It's Good to Be Forty

This has been a weird week.

On Tuesday, my daughter claimed to be ill. She came downstairs, refused her favourite breakfast and said she didn't feel well. She looked pale and felt clammy to the touch. I suspected that a visit to the toilet might do her a world of good but she insisted that she'd already been there and done that. I explained to her that staying home from school meant she would have to stay in bed all day without TV, sidewalk chalk or her bicycle. She made the choice to go back upstairs to bed. Well, I thought, she MUST be sick. About an hour later, I heard her up in the bathroom and fearing she would vomit in the sink (her usual MO), I flew up the stairs but stopped abruptly at the top because I could hear music. In her special little girl voice punctuated with new kindergarten moxy, Olivia was softly singing:

"I didn't have to go to school to-day. I stayed home with Mummmmmmmy".

I turned around and went back downstairs to my bathroom so I would have the benefit of a mirror while removing the giant hook from my mouth. Needless to say, she spent the rest of the day in bed with nary a hint of sensory stimulation. That night, she dramatically wiped her brow with her hand and told me she was soooo happy that she felt sooo much better. Uh huh. Let me tell you a story about the boy who cried wolf.....

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Wednesday, I went out for a run in my neighbourhood and noticed that the sidewalks were filled with toads. I guess when the sun goes down, these warty creatures come out and hug the cement for warmth. I was convinced that I was witnessing the Apocalypse in my subdivision since "plague" is only loosely defined in Revelations. They were gross. I tried to take a picture to show you how one toad's eyes defied the laws of physics but the iPhone doesn't have a flash. The worst part is that I don't see well in the dark. I am not a feline, bat or an owl so jumping off the sidewalk onto the road is always a crap shoot for me. One day it could be success, the next could mean knee surgery. Anyway, the queerest thing was that the toads WOULD NOT HOP AWAY. My feet were pounding down right beside them and they didn't move. I had visions of scraping squished amphibian out of my shoe treads and it was more than I could bear. I moved to the street where every leaf looked like a tarantula and every stick resembled a snake. When I got home, I was relieved to find the children still in their beds so the Rapture hadn't happened after all. I won't be running at night anymore.

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Yesterday, I got to see my favourite Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and when I left his office, I was feeling positively sassy. He told me that I was a "stud" because I had healed so well and had such great use of my arm. He lavished me in superlatives and I basked in all of that good patient glory. On the way out he asked me to wait because he had something to show me. Then, he goes into this office and comes out with his brand new iPhone. He tells me that he got it because of me. Small talk and more basking ensued. I told him I was learning how to ride a hog this weekend and he lifted up my pant legs apparently to see what my shins looked like before I tore the skin off of them. Now, that is just not positive thinking but no matter. I still have a crush.

And speaking of my Rider's Edge course, I learned one major thing tonight. Motorcycles are a little bit like pregnancy. Everyone has a horror story about some friend of a friend. So far, the other eleven people in the class seem great. I met one guy who just turned forty in January and like me, his fascination with Harley Davidson has roots in a mid-life crisis although I don't think he would actually coin it that way.

And hey, I know that I appear to be the poster child for the whole crisis scenario but I am having the time of my life right now and I wouldn't change one thing. This isn't a crisis! It's EVERYTHING I would have done in my twenties if I'd had two nickels to rub together. In class tonight, I learned that one of the other instructors owns the most reputable tatoo parlour in town. Coincidence? I think not.

It's good to be forty.

Can Men and Women Be Friends?

Can men and women truly be friends? Umm....maybe?

If you had asked me this question a couple of months ago, my answer would have been a definitive, unequivocal, NO. Nada. No way. You're kidding, right?

But now, I've changed my mind. I think that we can commune with the opposite sex under very controlled circumstances.

First, there are work friends. For instance, there is this man who toils out of one of our satellite offices and we work together on several projects. There are times that I talk with him and I laugh until I have tears streaming down my face. I can't discuss the hilarity with another soul (except Steph the Magnificent) because often, it involves politics and the two of us are the only blue in a company teaming with red. I have been known to call him for a fix and he never lets me down. However, I wouldn't never call him up, like one of my girlfriends and gush about a date (unless it was crappy). That would just be all kinds of weird for both of us.

Second, there are the friends by proxy: other people's husbands. Now, I know that all you have to do is open up a Hustler magazine and read all about how this husband was making house calls to that neighbour or how the BFF of some poor, unsuspecting wife was shagging the groom but really, does that happen that often? To real people? (Fingers in my ears...la la la, I can't hear you) In my world, I can talk with my married male friends without worry. However, as these men age and shed the twenty year old's machismo, they are a surprisingly tender bunch. As I got ready to start dating again, they were a welcomed source of information like, "Don't cut your hair. Men love long hair". Turns out to be true. "At least offer to pay. Don't fight him to the death over the cheque but at least offer. It's respectful." True, again.

Third, there are our gay male friends. I live in the south so the gay men in my town are communicating through sonar from their closets. Rainbow decals are not a popular bumper sticker choice. Nope. Down here, any suggestion of an "alternative" lifestyle is tucked neatly under a ready-to-wear suit. There is one exception. Retail. And this is why I love, love , love to shop. Even in a place where there are more livestock than people, I can drive 2.6 miles and have the prettiest men in the world give me straight up, sage fashion advice. They know shoes and accessories and they have a sixth sense for the "break up" vibe. Two of these men have become real friends to me. We talk regularly and sometimes more openly than I do with my girlfriends.

The final category is the most dangerous. In this one, the man and woman have explored a relationship, ended it and the sexual tension that normally exists between members of the opposite sex has been somewhat diffused. This is the scenario where hearts can be blown to smithereens. There is always genuine affection here. Sometimes there is love.

The relationship may not have worked out but people vow to be "friends" because the heart hasn't let go and the brain isn't firing correctly. The heart might convince you that if you just hang in there, time will take care of the issues. Maybe. But it's like betting the farm on the million to one horse or holding your breath for a really, really long time.

The other version of this is when two people decide to be friends with benefits. Tightrope. Over shark infested waters. With no safety net. In hurricane force winds.

For the rare few, the relationship is more important than the details and the heart and brain are content to assume the friendship role and shift from lover to cheerleader. They are sincere in their desire to see the other succeed in life..and love. Think Jerry and Elaine. Now try to think of ONE more example. See...I'm stumped, too. Rare, I tell you.

So, yes. I guess men and women can be friends but it is not a natural state. It's those pictures you see of a kitten sleeping in the crook of a dog's arm. Delicate balance. Sometimes there is harmony but I suspect that most of the time, there's a rabbit boiling on the stove.

Name That Tune

Have you ever noticed that when you are in emotional turmoil, every song you hear feels like it was written with your particular angst in mind? On the other hand, sometimes all you need is the opening few bars of some song and you are immediately transported back in time to a great memory.

Take "Stairway to Heaven" (Led Zeppelin). I don't know if it is a Canadian thing or not but every school dance from the grade seven through graduation ended with this song. I hear it and think about that innocent, awkward, embrace and how I could always feel my dance mate's heart racing through his best rugby shirt.

I hear "You Shook Me All Night Long" (AC/DC) and I am instantly back to grade eight and my first kiss. It was here that my weakness for bad boys began to take shape. One such lad let me borrow his Back in Black album until I earned enough from babysitting to buy my own. I wore that album out. Tab and blue mascara figured largely in my life then and I was keenly interested to know who shot J.R.

I cannot listen to "Roxanne" (Police) without remembering Paul and John (their parents apparent Beatles fans) who were brothers, much older than me and they lived in my neighborhood. They were British, professional motor cross racers and just a bit dangerous. I had a terrible crush on both of them. They treated me like a younger sister and taught me the basic mechanics of motorcycles. I learned to change oil and filters and to be very quiet because often, they would discuss the pros and cons of their dates forgetting that I was there listening to them. I just wish I had written some of those nuggets down.

The first time I smoked a cigarette and some of that wacky tabacky (I didn't inhale...much), Comfortably Numb (Pink Floyd) was playing. Any song from The Wall shoots me back in time to the precise moment when I officially left common sense at my father's doorstep and became the type of teenager that causes parents to attend support groups.

"Shout" (Tears For Fears) was the anthem of my graduating class. We were going to set the world on fire. We were the generation that would find the cure for cancer, solve the problem of world hunger and broker world peace. Of course, all of this would have to wait until after the season finale of "Miami Vice". I still see the reflection of the street lights on the hood of the Ferrari that Crockett was driving when I listen to "In The Air Tonight" (Phil Collins). Admit it. You've air drummed that solo, haven't you?

In the twenty odd years since graduating from high school, I've acquired a whole library of music that is punctuated with memories. My iPod is filled with everything from classical to head banging rock and I am just grateful that all I need to do to change a mood is plug in.

The first few notes of the song below have been sung to me REPEATEDLY by men in various stages of inebriation. It always occurred the same way. University hang out, Friday night, frat boy sticks his hand out to introduce himself. I shake and tell him my name. Then he breaks out into song. It happened. A lot. The memory of it still makes me smile.

Sex and The One Horse Town

Last week, I started a "program". I'm not talking a twelve stepper or anything. I had just decided that now that I have been smoke free for over three months, I was going to have a closer look at my overall health. Below are some of my notes to self.

Dark chocolate is not a food group. I know...BUMMER, right? But the truth is that no matter how many antioxidants are present, one cannot justify replacing leafy greens with Dove squares for lunch.

Exercise should require the use of cross trainers and dumbells. Suffering through a conversation with my ex is probably not considered aerobic activity in spite of the fact that my heart rate escalates. Since I no longer clean my own house or mow my own yard, fat burning activity has been limited to running and hiding from my children.

Vegetables are good for you and should be consumed on a daily basis. I'm not sure if my apathy toward vegetables stems from the fact that as a child, I was forced to eat canned asparagus (just a whole bunch of bad) or that every single vegetable, no matter how well washed, still seems to taste like dirt. And yes, I have tasted dirt, smartypants.

Sleep. Must have it. The experts say 8 hours is the minimum required to keep the body a lean, mean, metabolism machine. Who gets eight hours, though? I haven't had eight unbroken, unmedicated hours since before my children were born. I'm hoping to exercise myself into a coma to solve this issue.

Sex. Hmmm. Apparently, this is an ingredient in a healthy life, too. The one caveat according to the experts, is that it seems to be beneficial only within the confines of a loving, monogamous relationship. I have a problem with these "experts". Most of my friends are married and they tell me that their sex life looks more like tumbleweeds in a ghost town than a tropical rainforest. So what does a single woman do? Does she throw out societal expectations and live La Vida Loca or does she turn her back on temptation and convince herself that chastity is indeed a virtue?

Since the thought of commitment causes me to have to breathe deeply into a paper bag, I have decided postpone the sex discussion with self and instead, focus on exercise, vegetables and sleep. I am determined. Very determined. I am figuring (no pun intended) that between work hours, exercise, the kids and eight full hours of sleep, there won't be a nanosecond available to ponder the fact that I am currently living like a nun.

My parents thoughtfully decided to name me Mary Elizabeth. I don't think it is an accident that "Sister" fits so well in front of it.

How Do You Say Freedom?

This weekend, while contentedly in the throes of my mid-life crisis, I did two things that made me really, really happy.

First, I went to my local Harley Davidson store and signed up for the course they offer to teach you how to ride. For a reasonable sum, you get twenty five hours of instruction, a written test and a road test. After it is all said and done, I will be able to meander down to the DMV, whip out my official certificate and after a mere ten question "test", they will add motorcycle to the list of vehicles that I am able to operate. I.CAN'T.WAIT.

In preparation for the class, I was told that I had to acquire some gear.

Oh, darn.

Riding boots were the top priority and I was cautioned that I would not be allowed on a bike without them. Well alright, then. The trouble with riding boots for women is that they are just all kinds of ugly. I landed on these and they happen to look great with a pair of jeans.

The second directive was that I must wear long sleeved shirts. I am in the south and the weather is likely to stay a balmy 85 degrees well into this month so I figured that if I am going to sweat, I might as well do it in style.

While at the store, I was able to look at some of the bikes and my salesperson gave me a crash course on the different models and what he felt would be the most suitable one for me. If I decide to buy a bike, I think I've got it picked out. Of course, that is a big "if".

I have found that walking into my local Harley store has the same effect on me as a bookstore. I get all tingly and excited. A friend of mine bet me that I would be a proud Harley owner by September 15th. I'm thinking that a mid September date might be a wee bit early but who knows? Once I make up my mind on something, it's usually just a matter of time. But, I will admit that the sense of freedom is intoxicating.

The second thing I did this weekend was take an impromptu flight...in a single engine, 4 seater Cessna.



I have been toying with the idea of learning to pilot a plane since flying on a corporate jet several years ago. After slogging through commercial airports and suffering through episodes of missing luggage, raised terror alerts, late flights, mechanical issues and cramped seating, the allure of private flight captured my attention. I don't think that I am destined to purchase a plane because I'd have to sell one of my children to afford the fuel but I like the idea of knowing how to fly.

And, you can't beat this view of our local lake from 5500 feet.