Begin Again

It’s that time again!  Later this week, we will ring in a new year.  For some, it’s an opportunity to reflect on the year prior.  For others, it’s a time to set goals for the year ahead.  For still others, it’s simply an opportunity to get plastered and behave badly into the wee hours of the morn.  (As if one needs a special occasion for that…)

For me this particular year, the transition feels more significant than it has in the past.  2014 was a doozy for me.  I hate to use that damn cliche rollercoaster metaphor, but that’s all I’ve got.  The ups were great.  The downs left my head spinning and my stomach in knots.

I am so very ready for a new year, a new beginning.

As we count down, here’s a list of random things I’ve learned in 2014:

• Divorce sucks.  It’s the emotional equivalent of being put feet-first through a meat grinder.  Yet if you remember that stuff is just stuff, money comes and goes, and heartache can’t be alleviated by a court of law, you just might emerge from the nightmare stronger and wiser.  Grateful for what was.  Hopeful about what is yet to come.
• Opposites attract.  But long-term, common ground is a must.  Simple.  True.
• Honest conversation is also a must.  If you can’t speak your heart to someone, don’t give your heart to them.
• Some people actually enjoy being miserable.  The more you try to cheer them up, the more you tick them off.  Let them wallow.  Just don’t get sucked into their abyss.
• Parenthood is for life.  I did the happy dance when The Boy graduated high school, turned 18, and got a college scholarship.  Then he chose an entirely different path, and I realized that I will always feel a bit like I did on his first day of kindergarten: a little hopeful, a little worried, a little wistful, and a whole lotta proud.
• Yoda was right: do or do not; there is no try.
• 40 is the new 30.  So is 41.
• Needing glasses isn’t half bad.  They can be a fun fashion accessory.  Like shoes!  (But, you know, for your face.  So…yeah.)
• You’re never too old to do new things and improve your life.
• Online dating is a form of torture.  We should use it to wipe out terrorism.
• Wine and cheese with friends is good.  Wine and cheese alone at 11 p.m. while listening to Dido and looking through old photographs is a recipe for disaster.
• There’s no therapy quite like working up a good sweat out in nature.  Except maybe actual therapy with a counselor who knows what they’re doing.  I’m grateful for both.
• Speaking of gratitude, it works.  Count your blessings and watch them multiply.  Seriously.
• Helping others is a great way out of a self-pity party.
• Sassy boots and red lipstick also don’t hurt.
• Animals are way more zen than most people.  Want to know how to be a better person?  Watch a dog.
• Or watch my friend Veronica.  I swear she’s a dog in a human body (and I mean that as the ultimate compliment).  Always loving, always enthusiastic, always giving.  You know what she’s doing this week?  Donating a kidney to her cousin.  For reals.  I want to be her when I grow up.
• Good friends can get you through anything.  And I am blessed with really, really good friends, old and new.
• Some people, though?  Some people are just assholes.  You can work really hard to find the redeeming qualities in everyone, but some people are simply as deep as a puddle, as introspective as pond scum, and as mean as a snake.  You know what you do with these people?  Stay far, far away from them.
• Or turn them into a despicable character in a novel and then use the plot to torment them.  I mean, I would never do such a thing.  But you could. 
• Never let the assholes define your world view.  They’re in the minority.  Truly.
• Never lose your sense of humor.
• Magic happens all the time.  Expect it.

With gratitude for all who helped me through a difficult 2014, and with wishes for lots of good things and new adventures - for all of us - in 2015!

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Happy

The Boy is home from college.  This is as it should be, since the semester has ended and the holidays are upon us.

What isn’t as it should be?

He’s not going back.

He informed me of his decision just a few weeks ago.  “I’m not sure what my path is,” he told me, “but I’m sure this isn’t it.”

This isn’t it?

This path I’d worked my tail off for eighteen years to afford him - he was just going to meander off it after one semester?  Abandon my hopes and dreams for him?  Turn me into some statistic about how single mothers fail their kids?

Because it was all about me, right?

I told him I felt he was making a mistake, that he ought to just tough it out through the spring semester and see if he felt differently.  But I also silently owned up to the fact that this was opening old wounds for me, and I was going to have to work to keep from imposing my issues on him.

See, I never finished college.  The full story is one for a book.  The Reader’s Digest version is this: I was unhappy at one school, and when I found myself in a downward spiral of Girl, Interrupted proportions, I decided transferring to another school would be the answer to my problems.  Then I decided to defer my enrollment and work for a while.  One year became two, two became three.  I found myself married and pregnant and divorced (more or less in that order).  I chipped away at my degree over the years, but as a single mom working full time and attending night school, I had more than a few moments where I wanted to travel through time and throttle my eighteen-year-old self.

Which, I suppose, is why I wanted to throttle my kid when he dropped his bombshell.  I mean, didn’t he get it?  I thought of all the years I’d have given anything to go back to the days of having a dorm room and a work-study job and enviably few responsibilities.  Didn’t he understand how good he had it?  Couldn’t he learn from my mistakes?

Of course he couldn’t.  None of us ever does.

A few of my friends suggested that I tell The Boy he had to stay at school.  That coming home wasn’t an option.

Ha!

Have you met my kid?

Pretty much since conception, he’s upended my every plan.  My pregnancy (which I’d intended to spend quilting cute things for his nursery) was miserable, thanks to Hyperemesis Gravidarum - you know, the brutal 24-hour-a-day variety of “morning sickness” that everyone now cares about because Kate Middleton suffered it.  And those dreams I had of singing lullabies to a sweet, cooing infant or writing for hours while he napped?  Not a chance.  My baby was colicky for a full six months, which basically meant that he never slept more than two hours at a stretch, and when he was awake he was often screaming inconsolably.  I kept waiting for his little head to spin around like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.  And though the colic ultimately passed, his defiance of norms became his defining trait throughout childhood and into adolescence.  ‘Strong-willed’ would be the kind term.

The funny thing, though?  Things have a way of working out for The Boy.  I’ve learned - time and time again - not to sweat his quirks.  He can be frustrating as hell, but he’s also smart and funny and has a better sense of self than anyone I’ve ever met.  And while there may have been times when I wished I’d made better choices when I was eighteen, this much I cannot ignore: the path I took brought this awesome kid into my life, and being his mom has given me more joy than I can quantify.  There’s a lesson in that.

As it turns out, The Boy has a fairly concrete plan for his schooling: spring semester at community college, then transferring to an in-state school for the fall.  He’s done the work to make the shift.  He seems happy.  Truly happy.

And I can’t think of anything I would rather have my son be.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

The Boy and I meet.  And yes, childbirth is exhausting and makes for bad hair.

My little buddy.  I think he’s humoring me.  Do you know how much I love to play in sand?

He hated that buzz cut.  I was not allowed to do that to him ever again.

We’ve got sweet dance moves.  Probably thanks to all those times we watched Napoleon Dynamite.

I am permitted only one selfie per road trip.  Even though he does stuff like shoving a cheeseburger into his face at the last second.

Peace

Last week’s post was wistful and bittersweet, a recollection of a beautiful moment that didn’t quite deliver the happy ending it promised.  Even without divorce in the mix, the holidays mark time in a way that seems to invite comparison and underscore absences.  It’s been nearly four years, for example, since my father’s sudden passing, but December - his birthday month and mine - seems rife with moments that make it feel impossible still that he’s gone.

I am generally a glass-half-full kind of girl, but in these dark, short days, sometimes the cold chills soul-deep.

I’ve written before about some of the things I have found are essential to maintaining my balance: exercise, yoga, massage.  I meditate to stay in touch with the peace within.  I recently realized that there are some things I enjoy during the holiday season that are just as essential to my well-being as any of the things I do deliberately for that purpose.

Enjoying the return of the seals to the waters near where I live.

Walking my dog at night and appreciating the way Christmas lights seem to lessen the chill.

And then there’s the thing that I think gets me in the holiday spirit more than just about anything else: visiting a place called Clark Farms and seeing what the “elves” there have done with their greenhouses for the season.

As I recently stood in the winter wonderland that this local nursery becomes for the holidays, I realized that for as long as I have lived in South County, I have gravitated there after Thanksgiving to take in the lush sights and smells.  This year, when so much in my life is different, my visit was especially comforting.  Their gorgeous displays vary every year, but the smell of pine mingling with blooms, the warmth and cheer - that remains the same.

I’m not a fan of commercialism, so it might seem odd that I am so fond of any place with a cash register in the midst, but this year I recognized that this local business has, over the years, given me far more than the items I’ve purchased there.

It’s a little bit of peace on earth, and a reminder that there are better things to count at the holidays than losses and absences.  Even in the dark of winter, there is life and growth and magic.

Enjoy a little glimpse…

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Deadly Race

Elke Feuer was born and raised on Grand Cayman, where she lives today with her husband and two children.  I chatted with her via email recently, as she celebrated the preorder buzz for her latest novel, Deadly Race, Book Two in her Deadly series.

The author of For the Love of Jazz and Deadly Bloodlines, Book One in the Deadly series, Elke stumbled into writing romantic suspense at least partly because of her fascination with serial killers.  In particular, The Third Deadly Sin by Lawrence Sanders influenced her writing.  It's the story of a female serial killer, and the book was the first Elke had read with a woman as the villain.  It fueled her interest in serial killers, especially female villains.

“I loved that it trumped the concept that women can't be evil or capable of dangerous behaviors like men,” she told me.

Equal-opportunity evil, if you will.

Here’s the scoop on Elke’s latest - available for preorder now on Amazon:

Race car driver Remy Borden likes fast things: bikes, cars, and men.  Her plan to become the first woman from the Cayman Islands to race internationally is sidetracked when she’s pulled - injured - from the final race because of a fiery confrontation with another driver. 

When the racetrack owner is killed, his death puts Remy back in the race - and makes her suspect number one in his murder. But racing again proves difficult when Dr. Jackson Wilson insists she stop racing until she heals.  She wonders if there isn’t an ulterior motive to his ‘doctor’s orders’ - the racetrack owner was his friend.  

When accidents start happening at the racetrack and an adoring fan gets too close, Remy and Jackson set out to solve the murder.  Soon the simmering attraction between them boils over, forcing Remy to admit Jackson makes her think of a life beyond racing. 

Preorder Deadly Race now for its December 20 release.

And connect with Elke Feuer via http://elkefeuer.com

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Home for the Hollidays

Just five years ago, The Ex (then my boyfriend of a few years) and I were heading to a Christmas party.  He picked me up at my apartment. It was the place I’d called home for nearly seven years, and it was serving as our home base while we worked on the major renovation of the house we’d purchased up the road a few months prior.

“I’ve almost got the fireplace finished,” he told me as he helped me into his truck.  “Want to see?”

I did.

He drove the very short distance - five houses or so - to the old beach cottage that was to be our new home.  As the entire interior was a construction zone, I’d placed a small Christmas tree out on the deck, wrapping it in colored lights.  Snow had begun to fall that evening, and when we pulled into the driveway, I noted how dreamy it looked as it blanketed our little outdoor tree thinly in white.

I followed him into the house, noticing immediately that something was different.  Though gutted to the frame and littered with construction debris, our house somehow flickered with golden light.  The fireplace had once been a horrific throwback to the 1970’s: bright red brick with black grout.  Now, though, it was a fieldstone beauty - much like the one in my apartment, which I loved - and a fire glowed warmly within.

I was awestruck.  Earlier in the day, he and I had attempted to affix the new stones to the bare concrete face with little success; we’d posed as if in a strange game of Twister, our hands and feet pressing stones into cement and waiting for them to take.  More than once, we’d thought we had things set only to hear the disheartening crash of an avalanche as we walked away.

Now, though, every stone was in place.  A granite mantlepiece finished it all; I hadn’t even realized he had that beautiful bit of stone cut and ready to install.  While I tried to take it all in, he took me by both hands in front of the blaze at the hearth.

He proposed.

With snow falling on the small, brightly-lit Christmas tree outside and fire illuminating the mess and the progress inside, he put a diamond ring on my finger and asked me to be his wife.

It was the most romantic moment of my life.

In time, the construction zone morphed into our home.  I reveled in moving from finishing sheetrock to painting to decorating.  And when Christmas rolled around again, I loved hanging stockings on the mantelpiece.  My heart was in that house, and the hearth seemed the heart of the home.

Now, as my regular readers know, the man who gave me that romantic moment on a snowy night is not my boyfriend, my fiance, or even my husband - he is The Ex.  Our marriage was brief.  Our divorce was finalized earlier this year. 

This year, Thanksgiving and the subsequent plunge into the Christmas season have been bittersweet.  The romance of that lovely wedding proposal blinded me to myriad truths I’ve since faced.  I understand that he and I are better off apart. 

Still, it’s an interesting thing to have no real home at a time of year when the whole world seems focused on home and hearth.  From bare bones to sheetrock to creature comforts, I worked so hard to make that house our home.  Now there is no “us,” and that house is no longer my home.

This weekend, I decorated my tiny, temporary apartment for the holidays.  Far from the full day my house used to claim, this took less than an hour.  I saw The Ex at the dog beach and learned that he’d put up the Christmas tree.  I bit my tongue and did not ask about other things: the stockings and mantlepiece garland, the lights on the blue spruce planted in my father’s memory, the candles at the windows.

It is not my place even to ask anymore.

Now?

I am finding my way forward.  I am working on opening my heart again.  I am learning to trust those who truly deserve it.  I believe I am deserving of love - real, true, boundless love - and I am grateful for the chance to find it.

Memories may make some aspects of Christmas difficult this year, but I think the best I can do is be appreciative of all the beautiful moments in the midst of the difficulties - much like the fire and the proposal amidst the construction debris.

This holiday season, I wish The Ex peace, joy, and love.

I wish it for myself, too.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Beach house Christmas

'Tis the season

The pups approve

Hung by the chimney with care

Dad’s tree

This year: a tiny ‘tree’ for a tiny apartment

The tree on my neighbor’s dock makes me smile 

Merry Chick Lit

Here's the trouble with ta-tas...

Or, if you prefer, tits.

Boobies.

Knockers.

Hooters.

Breasts.

They’re functional, decorative, and like just about any other aspect of women’s bodies, most of us aren’t happy with the ones we’ve got.  They’re too small.  Or they’re too big.  They’re the wrong shape.  Or they were fine until they hit that unfortunate point in the gravity + age equation.  Whatever the aspect, we’ll find fault with ‘em.

Right up until we run into their universal flaw: their susceptibility to cancer.

My first experience with the death of a loved one came courtesy of breast cancer.  I had just turned twelve when I learned my Nana had been diagnosed with cancer and would be having a double mastectomy.  In other words, while I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of my breasts, my Nana would be losing hers.

And while it was odd to see her without her breasts, she would ultimately lose far more.  After battling valiantly, my Nana lost her life.  She was only 60.

Today, there is good news about breast cancer.  Early diagnosis and more effective treatments are saving lives.  I have three friends who are currently celebrating more than a decade cancer-free, and others who have every reason to hope they will hit that milestone, too - and then keep going.

These improvements are the direct result of tireless fundraising, and every chance I have to help raise money to wipe out breast cancer, I am on it.  Which is why I was thrilled when I was asked to contribute a story to Merry Chick Lit - Celebrate the Season With Six Sassy Shorts.  This compilation features brand new holiday-themed short stories from a great group of chick lit authors:  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson, Sarah Hitchcock, Francine LaSala, Nikki Mahood, Holly Martin - and little ol’ me!  I am very happy to be in such talented company, and better still, ALL of the proceeds from sales of this Kindle exclusive e-book will go to New York- based breast cancer charity Rocking the Road for a Cure.

My Nana was everything a grandmother should be.  She hosted countless sleepovers where we’d snuggle in her bed and watch The Love Boat or the Miss America Pageant (both forbidden at home, and in hindsight, my parents may have been in the right on that one).  She’d tuck me in and send me off to sleep with “angel kisses” planted lightly all over my face - the absolute best way to drift into sweet dreams.  She’d let me have Cookie Crisp or Lucky Charms for breakfast, and she’d feed me Spagettios for lunch.  She felt a swim in the pool was an acceptable alternative to a bath.  She could stop me from behaving badly with a single glance, and she could relieve the greatest of hurts with a hug.

Whatever you call them, breasts are great.  Take care of ‘em.  Feel your boobies.  Get your annual mammogram.  Stick around long enough to spoil your great-grandchildren with sugary treats, questionable television, and angel kisses.

After her surgery, my Nana showed me her scars where her breasts had once been.  She told me they didn’t hurt.  But I’ll tell you this.

It hurt like hell to lose her.

{Click on the link here to read more about Merry Chick Lit.  The e-book is just $1.99, and all proceeds go to Rocking the Road for a Cure.}

Manic

I can type way faster than John Ford.

This makes sense, because he can lift, press, row, bike and Burpee circles around me.

In other words, we both love what we do for work - and therefore we do it well.

As those who follow me on social media know, I’ve been spending three mornings a week getting my butt kicked in an effort to be stronger.  (And, yes, to look better naked.)  I’ve been learning more new exercises than my brain seems able to hang onto.  I’ve been trying like heck to overcome fears inspired by my general clumsiness and lack of balance.  I’ve celebrated small victories - like jumping and landing both feet on a box simultaneously.  (It’s tougher than it sounds, yet there are folks braving boxes three times the height of the one to which I’ve barely graduated.)  And don’t get me started on “Bunnies” - pure evil right there, giving an exercise requiring so much strength, coordination and memory a cute, fluffy name.

Welcome to the world of Manic Training.

John Ford graduated from URI with a degree in physical fitness and wellness, but as so often happens in life, the career opportunities that came his way were not in his field.  He worked in the restaurant business and various sales jobs, then - as so often also happens - the stars aligned and things fell into place.  John earned his personal training certification around the same time Dave Barnes was working to open the first Rhode Island Manic Training location in Wakefield.  After taking his first class at Manic, John knew this was “it” for him.  He taught for free for months, waiting tables to help support his family, and ultimately he bought the Wakefield franchise.

As his wife Nicole says, “I have never seen John happier - this is truly a matter of someone finding the career that is a perfect fit.”

I’d have to agree.

I’d also have to admit I was slow to give Manic a try.  I mean, I’m a self-employed single mother.  “Manic” is a word that could be used to describe my daily routine.  If anything, I was looking for something entitled, “Chill” or “Zen.”  So while friends joined Manic, loved it, and urged me to give it a whirl, I went about my usual routine: running, swimming, biking, SUP boarding and taking yoga.  I mean, how was I supposed to find time for one more thing anyway, right?

Then one of my good friends was battling cancer and fighting to keep her local business going.  John Ford donated two 6-month Manic Training memberships to the auction held to help defray her medical bills.

“We’ve been saying we should try this,” another friend and partner-in-crime (a/k/a The P.I.C.) said at the auction.  “This is a win-win.  We try Manic, and the money goes to a good cause.”

The P.I.C. and I were the winning bidders.

Barely six weeks ago, we went to our first Manic class.

And now we’re hooked.

It’s not just the fun, supportive atmosphere John fosters for people of all ages and abilities.  The variety and complexity of the workouts makes it the fastest, most challenging hour imaginable.

And then there’s the results.

Here’s what’s happened to me since starting Manic Training that short time ago:

• I’ve lost four or five pounds, depending on which scale you believe.  And I think we all know which scale I will choose to believe.

• When I wave, I no longer have granny-arms waving back.  As my massage therapist and fellow Manic devotee Stephanie will attest, should I need to cock a pump-action shotgun with one arm Terminator 2-style, I could totally do it.

• My butt, which I’d previously accepted as a typical flat WASP-girl rear end beyond aesthetic help, seems to be gaining definition.  It won’t break the Internet any time soon, but I’m OK with that.  Because there are only so many occasions where a girl needs to balance a champagne glass - or Kanye West’s hand - on her ass.

• I’m faster when running.  And by ‘faster,’ I mean tortoises and old folks are no longer leaving me in the dust.  Still: improvement of nearly a minute per mile?  In the space of little more than a month?  Hell, yeah.  This is me now:

Best of all?

Manic Training really is all about community.  It’s a family endeavor for John and Nicole, and they envision it continuing to grow in a positive, healthy way, as it supports more and more people on their road to fitness.  They are in the process of implementing a program for youth, so it can really be fitness for the whole family, and Nicole - a nutritionist, yoga instructor, and avid athlete in her own right - is using her skills to help round out Manic’s offerings.  

So stick with me, and I’ll keep you updated as I try to work past my two left feet and that ironic nickname, Grace.  Just don’t expect me to be able to do a perfect Bunny any time soon.

Interested in Manic?  Check out their web site here.  Black Friday deals are coming - keep your shopping local and healthy!

www.kcwilder50ways.com