Alice in Authorland

October: I was at Kevin’s house at this time last year. All month. The best month. My cup was full. I was on the verge of flight. Everything was lining up. Ahhh.

It felt like I could relax in love and leap into my writing life. Like I could teach yoga and writing and whatever was required and only what I desired.

I was waiting for the rest of my beautiful life to unfold before me. I’d learned to live in the moments. Like enjoying every aspect of a delicious meal, as I did when Kevin took me to Tony’s for my birthday in 2014.

Tony’s is an authentic Italian restaurant in St. Louis. It’s been around since 1946. Kevin used to take his mom there. Tony’s seems a scene out of a movie with real Italian waiters, the kind who replace a fork on a table like a magic act and report the score of the game because Kevin said (to me), “I wonder what the score is.”

And Tony’s food? Every other Italian meal could be Stouffer’s frozen lasagna in comparison. I like Stouffer’s, but the meal at Tony’s delighted me with a flush of foreign, exquisite flavors. The atmosphere, inviting art on the walls, and class without condescension was like a trip to Italy with Kevin holding my hand.

Tony’s is the kind of place I would’ve felt awkward or intimidated in in my youth. It’s a grown-up restaurant. I was in a grown-up relationship with a mature and worthy man who honored me and welcomed my authenticity. I relished that.

The same way I soaked in the fall colors in the country at Kevin’s home in St. Louis. We tried to make our togetherness like real-life (sticking to work schedules, working out, etc.). It was impossible. In each other’s company, Kevin and I were always on vacation.

That October—a month of shared morning coffee, entwined bodies, and conversations sewing us closer—tasted as sumptuous as the evening at Tony’s.

Kevin and I relaxed into our crazy, sexy, cool love. Our in-between times of seeing each other were like waiting for dessert.

Yep, I was waiting for the treat I’d become accustomed to as I anticipated his visit to my place in March. It never came. Kevin never came to my house again.

We didn’t get our dessert and why is October still on the calendar?

Nicole Rivers is her name. She has a voice. She can sing. Like Etta James sing. Like sprinkling fairy dust in a karaoke bar. Her gift is music. She moves people.

Nicole is my young friend, but I often forget our age difference. Not today. Nicole is working her day J-O-B while I wait in her apartment. The 20 years I have on her taunt me.

I want to reach out and save my soul sister from the years that slip by, but who am I?

I’m a 51-year-old writer finally getting my groove back on the page. I’m in it. Even when I’m not playing by all the rules, I’m in the game.

But, oh how I wish I would’ve given into my wonder for words, stirring hearts, and sharing stories decades ago.

Or, maybe I did. All those years I toiled in sales and called it a J-O-B rather than a calling, maybe I was preparing to write. I gathered a life even as I felt I was missing it.

In over two decades as a salesperson, I learned to choose my words wisely and lean into emotions sincerely. I told relevant stories and polished my integrity in a game I thought I didn’t want to play.

Now, in this moment, the truth reveals itself. I was growing into a memoir writer, what I always wanted to be. I needed those years in the sales field. That was my path. I chose it.

Today, I look back and thank my younger self. I didn’t lose those years. They didn’t slip away. I surfed them! There was no wrong.

And, there’s no course correction required for Miss Rivers: single mother, son-loving, day-job-working woman who can sing. Like should be on The Voice sing.

Ok, I still want to whisper: Hurry! Leap! Sing into your life

I drove my nephew an hour and a half north to buy a car. I was only there to give him a ride. He didn’t need me for protection. However, if I was buying or selling anything that involved meeting someone I’d never met, I’d ask TJ to come along to make sure I was safe.

Women walk vulnerable in this world. Too many of us know this from walking into danger when we thought we were invincible, or at least tough. We knew our power. Until one day in some subtle, sexist, or violent way a man took it away. Too many of us were taught our vulnerability.

Even those of us who carry distaste for the word victim and wouldn’t associate it with ourselves. Still, we learn to walk in pairs and let people know when we make it home—so they can breathe easy.

I watch girls walk unaware and I pray I never forget. (Lock your doors. Look around. Pay attention. Keep alert. Walk confident. Don’t park near vans. Park near the light and by a door. Shit! How the hell am I walking alone again?) I pray for safety.

Mostly, I’m safe. I try to be smart, but sometimes that means feeling fearful. Occasionally, it means missing out.

The other day, a white panel van was parked where I typically walk in the woods. It was the kind of van they find dead girls’ bodies in on Law & Order.

It’s fine, I told myself. I walk in those woods almost daily. When I moved here three years ago, I’d be surprised to see anyone on the trails. Now, the trails have been cleared and publicized.

I usually go during the day during the week. Now, I tend to see a few men and their dogs doing just what I’m doing, enjoying the woods. But, do they get a twinge of fear each time they run into me? I like to imagine the handsome ones get the rush that comes from the sight of a pretty woman.

I’m friendly if he is, but not too friendly. My vulnerability dances like a word cloud above his head. Because I’m a woman alone. Sometimes, I feel this way even with my dog. Paranoid, eh? Maybe, but I don’t want to be the girl in the back of a panel van.

So, my dog and I stayed on the neighborhood sidewalk that day. It’s the sidewalk where I was walking last year when a neighbor I’d never met ran to me and told me her boyfriend was trying to kill her. Terror screamed from her eyes. I took her to the police. Later, my sister and I knocked on the woman’s door to check on her. Her boyfriend really was a 6’5 badass, scary dude. The police confirmed it when we asked them to check on her. Then, they laughed because Mr. Badass beats her up often and she calls the police, but she won’t get a restraining order. It wasn’t funny.

Violence against women, in speech and action, are too common. I met this gal the other night—mid-40s. She was at a concert with her mom. I was with my sis.

I showed the gal pictures of my now-deceased boyfriend. She showed me pictures of her face after she went on a date with a guy her brother hung out with in high school. She didn’t know until her first date that the guy is now a cage fighter. She didn’t know until something set him off and he used his fists on her face and his feet to kick her body.

I’m 5’4. This gal is shorter than me. The guy is a cage fighter. He may find himself in a new kind of cage soon, as her court date is coming. Now, unfortunately, now she knows her vulnerability through experience.

Isn’t a civilized society supposed to care for its vulnerable?  Remember that whole women and children thing?

What kind of a man would do this?! Maybe a man who forms his character in an environment where cage fighting is a career choice and a Presidential nominee talks about grabbing pussy.

Can we, as a society, take some responsibility for the kind of men we’re applauding and the kind of character flaws we’re ignoring?

This attitude toward women that says, “Hey, let’s take advantage of their vulnerability because we can” is loud in our society. That saddens me.

Do you know some of Trumps’ followers are tweeting #RepealThe19th: women’s right to vote? This should be laughable by now, but it’s not.

I’d like to end this rant by saying thank you to all the men of class and character, men who stand up to shameful words and despicable acts, the men who walk us to our cars for safety AND honor our worth as women.

May this be the ideal that leads us forward as men and women. May we walk together.

I haven’t eaten oatmeal since my boyfriend Kevin died five and a half months ago. The oatmeal retreat wasn’t conscious.

Today, I woke up thinking I want oatmeal. I didn’t feel especially hungry, more compelled. The temperature here in Ohio is in the mid-70s. It’s summer, but it feels like a fall day. I’m wearing Kevin’s flannel shirt.

I take a bite of the oatmeal I made. I’m mentally transported into his kitchen. How many times did I see him stand at that shitty old stove making oatmeal?

He ordered a new stove once. I somehow convinced him to cancel it. I later realized I was manipulating him. He wanted to make his place a home for me and I was afraid he would.

So, when Kevin ordered carpet in February, I stood in the store anxiously petting samples. I played nonchalant as Kevin tried to include me in decisions. He signed the paperwork. We went home—to his house—with the carpet samples. Together, we picked a final color of carpet that would never be installed. A dead man doesn’t need new carpet.

How can he be dead after eating all that oatmeal, doing all those workouts, and being so damned handsome? He looked healthy and lived vibrant.

At least you can see a falling star fading. Kevin’s light never dimmed. It just went out.

Life is unpredictable. Who knew eating oatmeal today could take me back? I didn’t even like his oatmeal!

I didn’t like his house, except for because it was his. I didn’t want to live in St. Louis and certainly not out in the country.

Now, the memory of my man standing at his stove making oatmeal and sitting down next to me at his new little round table in his kitchen warms like home in my heart. A home I lost.

I want to be the brave girl, the strong one, the bad-ass I profess myself to be. Don’t the signs, angels, faith, and therapy win me some place at the front of the line?

Will I ever be an Olympic champion of life? I want to overcome grief in a single splash, but I keep swimming. I’m in the pool practicing my strokes. Why does grief knock me off my game?!

I yearn for my intentions to match my reality. Yet, I’m still on my knees. Crying.