Because I am not going to live forever

Last night I lay in bed and listened to an interview Nora Ephron gave to NPR 2 years ago. She talked about not knowing what meal would be your last, how more and more people were getting sick and dying - and it was inevitable that, at some point, you would be next.

And I cried.

I have to confess, I've been crying a lot these days. Changes - from minor bumps and adjustments to ground shaking, mind-altering "oh fuck" moments - have been presenting themselves fast and furious. It has not helped that I have been reminded over and over and over again of my own mortality.

It's not that I want to play ostrich or that I was surprised or taken aback by the realization that I was going to die (eventually) but it was a nudge. Seize the day, don't sweat the small stuff, do what you love, spend time with those you care about, tell people they are important to you, show appreciation, etc. etc.

 Don't waste a moment. And always order exactly what you want on the menu.

I had a huge revelation about this fact last week, actually. The little voice in my head, as I sat there debating whether I should splurge and spend the extra $10 on the steak I really wanted, said "Ten dollars isn't going to break you. If you can't afford what you really want on this menu, you shouldn't be eating here." Point taken. I got the steak. And I enjoyed every single bite, instead of worrying about it or feeling guilty.

I'm tired of feeling guilty, or doing things because other people think I should.

 So I shaved the side of my head yesterday during a hair appointment where I was supposed to be getting a trim, in a burst of joie de vivre. I have no idea why I did this, but I also have no regrets. It's refreshing. You should try it. I'll help - I have clippers.

It didn't change anything. I'm still going to die eventually - and so will you, by the way.
In case you forgot.
You're welcome.
Clippers, anyone?

Nora Ephron's passing was hard to comprehend because not only is her catalog a huge source of inspiration in my writing, but also because I was totally shocked to see that she was 71 years old. How could that be? I just didn't realize, I guess. Her writing was so timeless that it doesn't seem dated - so you forget that some of my favorite stuff was written when I was in diapers and underoos. And then I read that she died from leukemia. Fucking cancer.

Seriously. Fucking. Cancer. How is it that we haven't eliminated cancer yet? It boggles my mind. You know what else boggles my mind? People who are young and otherwise healthy who die of cancer while some 80 year old down the street smokes two packs a day, eats crap, drinks like a fish and is still doing JUST FINE thank you very much.

Cancer is a stupid bastard. I know this is true because earlier this month, a woman I knew in high school died - she was younger than I am, and the mother of two children. She was the second friend from high school in as many years to die from cancer. I read the obituaries in stunned silence, stared at their senior portraits, watched as friends supported each other on Facebook when they learned of their passing. And all I could think was: Fucking cancer.

I guess as we get older, we will say good bye to more and more people we know, love, respect, and can't imagine living without. I hope that every time I hear of another death, I have a strong reaction to it. I don't want to get used to losing people. I want every death to remind me - and everyone else - that life is short. I want to remember every time I see an ambulance, or a hearse, or a backhoe at the cemetery, that we need to enjoy life today - live it, respect it, and appreciate it as the gift that it is.

 So here is my vow, at the beginning of this beautiful summer day:

I promise to let go of the bad and embrace the good.
I promise to stop and smell the roses.
I promise to appreciate all that I have, and stop worrying about the future.
I promise to be kind, and to think before speaking.
I promise to stand up for myself, and for others.
I promise to trust my gut instincts.
And I promise to remind myself from time to time that every breath is a gift, and every moment is fleeting.

I am glad you are here. I am glad *I* am here. I appreciate you, and I am excited about tomorrow - and all the tomorrows to come. xoxo dc

A Tale of Two Baby Showers

Saturday I had two baby showers to attend. Both began at 3pm. Both were for good friends, thrown by good friends, near my home. I had no excuses - I was baby-shower bound.

The truth is, I don't attend baby showers. I just don't. After my hysterectomy, I decided that baby showers were too hard for me. I would bring a gift to the mother at another time, and love on the babies and take photos and be proud auntie and babysit and bring hand-me-downs and every other thing that one does when a friend has a baby. But I don't do showers. Being around pregnancy makes me sad and it is just so damn hard, still. I thought it would get better with time - but it hasn't. Until recently, I couldn't bring myself to even touch a pregnant belly. But slowly, over the past year or so, I have gotten better. Stronger. And I wanted to go to these baby showers and try to break through all of the nonsense and anxiety swimming around in my head.

And so here I was, committed to attending two of them. On the same day. At the same time.

I headed off to the first one full of trepidation. It was going to be a low key affair, women only, cupcakes and tea and champagne and lace table clothes and quiet music and children playing outside in the orchard. But first, I had to get strawberries. I walked in through the automatic doors of our small market, and marched purposefully to the strawberry shelf in the cooler, which is always loaded with strawberries from the farm down the road.
It was empty
I froze.

How could they be completely out of strawberries? THIS IS NOT GOOD.

So I got back in the car and talked to myself for a few minutes, with the kids eyeing me nervously because they both know how I am about pregnancy in general and baby showers in particular and I think they were kind of waiting for the emotional breakdown to kick in like usual.

I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. "Okay, so no strawberries. We just won't bring them."

"We are going to a party without bringing any FOOD?" Lucy said incredulously from the backseat.

"I don't know what to do." I stared out the windshield and tried to think. "Okay, we'll go to the party and I'll see what they need and then I'll run back out and buy it. I don't know what else to do." I was dangerously close to crying. This was not good. I could feel the anxiety building and I was starting to feel short of breath and I gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

Panic Attack. Xanax time.

We drove to the shower in silence. When we arrived, the hostess assured me that she did NOT need strawberries, and indeed she had things well in hand. Her house was spotless and filled with light, and she was setting out a tray of cupcakes topped with puffs of pastel frostings and pearls. The Xanax was kicking in nicely. I opened a bottle of champagne and wrote little signs out to identify all of the different juices and teas on the counter.

Instead of playing the usual baby shower games, the women talked quietly and colored in paper birds that were being hung from a branch to make a mobile. They wrote little notes of love and support for the mom-to-be to put in a baby book. They sat on the deck in the sunshine enjoying the incredible view and a colorful buffet of food the guests had prepared, made with wholesome organic ingredients. There was a tapestry on the floor and cushions all around it and there would be some sort of blessing ceremony later. We sipped champagne, poured glasses of honey chamomile tea and mango nectar, and took turns hugging the expectant mom who beamed and welcomed everyone while music played quietly in the background.

It was beautiful and elegant and I could have basked in the gorgeousness of it all, put the entire thing on Pinterest and called it a day.

But I had another shower to attend.

As soon as they started gathering for the blessing, I gave the kids the nod and we headed off. Listening to women talk earnestly about how beautiful and empowering pregnancy is might have pushed my already tenuous emotional state into a free fall. Better to hit it and quit it than to start bawling during someone's heartfelt offering.

The second shower was themed: Pin up Girls and Hot Rods. It was being thrown by the roller girls and costumes were strongly encouraged, natch. We rolled up to find our friends under a tent on a wide lawn in a gentle mist. The honoree was grinning ear to ear, taking pictures of everyone, decked out in an incredible dress that one of the hostesses had made for her - complete with accessories. The crowd was raucous and addressed via megaphone - there were suits and stogies, petticoats and stilettos.muscle tees and Doc Martins. There was a table set out with a wide array of foods that people were setting on with gusto - fried chicken, chili and rice, spam musubi, chips, dips, cake.... pretty much every craving was covered. I threw down my crockpot of BBQ meatballs and went inside for a jello shot. I discovered an enormous tureen filled with mojitos, and a blender for margaritas - they had run out of vodka, but that's a risk you take when you arrive 2 hours late to a party. I got busy filling baby bottles with Bud Light Lime, and took them outside to watch the first contest - to see who could drain their baby bottle first. There were other games, with clothespins and stories, and people laughing hysterically and running around inside cardboard muscle cars. After a while, It was time for the pinata.

The pinata in the shape of a pregnant woman.

As I stood in the rain and watched my kids beat the hell out of that thing with a cardboard tube, I had two thoughts:
I am so glad they aren't using a bat, because that would be creepy
and
Man, these were really different baby showers

The bottom line is, of course, that I survived both of them. And that the two mothers-to-be were surrounded by friends and love and laughter, and that their parties were a reflection of the amazing people that they are, and the incredible friends that they have - which is all that really matters. Well, that and always bringing an extra handle of vodka to a derby party. Live and Learn.