going to come to my doorstep and ask me to marry him.

Our beliefs are a conclusion, based on our perception.  I love Lenny Kravitz therefore, I believe he will marry me one day.   This means that logic alone (the lack thereof, in my case) is not usually enough to change our beliefs.

If it were logical, it would be easier to change.

Plus, we’re being attacked every day, on all kinds of levels, by advertisers, negative influences, family, exes, media, etc, on what is “valuable.” Please, I’m not a fan of Kim Kardashian, but if I see this woman heckled for her maternity size or style one more time, I’m going to punch something.

Yes, when compared to Kate Upton, I’m not a super bikini model, but you know what? It doesn’t matter to me.

And that’s the thing.  If our expectations regarding self-worth are set according to what other’s tell us we should be, we are destined to fail.  We cannot control other people. Only ourselves.

What this boils down to is this:  do we place greater importance on validating ourselves, or validation from others?

I love to be complimented, but let me tell you, it’s more important to me, that I’m pleased with my work, outfit, hair do, whatever.  It is nice to receive external applause, but I’ve already done two standing ovations for myself, by the time that rolls around.

It is not my standard gauge of approval.  It’s a reference, not a finish line.

How do I wrangle the confidence? I get asked this frequently and I don’t know really. I’ve had quite a few challenges in life, as we all have. I’ve been depressed and mournful.  I have had a chronic illness my entire effing life.

That said, I have two really smart and supportive parents, and two really smart and supportive step-parents. I have one friend who is like a sister to me, Laura, who really is responsible for engaging my confidence as well. She taught me to be capable and with that comes confidence.

The thing that I’ve found, is – you have to fake it until you make it.  You “pretend: you have the confidence, you start acting like you have confidence, and one day – you do.

When I’m feeling unsure or need some special focus on something,  I don’t say things out loud like “Oh Rebecca, you’re smart and kind…”

I write them down on little torn up pieces of scrap paper. I sign them. I write the date and I think about them for a while. I keep them close until I’m ready to let go and then I put them all in a box together.  It’s the things I need help with. That I need to focus on. My energy manifested in words, then put out into the universe.

It gives you a history of the challenges and subsequent triumphs you have had.  A legend of your journey.  Plus, it’s seemingly not as goofy than reading affirmations in the mirror.  That said, if that works for you honey, do it.

I also firmly believe in the innate “goodness” of people. I can’t help it. I expect the best out of people, because I believe that they are kind and good.  I think that when you start your sentence with “I really need your help with…” people will respond.  Out of that, I feel solidarity and support.

In turn, I support those who need it.  I give from my heart out of empathy. That is a reflection of my own personal bottom line. I value those traits = I value myself.

The bonus is that if you put good energy in, you get good energy out.

Take some time to take stock of who you really are, aside from all the outside opinions.

Make a list of things you like about yourself. (write it down!) Think about all the ways you have contributed to the lives of those around you. Think about the challenges you’ve overcome.  Think about the good energy you put into the universe.

Now, give yourself some well deserved approval.

You’ve taken the first of many steps.  It’s a long way to the top, but you’re gonna rock and roll.

I promise.

Last week was heavy. Let’s get our ridiculous on.  Who’s in?

The other night, the Main Squeeze asked me what my deal was with Zac Efron.  I said “have you seen him?”

Yeah, exactly.

The MS just shook his head and called me a cougar.  Wait, what?  I flew off the handle, fighting like Joan of Arc, for women everywhere.  It went something like this:

Me: “Men, who have trophy girlfriends, half of their age, are everywhere.  They are not labeled with a pejorative term.  No, they are heralded, idolized, applauded.”

MS: “Cougar isn’t a pejorative term. It’s empowering, like Demi Moore.”

ME: “Demi Moore is not empowered. She’s a mental case.”

MS: “Madonna has been doing it for years.  If we were at a dinner party, and we saw a woman being escorted by a man half her age, you’d want to congratulate her. People wouldn’t think that’s weird. Why is it weird?”

ME: “Madonna is also a nut case. How have you lived this long with such a limited perspective on things?”

“>In all honesty, Zac Efron is adorable. But he’s a boy.  I’d need two of him. And they couldn’t talk.  Mmm. What was I saying again?

Right, to me, a man who’s lived is sexier. I want to see the signs of life on him. Benefit from his experiences that came before me.  I want to see the gentle wrinkling around the eyes and the scars on his feet from the time he took a train adventure as a teenager.  I want to see gray hairs peeking through. I want a passport that’s stamped. I want to have some sort of memory of time, that’s shared.  I want to have some things in common.  I want to be challenged inside and outside of the bedroom. I want to be treated with confidence and understanding that only comes with time.

And most importantly, I don’t want to be his mother.

I want a man. Not a boy.

It seems however, that I may in the minority.

There was an article recently, in the Huffington Post, that talked about a new travel trend: Cougar Cruises! Cougar cruises take place aboard a large, commercial ship alongside thousands of other non-cougar vacationers. (imagine being one of those lucky cruisers). Though the first cruise was held on a Carnival Cruise Lines ship, after Carnival received negative press for housing the event, Singles Travel Company was forced to switch to Royal Caribbean, who they have happily worked with ever since.

The company has offered six cruises (most recently in December) ranging from three to five nights in locations including Mexico and the Mediterranean. The company is working to book a seventh, expecting 60 to 80 attendees to come on board. It’s a smaller amount than the first and second cruises, which attracted 275 and 120 attendees respectively, but still more than its regular singles cruises, which generally have 15 to 40 people.

Ann Thomas, the director of the Singles Travel Company, seems to think it’s empowering like the MS does.  ”It is also a women’s lib issue. Men have always dated younger women and society accepts it (to a point); this is the reverse!”

“>“The cubs say they like the older women because they know what they want and they don’t play games. A lot of men really don’t like the young women they date -– too much game playing and immaturity,” said Richard Gosse, the publicist for Singles Travel Company.  (Sounds like a publicist…)

The question then is, why don’t grown-ass men, want the same thing?

• Men reading this post that are 35-50 years old – don’t you want a woman who knows what they want. That doesn’t play games unless it involves a twister board and/or a blindfold?  

Tell me, honestly.

Are we too intimidating? Too old?  Too opinionated (I’ve gotten two out of three of those before, you can guess which ones)

I like it when you call me Big Poppa.

It’s fascinating to me  and yet conversely,  it’s soooo disappointing when anyone other than Jack Nicholson has a girlfriend half of his age, or worse.  Especially when they are celebs I’d like to…have dinner with.

I was listening to Gerard Butler (yum) on Howard Stern a few weeks ago and he was cornered and forced to talk about the woman he’s seeing.  I use the term woman loosely as I think I saw her squealing her head off at the Taylor Swift concert, with the other tweenies.

That’s not nice. But it’s true.  She’s 26 and gorgeous and I’m not an idiot.

Same goes for the amaze balls Johnny Depp (yum), who turns 50 in June.  Girlfriend – 26 years old. Seriously.

Again, I understand  the attraction, I just think it’s shallow.  And no one’s calling them anything but lucky. 

So what’s your take on the Cougar Conundrum? Do you mind it? Are you part of it? Am I totally off base?

I am an insufferable optimist.  I firmly believe that there’s always a lesson in every challenge. There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. The problem, most of the time,  is getting to the end of that tunnel.

I have a girlfriend who is staring at the tunnel now.  And I’m worried about her.  She’s gearing up for an emotional dissolution and resolution of her marriage.  She’s unsure of herself, downtrodden and exhausted. Naturally, she’s sad.  She has a child who needs her, who anchors her. And for that, I am glad.  Sometimes it’s easier to live for someone else, than yourself.

She’s quietly mourning the death of her marriage and really down on herself.

I know what that’s like.  I have been her.  I know dozens of women who have been her.  In fact, we all know one.  Reese Witherspoon.

Yes, Reese was recently arrested for disorderly conduct but hello, who hasn’t had a few too many gin and tonics and acted out? Just saying.  If you condemn Reese for that, then you really have no business reading this blog, so move along.

Reese is America’s Sweetheart and my friend is much like her. She’s funny and smart and beautiful.  She’s a mom. She’s been through seemingly unbearable heartbreak and self-doubt.

We all have.

Recalling her heartache over divorcing her first husband Ryan Phillipe, Reese Witherspoon told Elle Magazine in its October 2007 issue, “Right around Christmastime I was sitting in a parking lot. And I felt like I just couldn’t get out of the car. It was like, I can’t get out of the car.”

She goes on to say, “And I thought, Okay, half of the parking lot has dealt with this. More than half of the parking lot has dealt with this. Okay, let’s make it a little bigger. Half of is city has dealt with this. Okay, let’s make it a little bigger, half of this country, until I finally got out of the car. It was like, It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I felt exactly the same way a few years ago. I pulled my car into a nearby parking lot and attempted to stave down a panic attack. Just a few days prior, I broke up with my ex-husband. I was on my way to the bank to close our joint account and a very high-profile attorney and friend of my stepmother’s called my mobile phone.

I didn’t know who it was at the time, but answered the phone. He started talking to me about my net worth and what I wanted out of the divorce and I felt my ears melting off my face.

I pulled the car over, finished the call and cried for about 20 minutes straight. I felt completely disoriented and underwater.  Had I been underwater though, I would have been able to see which way the bubbles were trailing so I could swim to the surface.  I just sat there, not sure if I was going to pass out or throw up. Or both. I had to call my friend Gypsy to come pick me up.

Doesn’t make me special. Doesn’t make Reese special. Doesn’t make my friend special.  We’re just the same, as long as you don’t look at our bank accounts.

Divorce is a human condition.

The point is, people go through things. Every person alive. Divorce, death, illness, lost job, bankruptcy, miscarriage, foreclosure, things happen. Realizing you are not alone makes it easier.  There’s strength in numbers, not in isolation.

How you deal with the issues makes the difference.

While you are the center of your own universe, you are not the center of THE universe. Realizing that you are one teeny tiny party of a big machine in motion takes some of the responsibility off your shoulders.

You did not get into the situation alone and you’re not going to get out of it alone. Half of the world has been in or will be in your spot.

So take it easy on yourself. You need to acknowledge your active part in any situation, but let go of the guilt.  Guilt is for the birds. It is useless and self-indulgent and so not the new black.

Don’t let guilt bury you – you bury it. “You ‘effed’ up? OK, it happens. That’s what you’d say to your best friend right?

When I told my best friends about what was going on in my marriage, they both showed up at my house in under an hour. One said “I’ll hit him with my truck and she’ll bury him under one of her job sites. They’ll never find him.”

Now clearly they were being ridiculous, no one was getting harmed or buried (I think, you never know with those two), but the idea that you can tackle guilt the same way is valid.

Hit guilt with your car and bury it where no one will ever find it.

Target shame while you’re at it too.  Then get a handle on your business and make better choices starting now.

Let yourself off the hook.  Get a little help from your friends if you need it.

“Oh my gosh, I don’t know what I would have done so many times in my life if I hadn’t had my friends,” Witherspoon told Red magazine. “They have literally gotten me up out of bed, taken my clothes off, put me in the shower, dressed me, said, ‘Hey, you can do this,’ put my high heels on and pushed me out the door!”

Dear friend, YOU CAN DO THIS.

Don’t believe me, ask your other friends I reached out to, that had these messages for you.

Jason and Theresa said:  You are not only beautiful on the outside but gorgeous on the inside.

Andi said: You are the kindest and most loving friend I have. I call you my sister because I love you so dearly! You should feel special!!

Carmen and Todd said: You are an angel, you have taught us the meaning of giving and receiving. Your smile your genuine friendship has made me be a better person. This is not bluff this is the real thing. Don’t let the storms of life take that smile away from you. Instead look forward and let the sunshine in. Never forget you have friends that love you. We just need not to lose the faith!!!! Love you always.

Lisa said: Feeling lousy is the immediate precursor to feeling wonderful. Everything is ahead.  You areyoung, healthy, and beautiful. Her “sunny day” is coming.

Lauren said: You have a great smile — you light up the room. And a great sense of humor.

Suzannah said: What I love about you is your warm and caring personality. You are always willing to provide a hand or a hug when needed.

And the always verbose, and eloquent Matthew said: I could write volumes about how unbelievably attractive you are (and always has been), how your perceptive and insightful advice and friendship has supported me when I needed it, or even just a sonnet or five about how those deep, enchanting eyes of yours hold so much pain, beauty, poetry and a deep spirit brighter than the North Star and as rich and soothing as music — VERY Irish, natch! — but the way you love her son, the way she becomes fierce and powerful and protective and loving, a mama bear… no scratch that, a LIONESS, a protector and huntress and nurturer… how your entire existence is predicated around what’s best for your little one, no matter what cost, makes you not only a remarkable woman but someone who has strength and grit and fire that anyone can and should emulate to the highest order. I know I do.

This is what other people see, when they look at you friend.

Now it’s time to lean on them, lean on us, and forgive yourself.  Find a way to believe in yourself again.

You are worthy. You are strong. You are beautiful.

Focus your tunnel vision on that.

We’ve already established that I’m fairly shallow. I watch TV shows and think they’re about me, and if they’re not, they should be.  Last night’s New Girl, was no exception.  The show was titled “Virgins.” It was about the group sharing the stories of their first sexual experiences.  The good, the bad and the ugly.

Warning: if you are my father, brother or boyfriend or anyone who doesn’t want to know more about me than they already do, stop reading now.  (You have been warned.) 

The universe speaks to me in weird ways, and I think this was one of them.  This week marks the “anniversary” of my first sexual experience, more on that later.

I also had a spirited conversation with a friend this week about our first times.  The conversation was peppered with nostalgia and hindsight, and a bit of air guitar. Yes. Apparently after his first experience with doing the deed, my handsome, smart, witty and ridiculously charming friend chose that moment to do some air guitar. He said “I wish I could go back in time and punch that guy in the face.”

So, so awesome.  I wish I could go back in time and make out with this guy.

My mother an I also had a conversation about my first love, and what a great guy he’s turned into. Noting of course, that he was kind and sweet as a teenage male. As kind and sweet as you can be at that age and gender.  Subsequently, his son celebrates a birthday on the same day as our “anniversary.” A little weird, but not really.

I had a great first sexual experience. I was ready, I was loved and in love, and it was the best 35 seconds of my life. My old boyfriend will tell you that himself. He coined the phrase.  I adored him. I still do, just differently.  I felt safe and taken care of, and I knew he could be trusted.  He was obnoxious, but not a bad guy.

I’ll leave out the details, but it is safe to say that this entree into adulthood set the groundwork for a fairly healthy attitude towards sex.  I was never one of those women who was embarrassed by sex. Except for maybe when my mother handed me Judy Blume’s book, Forever, when I was 13 or so, and said it was required reading and to come to her with any questions.

That was fairly embarrassing.

The book was a trailblazer in the field of teenage sexuality. Written in 1975, it was really the first fiction novel, written for teens, that talked about the nitty gritty of doing the deed. Importantly, the book focused more on the emotional and health issues at hand, rather than the morality. Forever has a positive message about how meaningful sex can be under the right circumstances.

Sex is natural. It’s going to happen. Seems pretty clear, right?

Where did we lose those ground rules? When we started developing baggage? When we figured out we could use sex as a weapon, or lack of sex as a buffer? When did we stopped connecting emotionally with ourselves and any other adult?

For me, I was on a business trip to Little Palm Island Resort & Spa in the Florida Keys. I worked with them for the better part of 10 years. And, for the better part of 10 years, I visited visited this island paradise, that oozes with sex-in-the-afternoon type of lust, ALONE at least three dozen times. Always alone, which sticks out like a hangnail at this 30-room resort.

I had gone to dinner and eaten by myself. ALONE. I returned to my bungalow, with the ceiling fan propelling the mosquito netting into sexy gyrations around the bed. I laid down and my cell phone rang. I thought it was my husband.

It wasn’t.

It was a colleague and friend who lived on the other side of the country. He knew the resort well. We were talking about something unimportant and I hear the people in the bungalow next door having a marathon, aerobic love-making session. I held the phone up to the wall and my friend in the Pacific Northwest could hear it too.

I thought, “My husband has not wanted to have sex with me for months. AND I’m on the phone with someone else’s husband. I can’t help but hear these people next door getting down and dirty. Something has to change.”

That’s when I knew it was time to get back in the game.

My ex started rationing sex about year six or seven of our marriage.  In my vast experience with therapy, I figured that it was his way of controlling me. I was the major breadwinner and seemed to have it all together (to him). He was envious of that. And the only way to control me or have any sort of sway over me, he figured, was to hold back on the loving.

This creates a ripple effect. Frustration and separation was not only mental at that point, it becomes physical. It takes over your entire existence. It was horrible.

When we separated, I was determined to get back that powerful feeling I had when I was in control of my sexuality.  I wanted to get back to that place where I made the choices.  I wanted to return to a place where sex, like in Forever,  was positive and (sometimes) meaningful.

Owning your sexuality is a potent way to supercharge your confidence and enjoy intimacy even if it’s not forever.

Especially if it’s not forever.

Transitional relationships are just that, transitional. They are necessary. The chances of you walking out of your office and into say Dr. McDreamy, are slim. And that’s ok. People come into your life for a reason.

I’ve had a couple transitional stops. And they were outstanding stops, just not permanent ones. And…that’s ok. Consenting adults, right?  You never know, but when you’re confident in your choices and motivation, rolling the dice is less of a risk.

Also helpful in removing risk is being truthful about what you like in between the sheets.  As an adult, you should have a very clear idea about what pops your clutch and what doesn’t.  You should also have a good idea about where you are willing to push the boundaries and try something different or new. And where you are not. Just because you had sex every other month in the same position for what seems like forever, doesn’t mean things have to stay the same. Get inspired and creative.

You should have no problems sharing that information with your lover. Conversely, you should have no problem asking what your lover likes too.

I’m not saying you sit down at a table with your attorneys and pass notes back and forth. Those days are over. I also don’t think you stand up and stomp your feet yelling “I want it now!” like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Ok, I may do that (sometimes).

Somewhere in between is ideal. Some people find it sexy to talk about their intimate time together, post rollicking in the sheets. Some write notes with things they like and stick them in their lover’s lunch. The important thing is to find something that works for both of you and communicate. The better you do, the better your experience will be. The better you will feel.

More confident. More powerful. More sexy.

And that is what we’re all about.

Got the blahs from no booty calls, change it up. Here’s a few things to spice up your attitude and get your sexy back.

1. Get your hair colored and cut. Do some research first and take some images of things you like. Then go for it. There is nothing better for your attitude and your self-esteem. Lively up yourself and you’ll be feeling sexy sooner rather than later.
2. Same thing for fingers, toes and unwanted body hair.  The salon should have a person for all of that. If they don’t ask a girlfriend. She’ll set you up.
3. Find the color that makes you feel powerful. For me, it’s red.  Then buy something to wear out with your girlfriends, and hit Happy Hour. New hair, new look, you’re on fire!
4. Flirt. Shamelessly. If you’re out with girlfriends and they’re  on to what you’re doing, you can give them your boundaries and rules, and they’ll make sure you stay within them.  Safety first, sassy second.  You’d be surprised how many men are interested in women who start conversations with them.  It takes the pressure off them. Plus, you can tell right away if they have a sense of humor.

Some of my fave opening lines I’ve heard or used over the last few years:

1. How much for a lap dance? (Always works)
2. Where you super upset when the Spice Girls broke up?
3. I was wondering where you where?!
4. Which Avenger would you be?
5. Please tell me you don’t live with your mother.  (get that one right out of the way)
6. Would you rather be a giant hamster or a tiny rhino?
7. Listen, I’d love to stop and talk to you, but you’ll fall in love with me and I’ll just break your heart in the end. Believe me, there are support groups set up. So just walk away. Do yourself a favor.  (Also, always works.)

Still not feeling it?  My suggestion, exercise. Psychology Today says “Exercise that is performed over a sustained time leads to a so-called “runner’s high,” caused by the release of endorphins. These endorphins are stimulating, and as well as causing us to feel great, they stimulate the release of sex hormones.” Bingo!

That’s my take on the good, the bad and the ugly,  perfect hindsight and air guitar aplenty.

What do you do that makes you happy?

Unless you’re in therapy, no one ever asks this,  and I think it’s important to consider. The question implies action, conscious purpose. As a working, super/divorced mom, that means clarity is necessary.  I do lots of things every day that give me a smile as a byproduct of the action. Not the intent.

Understanding what makes you happy and why requires that you know yourself.  Consciously and consistently doing that aforementioned thing that makes you happy, requires practice and dedication.  Otherwise it’s like swimming in the ocean at night, or sitting at the bar at Miami Beach’s illustrious Club Deuce. You never know what you’re gonna get.

A few years ago, I was sucked into a deep emotional undertoe.  I kept thinking the pull of the sorrowful tide would stop, but it just got worse. There was nowhere to go but under. I took a big, deep breath and submerged, hoping for air and calm seas on the other side.  It took a few years, but I found a way to break through the current.

The person I was before this turmoil, broke into a few pieces. Some of the pieces regenerated like a starfish made of the cracked–apart person that was once me.  Some of them are lost at sea.  It took me a long while to recognize this new person.

Now I can’t forget her. I breathe in and I feel her – she’s full and rich and complicated, dense like a long, deep kiss.

What makes this version of me happy?

As you can see, writing makes me happy. I was put on this earth to write. It took me a long time to recognize that. To own up to that. It has been said that the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward and that is the case here. I was always concerned I wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t have the wherewithal to write anything for public consumption. I was wrong.

I am good enough. I can do it. I am doing it.  It makes me happy.

And as a writer, my job is to watch the world from the cool remove of my mind. I love to sit and watch. I don’t like to be in the middle of the madness, but I do find people curious, from afar.  I take note of every conversation, every moment, every passing of information that resonates with me. Whether I agree with it or not, I write it down and circle back when I’ve embraced my thoughts.  It’s therapeutic to me, and it just makes sense. My fingers and brain work in rhythm, like tap dancing or playing the piano. I just start, and it goes.

When it’s done, I am sated. I know it’s time to move on to the next.

Other things that make me happy – traveling the world; reading; laughing until tears are streaming down my face;  having little secrets;  singing at the top of my lungs, alone in my car; sitting on the beach, listening to the tide roll in and out; goofing off with my daughter; being alone with my lover; being all by myself; spreading love through cooking and baking; being with my family; acting ridiculous with my girlfriends (you know who you are); having my neck kissed; doing nothing at all.

Those are the things that bring this version of me happiness.

With conscious will and intent, I aim to experience those things as much as possible.

What makes this version of you happy? Do we intersect anywhere? I hope it’s full and rich and complicated.

I’m reading another food/cooking novel now, further self-stimulating my inner chef, behind closed doors. This novel talks about essential ingredients in cooking and in life, and how everyone has their own.

The concept of finding one’s own essential ingredients to life is intriguing to me. What pops my clutch may not work for you, and vice versa.

Plato and his main man Socrates would tell us that the only way to understand what motivates you and what’s necessary to live a good life, can be found by vivified examination. A well-rounded life can be found if you consistently search for new pleasures and new challenges.  Living life is about examining life through reason, nature’s greatest gift to humanity. Reason lets human beings participate in life, to be human is to think, appraise, and explore the world, discovering new sources of material and spiritual pleasure.

Sometimes reasoning is over-rated. Sometimes you just have to go with what makes your spine tingle.

I lived a long time without that feeling  of the warmth of 1000 suns dancing up from the base of your spine.  Living without that feeling is for the birds.  I love that feeling.  I want more of it.  That’s why my first essential ingredient for life is possibility.

Possibility is a powerful ingredient.  It surges through your veins with unhindered intent.  It’s like watching a lover’s mouth before you even know his name. Feeling that centripetal force move your bodies on a curved path towards each other, like two trains headed straight for a collision. You know they will impact,  you’re just not sure when.  And it doesn’t matter.

It’s the possibility that sustains you.

Maybe it’s my inner state of exalted self-esteem, but I think anything is possible, if you want it.   There’s no reason why you can’t have it. Deciding you want it, and having the fortitude (balls) to go after it, are the hardest challenges.  But once you commit, it’s on like donkey kong.

Why is it so hard to motivate ourselves?  I think we lose our vim and vigor along the way. We are tread on, bruised and bucked by the responsibilities and obligations we’ve curated for ourselves. I think we get used to things and in that, we generate a fear of change.  Sometimes you need the possibility of something, to pull you back to the greatness of you.

Opportunities pop up every day.  I know this to be true.  It’s your job to identify the possibility and go for it. I’ve heard so many no’s in my life.  I hear people say it all the time – “I can’t!” or “It’s just not possible at this time,” or “Sorry, that’s not gonna work.”

Why? Because our brains are wild.  Wildly imaginative and wildly stubborn. At our age,  most of us have already defined what we think our limits are, what our story is, and what our truths are.  These truths are communicated by what we say and do, what we will accept and won’t, and they get spilled out into the universe and propagate. We get so used to living this life, we sometimes don’t realize that there’s more out there waiting for us.  A ripe and robust life. Waiting for us.

Is this the life you want? Are these the truths you deserve? Isn’t there more out there for you? It is within your power as a human to take those “I can’ts,” and “it’s not possibles,” and pretend you said yes. What would happen?

We write our own stories and as Emily Dickinson said “I dwell in possibility.”

Pretend that you said yes.

A girlfriend of mine just turned 40. She eloquently posted a goodbye to her thirties and asked what she should expect in her forties.  I said “it’s the ME decade. the best one yet.” And I’m not even lying.

Yes, I look at myself and I see normal signs of aging.  I’m human. Sometimes I look more like a librarian than a super model.  That’s ok. What I see in the mirror, I like.

I love.

Me. At 43.

And that’s what’s different about being 40. At 20, you’re too new to the game to really appreciate what’s important.  At 30, you’re too caught up in responsibilities and caring for others. At 40, you find your way back to center stage, comfortable in your skin.

I look in the mirror and I see laugh lines. Laugh lines from years of giving in to the sillier things in life. I see crinkled folds of skin where my smooth forehead used to be – put there by a fevered quest for knowledge and understanding.  I see the not-so-faint essence of crow’s feet at the corners of my dark eyes. I see the splotches of my freckled skin, that remind me of my grandmother Susana. The signs of age are there, not as elusive as they once were.

At 43 though, I’ve figured out who I am.  And I’m not exactly like anyone else.

I have short hair. I love it. I think the bow and sweep of a woman’s neck is really sexy. Like, super power sexy.  Not everyone does, and that’s alright. I get more attention when I wear my glasses, than when I don’t.  A fact that has been empirically proven over the years.

I don’t sag or droop. Though I might lilt a little.  I have curves that suit me, and I like them. I’m healthy. I am strong. I work at it. It shows.

I like to wear bold colors instead of always black. Sometimes I have a flower over my ear like I’m an island girl. I like to make a statement.

I have not given in to any sort of alteration or enhancement because I like how I look. I like seeing the colorful life I’ve lived, worn across my skin.

I like having a visible reminder of my experience.

Will I always feel this way? Probably not. Do I now? Absolutely.

It took me a long time to really be cool with myself.  I think one thing that came with turning 40 for me, was an exacerbated sense of confidence. I’ve never been one to kowtow to other people’s feelings about me. Nope. Not this one. I have always been confident, even if it was just for show.  Always believed in myself, probably more than I should have.  The difference now, is that it is 200% genuine.

It doesn’t mean I think I’m better than anyone else. Really the opposite. Because I am confident, I am able to appreciate the amazing qualities of other people, without caution.  In fact, I think it’s our job as women, and as humans,  to support each other, praise our differences and celebrate our success. Encouraging our friends to their greatest potential is a win for everyone.

My mantra has always been if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will. If you don’t like yourself, no one else will. At 40, this is easier to accept.  You know who you are. You’re also unwilling to put up with stuff that doesn’t make you happy.

It’s like a switch that turns on the second you hit that milestone. Many of my girlfriends who have reached that age, will tell you the same. It’s as if your tolerance and patience have just emptied out.

I’m happy now. I haven’t always been.  I’ve lived in the solace of a dark and holding-low mindset and I’ve survived. I’ve had a variety of motivations, some drawn from unmet yearnings. Some just for survival.  Five years ago, I was read to submerge and disappear into myself.

Now, I wear my appetite for captivating experiences like a heady perfume applied by an indiscriminate hand.

That’s me. At 43.