Farewell

Tonight, I sat on my couch scrolling through IG, and saw the VOGUE cover. I fought to hold back tears. I am allergic to weepy, but tonight (albeit the dam held) I allowed myself to feel the sadness. It was really happening. I failed, and VOGUE made it real.

This might be how many felt the day their bigger-than-life hero Magic or Mike or Kobe hung up their jerseys. The small crack in the reflection of who they could be hurt just a little, but they understood. They knew it would happen one day. The injuries would be too much or lives would take sad turns or the love of the game wouldn’t be enough, and the player would walk away. They would stand in the center of the court, sweating, hands on hips, head hung to reach the mic spilling their love out for all those ready to drink it in. Their gratitude for the moments gained and lost would fill the arena and hearts would swell. The fans would be forever grateful for the shared experience. It helped them seek higher, and dream farther.

My 43-year-old self has little energy for dreams these days. I could very easily spend my life laying in bed and eating quarts of ice cream for breakfast. But deep down, the parts of me still forming ideals about life, love, and the ridiculous pursuit of happiness held one dream so close to the chest it ached. I allowed life to smother it, I suppose. I let rent and ridiculous spending choices and lack of belief that it could happen slip in and kill it quietly. It seems silly, really, to lament a moment in time that never existed (nor perhaps ever will), but nonetheless, I do.

The sun is beaming on center court, and the grass is long since worn by days of play. The beige earth peeks beneath the green as if it hadn’t been cared for at all. But those of us who had been glued to the bodies decorated in gleaming white below, know it had. We know this is the moment the grounds had been given special care. I smile. I am here. Finally. I am here, grinning ear to ear, ready and willing to pour every ounce of self into this moment because it is what I dreamt of for a decade (or more). She enters, chocolate skin covered in white…quiet confidence laced with a maturity only age (and perhaps mothering) could lend. I watch as she moves for hours with an athletic grace I have only seen a few possess. Win or lose (but preferably win), I will drink in every second.

The dream plays out in New York, too, and involves pizza, bagels, and shopping but the outcome is the same. I am there, watching one of the greats leave it all on the court for what is to be one of her last.

My heart is heavy at the thought of packing it away and leaving it on the shelf with the rest of the dreams deterred. I promised myself–I pushed it out into the Universe. I would sit in England or in New York or even here in Atlanta and watch her play. It wouldn’t be from behind a computer monitor under the office fluorescents or from the small screen of a phone. It wouldn’t be from the living room. It would be live…a living, breathing experience. Serena had been my reminder over the years to be better, push harder, live in the skin God envisioned, and never, ever, be apologetic about being the best. Never. I ignored that reminder (more often than not) and fell into patterns of life I wasn’t called to, but nevertheless, I carried it, for better or worse. And for just a moment, I wanted to breathe it in with the fresh air. Yet…

Time moved–it IS moving. Time didn’t stand still and wait for me to get it together. It never once asked how it was going. It never once sat me down and said to get my shit in line. Instead, time just kept being time. I sit, staring at the VOGUE cover wondering how many more things I would allow to get in the way of….well….anything. Time never stood still. Life never stood still. I did.

I suck at tennis, by the way. I tried to play. I even attempted the grunts and the fast serves (they never ended up standing ON the court–ever). I tried the tennis skirts and the back and forth sway at the baseline. It all went terribly wrong. But I tried. That was the extent, though. Hobbling back to the car, I knew I couldn’t touch her path (not that I was really trying). I had my own and (after icing my knee) I had to get about the business of walking down it. The knee healed and the tennis rackets sat in the garage gathering dust. Time never waited for me to walk the path. It never sent any reminders–except for one, decades later. “Farewell”.

I have resigned myself to watching her, on television, move to the center of the court, hands on hips, and spilling her love out for all those who wish to drink it in. I will be sad, and, perhaps in the sorrow, drop a tear or two, but it will be more for myself and less for her. She owned her time. She set her sights and kept moving toward the mark–beautifully imperfect. A move forward is still a move in the right direction. She gave Time its marching orders and it obeyed.

As I sit and watch her go, I will hold dear the lazy days of tennis watching and the very real connection to something outside of myself. Recognizing the moment the sisters appeared, social class nor money could keep possibility out. I will hold dear the dream, the inspiration given and the realization that anything…everything…is possible…Even while sitting on the couch, with a pint of ice cream watching the G.O.A.T grunt her way into victorious retirement.

~SM

Finding 40: A Journey of Fortunate Events

The big four-oh. To my sixteen-year-old self, this is twenty-four years past old. To my thirty-nine-year-old self, it’s just another chance to get right. In six months, I will be celebrating a few milestones and I have plans and emotions for each of them…. Except…well…forty.

You would think the woman with five 2018-19 planners (probably a sickness) would have a solid plan for her big year. I spent the last year in my dirty thirties dealing with some major extremes, so naturally, you would think I would spend the first year in my forties shedding it all and dancing in the sun.

Here’s the problem, and it could be the mind/body/spirit-numbing Novocain 2018 talking, I can’t think of anything worth the energy. I want nothing. No lists. No buckets. Nada. Nope. Nothing. I suppose this means I will quietly allow myself to slip out of thirty’s armor and into the satiny little number of forty. I will most likely just keep my feet on the ground and lazily power through. I have spent forty years making mistakes, pushing, goaltending and climbing. It is okay to stop and not force myself to smell a rose, start a business or rebuild. I can just be….right?

Unfortunately, I can’t. There is no way I can sit back and watch life pass by. Trust, I want to. I am tired. I don’t have the energy to deal with the bucket listing and such, but I can muster up a lil’ sumpin. I also can’t say I have must-do items I am looking forward to because honestly, I don’t. What I do have is a red-dirt dusty, slightly bumpy path ahead with dim light overhead. I don’t need lists or big goals. Hell, making it to work on time is goal enough for me. I need no demands. I just need a good pair of shoes and the permission to go.

All of those previous lists and plans were always about finding who I had never really known. All of it was about validation. Job well done! I wanted to hear. You look great! I wanted eyes to say. She’s amazing! I wanted people to think. I can finally say, I don’t need it or want it. I found myself years ago and I like her. We became friends. We found our way to love and joy. We want for nothing. However, we never made the journey to a specific set of coordinates. This will be new. Together we are setting out on a journey to find forty and see what it is all about. The adventure and the discovery along the way is everything. Hope she’s ready…this should be fun.

~SM

Do Your Boobs Hang Low?

Can you tie them in a bow? I can’t quite do that, however, if I am laying just so I think I can toss one over my shoulder. Hey, listen, age happens. Things drop. Hips hurt. Knees remind you you are definitely mortal. Of course, there are always plumpers and fillers, doctors and knives to fix those sort of things. But why bother? I figure, if it hangs low—let it. If you can throw it to and fro—do it. Its all temporary anyway.

Acceptance. It is the first stop on the journey to find 40. I cannot be flip with everything in life, flicking a boob and middle finger. There are some aspects of life I have to accept, and the most important item on the list is my body. Like, for real this time.

This soft ol’ gal has helped me run twenty whole, real (slow) miles (and crawl the other six). She has held three kids and spit out each one healthy. She has looked the other way when Patron shots were aplenty and she has kept on pushing when the tank was below E. She has endured weight lifting, Insanity, hiking, biking, and running when the scale (and knees) said it probably wasn’t a good idea. She has kept me when day turned to night turned to day and no sleep was had. She has fed babies and barely fed herself. She has managed to continue to love and provide for me and those around me when all I could do was point out her every, miniscule flaw. She wore the white hat. She was the gladiator when I couldn’t be. She kept me standing in the sun.

Looking back, it breaks my heart to remember the things I thought/said about myself. I was always so busy trying to look how I thought beauty and comfort should that I neglected what was already wonderfully made. I was so worried about revering what I didn’t have, I neglected who I had.

On this first leg of the journey, I have got to carry as little as possible. I have got to step onto the path with only the necessities in hand. I cannot possibly expect my body to carry burdens never meant for her to carry. She has enough to handle. She will have her hands full, anyway. She’s got to learn how to tie these boobs in a bow 😉

~SM