There Is Superstition

I have blissfully enjoyed the last 10 days, stretching every moment as far as I could.  Trying to be as present in every act and action as possible because as I have already noted, this time will pass. 

What is the source of my acute attention to the passing of time?  Vacation, of course.

As I sit here on a beautiful, summer Sunday afternoon my mind has already begun wandering to the details of my life that occupies the greater balance of my day-to-day existance not to mention head space.  And as my thoughts meander and as I begin to plan for the week ahead of me, I find myself performing tasks of preparation that can only be described as acts of superstition.

Mine is not a career filled with common superstitions.  I am not an actor; "The Scottish Play" to me will always be just plain MacBeth and "break a leg" seems to me to be a most odd wish for luck.  I am not an athlete (colossal understatement here) so I do not wear the same undergarments (I am trying to be polite) the entire time that I am enjoying a streak of success nor do I leave myself unshaven for extended periods during "the playoffs."

I am a simple gal working in a large organization taking care of my piece of the cog.  But I do, as I am now paying attention during the fleeting remains of my vacation, have my own personal superstitions. 

I pack my laptop bag before dinner, not to be better prepared for the morning but so I can enjoy the last evening of my weekend (or in this case my vacation) assured that the troubles and concerns of the upcoming week are securely tucked away without opportunity to disturb my peace.

I have prepared my lucky suit.  Knowing what I do about the upcoming week, I feel the need to don the suit that has seen me successfully through challenging times at my workplace in the past.  It provides me a small but significant boost of confidence and even if things go badly, I know I will manage with surety and serenity cloaked in my linen armour.

So as I finish my pre-work superstitious preparations, I am off to enjoy my Sunday night dinner out and to drink a toast to a hopefully, successful week to come.

Knock on wood.

Wind Swept

Wind is an amazing thing, I think. 

I am a big fan of driving with the windows down, sunroof open, radio blaring and me singing as loudly and proudly as possible.  I feel it exercises my demons and worries, clears the head, provides perspective.  On days when I am blue, a good drive with the wind blowing around me in my Mini is all it takes to make me at least a light shade of pink.

If I were a braver woman, I would probably invest in a motorcycle but the problem with them is once you encapsulate yourself in the required helmet, jacket, gloves and whatever else seems de-rigeur really, what's the point?  You may as well be in a car because at least then you can have your hair blowing freely.

I think my charmed adoration of this ritual stems from two key pieces in the puzzle that is my life...  When I was a little girl my Dad used to take me on drives in the country, just to look at the countryside and enjoy each other's company (although I'm not sure what conversation I would have offered in my tender years).  As time carried on, I would squish myself beside him so I could reach the steering wheel and "drive."  Of course at this point I could actually peek over the dashboard so you can see this tradition lasted quite a few years.  To this day, I find driving an exercise in relaxation (most of the time; rush hour on the QEW is a distinct exception).

Also influencing my love of driving with the windows down is the indelible image of Grace Kelly driving Cary Grant in the convertible in To Catch A Thief... Scarf flowing behind her, her white gloved hands gripping the steering wheel and hair impeccably in place.  A girl can dream...

When I drive with the windows down and sunroof open it is a decidedly different picture... Hair blows wildly, clipped only at the front so I can still see the road ahead of me.  Skirt is carried up and any hope of retaining decorum lost out the window.  And of course there is music, loud enough to make my singing sound perfectly in tune.  I miss these days in the winter and am usually seen driving "in the open" as early in spring and late in fall as my Mini Cooper heater will allow to make up for their absence from my life.

Wind swept is an apt description.  Cares, worries, insecurities, tedium swept away with the dust and cobwebs.  How can you not have a smile?

A Rose By Any Other Name...

I have an uncommon name.  Sally is not a name you often hear.  When I was a girl in school, right from elementary school through high school and beyond, I was always the only Sally.  Even now at work, if you type Sally in the email address, mine is the only name that populates... In a company with 5,000+ employees in Canada and the US.  Those are some pretty good research samples, I think.

According to the website "Our Baby Namer," the name Sally peaked in popularity between 1947 and 1952.  What twisted form of persecution did my parents intend to impart upon me for my entire life attaching a name that would forever brand me with an association to the peak baby boom years?  How old did they want to make me seem? 

Whenever anyone says I look like a Sally, I wonder what could they possibly mean?  I was told I looked like a Sally on the weekend so I came right out and asked, "What does a Sally look like?"  This is what I was told... "You look like the girl next door... freckles... friendly"  Not too bad, I suppose.

Probably better than looking like a Jezebel, Pandora, Bertha, Eloise... And my most sincere apologies to any readers with those names. Truly, so very sorry!

And so equally curious is when someone saddles you repeatedly with a name that is not yours... Again, this has happened to me in the past couple of days.  A person in my building who I have just met repeatedly calls me Patty.  I correct him every time and every time he says, "I guess you just look like a Patty."  So what does THAT mean?  Apparently, the same thing... "Friendly."

So forget Mustang Sally, Long Tall Sally, Lay Down Sally or Sneakin' Sally Down the Alley.... They are all misguided interpretations of what the name means apparently. 

So let's make this easy.  You can call me Al. 

The Rest

There are few things as purely pleasurable as a simple, restful sleep. 

I am not, generally, a peaceful sleeper.  I lay awake at night, sometimes for hours, thinking (brooding, really) about mistakes made, tasks left undone, unsolved problems.  I have tried countless remedies to relieve this anguish.  Meditation; clear your mind, Sally... but the thoughts creep back in.  Mind games; count backwards by 3"s from 5,00 and the preoccupation of your mind will allow you to fall back asleep.  Ummm. No.  It won't.  Herbs; passion flower... Nothing.  Lavender... Smells pretty; still nothing.  Valerian... Really?  Nothing...  Tea; chamomile... nice but nothing. 

But tonight I feel sure that a full, restful night awaits me.  Why? 

Blissful exhaustion.  Exhaustion from spending a packed 24 hours with a dear friend.  Dancing, laughing. sharing, talking, shopping, eating and yes, drinking.  A day full of sharing our worries and cares; sharing what frightens us and what excites us.  We are both now single although she is newer to her single-dom than I, it provides us even more common ground that we previously had.  And we already had a lot.

Sharing the weight of our worries and fears makes them easier to carry, that is for sure.  Today, my load is light and my heart is filled with contentment.  I am reassured that whatever mistakes I have made or will make in life, whatever oversights or errors I make at work, there are people who understand and recognize the anxiety.  That even if I spend the rest of my days as a single gal, I will not be alone.

And with that peace comes the rest.

Things left behind

I forget things.  All kinds of things... Keys.  Sunglasses.  Jackets.  Hats.  All kinds of things.

Most people would just write this off as general forgetfulness, even (frighteningly) early-onset Alzheimer's.  But not me... No, not this gal.

I know I'm not the only person who has this forgetful streak.  I know there are others of you out there; I see you when I'm at the grocery store and you are looking for where you put your shopping list.  I see you in restaurants when you are wondering where your glasses are.  I see you in coffee shops when you come back in to grab the umbrella that you left behind.  We Forgetters are everywhere.

My mother used to say to me "You'd forget your head if it wasn't attached."  She attributed my forgetfulness to a constant state of hurriedness to move on to the next thing, see the next person, do the next activity.  I'm not so sure if that's it at all (especially considering this was also the reason she assigned to my generic clutsy nature, constantly tripping, falling or bumping into things... It can't be the reason for everything).

So what do I think is the source of this absent-mindedness?  I've given this a lot of thought...

Bread crumbs. 

I think (and I can only speak for myself here) that I am leaving a trail of immaterial possessions along my travelled path to provide proof of passing through.  To give reminder of a presence hopefully felt and enjoyed.  To set an automated reunion to retrieve the goods left behind.  I'm not so sure leaving things behind is truly accidental. 

I think we all are just looking to leave our imprint, however small, wherever we go.  It's in our nature, the need to be seen, acknowledged and remembered.

And there's nothing wrong with that.  Besides, it sounds better than just "I fogot."

It's Not Like You're Danielle Steele

I've said this before and I'll say it again... When writing, especially a blog (not that I have experience writing in any published format other than blog), you write in the hope and awareness that someone, somewhere may read it. 

You send your thoughts and feelings and hopes and worries out to the universe with the faith that they will connect with the other souls who are sharing in this journey of life, be they near or far.  Residing in the hope that your journey will parallel another's where you connect and share the challenge or the triumph.

Once in a while I have conversations (actual conversations, not just comments left on the blog or emails or Facebook comments  - which I love as well!) with people who have read my blog.  And today I had an epic one. 

Through the banter, my reader conveyed the thoughts my blog conjured up and in a meandering way (which obviously, if you've read more than one of my blogs, you know I will relate to) the reader said that a connection was felt... The confirmation came that although we are all on different journeys, there are times where we share the same path.

"If nothing else comes from this, my mission here is accomplished", I thought.  What a great conversation to share... Then came the follow up...

"But, you know... It's not like you're Danielle Steele."

I haven't heard a funnier line in ages!!

We are all trying our hardest as we carry on and I think the best thing we can do is support each other along the way.  And check our egos as we go.  This was the very best of both worlds and who could ask for more than that?

Thanks, friend.  And please... Keep reading. 

Alone together

Crowded solitude is an interesting thing.

I have been travelling for work for about six months now.  Not regularly but in sporadic fits of exhausting, short-lived trips across my country I love.  I have visited cities that I had not previously seen and so for this and so many more reasons, I am luck to be in the position I am.

Having said that, there's an interesting contrast when a single person travels.  Maybe it's just me but I can be very acutely aware of my single-dom, depending on the occasion.  Valentine's Day (stupid day, really).  New Year's Eve.  Dinner parties with only couples and my notible exception.  Eating alone in restaurants.  I've gotten used to it (for the most part.  No, really.  I have) but travelling provides a curious perspective on my relationship status.

In my travels I usually at some point grab a cocktail at the hotel bar.  Hotel bars come in all varieties.  Shwanky places with crisp white linens and servers who are the picture of proper manners and etiquette that my parents could have only dreamt I would become.  There are dives where the distance between the arcade games and game hanging on the wall (antlers and all) is one easy dart throw away.  Now don't get me wrong, I love a dive as much as the next girl and I'm pretty sure my first high school crush took shape over a pinball game so, it's all good to me.  And of course there's every bar in between.

But there is a unique magic that happens at hotel bars... People from diverse backgrounds and equally diverse places come together as strange companions.  Perhaps with nothing in common beyond a shared outsider's perspective of your current location but more often than not, that's enough for some pretty interesting conversations. 

I've learned about fishing, hunting, physics, hair dressing, finance, stocks (nothing worth investing on so far as I can tell, sadly) and had remarkably calm but riveting conversations about politics and religion.  I've been at bars where the end of the evening came way too soon and only because an early day awaited me.  And I've been at bars where I couldn't drink my single cocktail fast enough to high tail my way out.

But I always come away with a story to tell and another great memory to add to the bank.  And that's a great investment.