As many of you know, I have a strange interest in the British monarchy​ and British royal history. Mostly, I enjoy the political intrigue that went along with the ebb and flow of the royal rule throughout history.  And of course, built in to any lengthy history are the epic romances.

Most famous perhaps is Henry VIII and the Lady Anne Boleyn, a romance that helped usher the Protestant Reformation into England.  Henry's love and perhaps obsession with the Lady Anne altered the course of English politics, society and religion, much to the chagrin of Rome. There are many biographical versions of the tumultuous but passionate relationship between Henry and Anne, but the most logical and compelling was that Henry was madly in love.  He was no longer in love with his wife, Queen Katherine -  he resented her for what he perceived to be an inability to produce a male heir - and worked to find a way out of his marriage to be with Anne, who he saw as the solution to everything from birthing an heir to maintaining his youth, which he longed for.  Some might say that Harry had a bit of a mid-life crisis. 

 But Anne and Henry's desire for one another was the catalyst for tremendous social and political change in Britain.  This love affair did not end well for Anne, of course.  The same forces that helped her rise, turned against her and her family, initiated her downfall, and replaced her with the demure and Catholic Jane Seymour. As with Anne, this was all family ambition and politics at play.  Anne's family offered her more or less as a mistress to the King, like her sister before her, but Anne played her own game.  

Many if not most versions of this story portray Anne as someone who manipulated her way into the arms of the most powerful man in the world.  But closer examination of the political climate and Henry's personality tell a slightly different story.  Likely, they were passionately in love but the allure of the forbidden fruit wore off once Henry divorced Katherine and married Anne.  His whole purpose for papal reform was now irrelevant since he received what he wanted and so the political forces and noble families who desired a return to the church helped push that along by convincing Henry (who was still without a male heir) that the Boleyns needed to go.

He couldn't divorce Anne; he had no grounds.  So those around the King miraculously found him some grounds (adultry and incest - neither of which were true, but it was easy to bully courtiers into providing circumstantial evidence) and Anne stood trial, was found guilty and executed for treason against her love, the King of England. Thomas Boleyn, whose ambition led Anne to the chopping block, sacrificed his own daughter (and son) for power and property.  In the end, Anne sacrificed her life for the love of a King. Henry went on to four more wives. 

Then there is the story of Edward VIII and Mrs. Wallis Simpson.  400 hundred years after Anne's head was lopped off into a basket, David Windsor, King Edward VIII abdicated his throne when it was clear that neither his family nor Parliament nor the Cabinet would allow his marriage to the "woman he loved."  It was rumored that Mrs. Simpson began her relationship with David, who after abdicating became known as the Duke of Windsor, while still married to her second husband.  After David Windsor succeeded to the throne upon the death of his father, and took the name King Edward, Wallis was divorced from her husband.  It was clear the new King intended to marry Wallis. But a union with a twice married and twice divorced Amercian socialite from Pennsylvania nearly caused a British Constitutional crisis.

While not the ultimate sacrifice, King Edward VIII sacrificed the crown, his birthright and much of his livelihood (relatively speaking, of course - he lived in a palace for goodness sake) to marry the "woman he loved" in 1936.  (Or as his mother Queen Mary referred to Wallis Simpson, "that woman.")

His brother, Albert, who became King George VI then succeeded to the throne followed by HRH Queen Elizabeth II. Although formally known as the Duchess of Windsor, Wallis was not titled Her Royal Highness, but rather "Her Grace," a term reserved for non royal dukes and duchesses. The royal family was sure to keep "that woman" in her place and they did for many years as the couple traveled between homes in the US and Europe. 

While the story of Anne and Henry has always been compelling to me, now that I am binge watching The Crown on Netflix, the story of King Edward in particular, strikes a chord.  I hear refrains of "What I Did for Love" playing in my head from the Broadway musical, A Chorus Line.  There are those of thus who act with our hearts and those of us who do not.  In the end, I wonder who is happier?

We all know what happened in the marriage of Prince Charles and Diana Spencer.  What appears to be good on paper, isn't always so good.  When we enter into a relationship because it seems to "make sense" or "is the right thing to do" aren't we just setting ourselves up (those of us who live by our hearts instead of our heads) to be unfulfilled and resentful down the road?  Or is it the other way, that the relationships we enter with fire and passion end up fizzling when life gets in the way? Or is the best approach to find the fire and keep it lit with all the things that make sense - similar life passions, activities, respect, emotional support?

I don't know the answers.  That's why I'm asking.  If you haven't taken note of my track record, I'm super bad at this. 

Henry fought for his love of Anne for at least 6-7 years.  He changed the law, he changed religion.  And when she gave birth to Elizabeth and not a boy and then lost 2 pregnancies, Henry began to regret all he gave up for love.

It is difficult to tell if the Duke of Windsor regretted walking away from the royal life and the throne of England.  Certainly, it seems that he did not.  He loved his wife deeply and they made a very good life together.  

I've given up a lot for love.  If you read my posts, then you are probably someone who has as well.  Perhaps to most people, my great sacrifice isn't as great as my head or the crown. I gave all of me, gambled and lost the life I knew.  In the long run, maybe that's all all right. I don't know yet; I haven't hit the long run.  I'm still sprinting and trying to catch my breath.  

And despite my "great sacrifice," I'm willing to try it again.  Maybe I'm a hopeless or hopeful romantic or just a glutton for punishment.  I'll try to keep my head and I am more than willing to give up the crown to live a life filled with real love.  

"There is no remedy for love but to love more."

   -Henry David Thoreau.  

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A few months ago, my personal Yoda to whom I pay a sizable session fee just to listen to me prattle on for 50 minutes recommended that I make a list of my five deal makers and five deal breakers when it comes to a relationship. Clearly, he thinks I make bad choices. The must-haves and the must-not-haves.  And because I pay a sizable session fee, I do what he says.  I wrote my lists in my notebook of "Ridiculously Good Ideas" while taking a break from writing the last installment of my Trinity series, Rose of the Field this July.

The task took me a lot longer to complete than I had expected. At first, I tried to recall and draw upon every wonderful relationship I ever had and then every bad one.  But I realized, the exercise was not about comparisons.  If it was, and finding "Benjamin" was as easy as narrowing down the good and the bad of the past, then I would not spend so many nights hanging out with my cats, HGTV and wine. (*Recall: Benjamin is my future husband/love of my life/perfect match.  I know, it's been a while since we've talked, dear readers.  I've been distracted.)

As I wrote and scribbled and wrote and scribbled, I began to get frustrated because clearly the problem was me; I didn't know what I wanted.  Certainly, the deal breakers were pretty easy, especially since I consider myself a somewhat shallow person at times.  Roll your eyes all you want, but a lady has to have some standards.  I mean (Mom, earmuffs or blindfold or whatever will prevent you from passing out at my next statement), if there's no chemistry - and I don't mean just witty repartee - I mean the naked kind (I warned you, Mom) - then, no deal.  NO DEAL.

So that half of the exercise was easier, anyway.  But I was fairly hung up on the 5 Deal Makers.  Maybe part of my problem was I just don't know Paul Rudd that well (I kid, well, kind of.  He has been my "hall pass" ever since Clueless came out.) Or maybe the more likely problem was that I was afraid to commit to requirements that normal humans could not fulfill.  Me? Unreasonable? How could Benjamin exist if no real person could ever meet my standards?  

So I started easy with the shallow bits - handsome, fit, quick to smile and laugh - and then I moved on to the emotional, mushy stuff - kind, romantic, thoughtful- this is the basics, right?  Who doesn't want a handsome, romantic guy in their life?  I knew I had to dig a little deeper and decide who "Benjamin" was going to be to me and I came up with this:

                  Deal Maker #3: He is someone who will sit with me under the stars, have a few beers with me and we will talk about anything and everything from our future plans to favorite authors to our hopes and dreams to the stuff that really scares us.  And we will lose track of time, every time. 

                     Deal Maker #4: He is someone I will trust and adore because I will know that he would rather fall off a cliff than treat me with anything but love and respect.

                     Deal Maker #5: He is my true partner in everything.  My best friend, my truest love, my hero and my biggest fan.  He is my family and he is my home. He is my counselor and my coach, my protector and my confidante.

Even though I came up with this list in mid-July, I didn't get a chance to share it with Yoda until the beginning of September, after Labor Day because of scheduling issues.  He got a kick out of my Deal Breakers, for sure (I can be pretty witty and clever, even when I'm paying the bill).  They were serious, but perhaps they had a hint of a sarcasm added.  

And Yoda was particularly interested in my process for deciding upon these Deal Makers since they weren't the traditional ones - "loving, honest, patient, similar interests, etc..."

I explained that I decided that these were the things I wanted to be to someone else and so my chosen partner should be someone who is similar to me in that regard.  "And that person, whoever he is, has to meet all 5 of these. Four out of five is not going to be good enough," Yoda told me (and just so you know, he's wise like Yoda but without the weird, backward sentence structure.)  I agreed, mostly because my 50 minutes were up and I really had to use the bathroom after the Pomegranate tea I had been sipping on all session. 

As I got into my car and thought about that last part, I suddenly understood what he meant: If Benjamin doesn't fulfill each element of this wishlist, he's not going to be Benjamin to me.  He's not going to be "the One" because at some point, that compromise - maybe he isn't much of a talker, for example - is going to be the thing that causes a relationship rift.  Hey, it's happened before.  Now I get it!

And same thing with the Deal Breakers.  Saying, "maybe I can live with that" isn't going to work.  There really is no room to compromise.  One of my Deal Breakers (after no sexual chemistry - sorry Mom.  I do enjoy torturing you a little, though) is "doesn't want to do stuff I like to do."  I could say that's ok, because we can do other stuff, but eventually a rift will be created because I know I cannot truly give up those activities that I enjoy without feeling some resentment.  


Part of my fear initially with this whole exercise was I would try to mold the Deal Makers and Deal Breakers to fit a particular person in my life, to make that relationship make sense. But the good news is, I didn't do that.  One of the reasons I have been neglecting my oversharing with y'all (and suddenly, I'm from the South) is I have been distracted checking off boxes on my Deal Maker/Deal Breaker list. All I'm going to say is, it's going exceptionally well so far. And I'm terrified.

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I've been walking around with this "carpe diem," live for the moment attitude since January 2014.  When I really stop to think about what it was that caused me to begin muttering "F this sh*t" under my breath and paying attention to the breeze and freshly cut grass and the way my baby sighs in her sleep and giggles while dreaming, the way my heart would beat when I would run into a certain someone during my day, I know that it started when the phone call came that my beloved colleague, Susan had passed away.

In about 2007, Susan, who was in her early 50's, was diagnosed with cancer.  She assured us, she was going to be fine, would undergo chemotherapy, probably lose her hair, but she'd continue to work.  After all, her clients needed her and the attorneys with whom she worked needed her, and what good was it to stay home?  Sue took some time off and we missed her terribly, not just because she was a wonderful paralegal, but she was a lot of fun at work.  And when she returned, she came back with a cool wig and the nickname "Veronica Bald-Eagle."  Her attitude and spirit were amazing.  She didn't miss a beat.  

I assumed because of her near-miss with the Angel of Death her new spunky attitude had developed.  Every Friday, Susan would ask about my weekend plans.  I would share with her the things that were bugging me and like a crazy/cool aunt, her advice tended to sound like a Pinterest Meme - "Screw it, you've gotta go for it!"  "You hug that baby tight every day.  She'll be your every happiness." In response to complaints about a certain person in my life who did what she could for many years to drive me crazy, Susan would say things like, "Oh, what a loser.  You don't need that.  Who does she think she is?  You should just go tell her to F off."  Ok, maybe that one isn't going to be found on Pinterest.

I'd ask Sue what her weekend was going to entail and it was usually "beer and the dogs." She and her husband had recently become volunteers at a local animal shelter and fostered a number of dogs.  

Susan was always at work.  She rarely took a day off - not sick days, a few vacation days here and there in the summer.  Every day at lunch, she took a walk outside - even in the freezing cold. She participated in our fitness challenges at work. It was not until maybe October of 2013 when Susan began complaining of pain in her lower back that suddenly she stopped taking her walks.  She began to take some days off of work, but she would be back in the office as her normal cheerful self.  

Then right around Thanksgiving, Susan stopped coming in.  The speculation began about why.  No one really knew, and it was so unlike Susan to be "sick."  The weeks went on.  I emailed her a number of times to check in and see if she was all right.  She assured me that she was, that she had developed a kidney infection (or something), it was very "annoying" and she would be back very soon.  She wanted to check in on her files and make sure I was ready to argue in front of the Appellate Division.  She wanted to know how Anna was doing and whether we were planning to take her on vacation soon.  She wanted to make sure everyone at the office was "ok."  She wanted to know how my book signings were going for Trinity  She wanted to know whether Tiffany and Will were ready to perform their skits for the holiday party and if I knew what they were going to do.

Susan missed the firm holiday party.  She never returned to the office.  And that January, we lost her.

What we learned after her passing from the few people at the office who knew was that Susan was told soon after her she ended her first round of chemotherapy, that it essentially didn't work.  The cancer had spread all over her body and she had maybe 6-9 months to live, perhaps a year.  That was in 2008.  

She could undergo more radiation and other therapies that might prolong her life a little longer, but the sickness and side effects from these drugs would be miserable.  Susan wasn't having it.  And more  importantly, she wasn't going to start the process of dying - she would start living.

I truly believe it was her positive attitude and refusal to acknowledge what was happening inside her body that gave her an additional 5 years.  Until the end, she was free of pain and able to enjoy her life.   She never gave the cancer any power over her.  Susan didn't tell us because she didn't want to be treated differently and she didn't want anyone asking her about it.  While many of us would share this sort of thing, perhaps looking for support and comfort, Susan was more concerned about upsetting us.  She didn't want anyone to feel badly for her.

Her death hit me hard. Maybe it was because I didn't know anything until the end.  I don't know if that made it better or worse, ultimately.  But at this point in my life, I had come to a spot where I was feeling a little lost both personally and professionally. I was unhappy at home and at work with no definable reason why. So I may have thought more deeply about Susan.  She wished me a "wonderful weekend" and reminded me to "hug that baby tight" and to tell her "how much she is loved" every Friday because she knew how precious time and life were.  Where I lived my life with calendars and schedules and planning, Susan was just excited to open her eyes to the sun every morning.  She had it right; I was living my life the wrong way.

So I told myself that I was going to live for the moment.  I was going to say the things I needed to say. I wasn't going to be afraid.  I wasn't going to hold back.  I was going to pursue the things that fueled the fire inside of me. I was going to live the life I wanted to live and not the one that was thrust upon me.  

Over the last few years, I have struggled mightily to "do the right thing" while still being true to myself.  I haven't always made the best decisions or handled things well, but I found my voice, for certain. I discovered the life I want to live.  I found the people I want in this life of mine and identified those people who no longer belong here. 

I have a new appreciation for time.  I am so grateful when someone chooses to spend their time with me.  Time is all we have so we have to make the very best of it.  I think that is the biggest lesson Susan taught me.

I still think about Sue often and the beautiful note she wrote to Anna on her first birthday: "Happy birthday Anna Ballerina.  I hope you always dance, Love Sue Hughes."  From Sue, Anna received her very first leotard, tutu and ballet slippers as well as a video of Swan Lake. I know Susan would have loved to watch Anna dance.

I keep that note in Anna's dresser drawer where we keep her tights and leotards.  Every so often, I reach for it and read it for inspiration.  To remind myself to be brave like Susan.  To rise above the bullshit and live my life.  To love every day and love every one (except legit assholes.  As Sue would say, "they can go F themselves.") To say what I really mean to say.  To live without regrets - to not look back and wish I had or wish I hadn't.  To smile and keep going.  To appreciate every moment.



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I happened to be cleaning out my coat closet recently. Actually, I was digging around for something I knew had to be in there, and that turned into a cleaning project, which then devolved into another "Ugh! I'll do it later" project when I realized just how much crap was in there.  Anyway, point is, in the closet were these silver candle sticks belonging to my father. Tarnished and partially broken candle sticks.

The history of the candle sticks isn't as interesting as I imagined it would be when my father insisted I go all the way back to his house in the middle of no-where and search for them.  About 5 years ago, we cleaned out my dad's house as he was ready to move to CT for a new adventure.  A lot was left - pieces of our childhood like trophies, plaques, books, toys.  My father is what they call a "hoarder" (among other DSM titles).  He keeps everything.  He finds things - on the road, outside "give away" bins, Flea Markets - and he keeps them because "someone could use this."

"This is a great piece of chain.  A farmer would really appreciate this," was his reply to the question: "dad, why is there a rusty chain on the floor in the living room?"  

But the fact that he was so adamant that I find these silver candlesticks that were in his family for years led me to believe they had value, both monetary and sentimental.  Plus, my father had very little from his parents.  I never knew his father and his mother, my grandma Lillian, passed away when I was 3 years old.  His family history has always been a bit of a mystery since he was an only child.  

I recovered the candle sticks, which were exactly where he described they would be - in his front coat closet, wrapped in newspaper in a Bloomingdale's shopping bag.  Both the papers and the bag were probably from 1974 and were appropriately deteriorating.  I called my father to alert him to my success and to find out what I should do with the candle sticks. He told me I should keep them, but I might want to polish them since they are so old.  It just so happened that I had silver polish so I was ready for this restoration project, honored that my father chose to pass these family heirlooms to me.  I carefully unwrapped the candlesticks.  For silver, they seemed rather lightweight.  As I inspected these relics of family history, I recognized there are some missing pieces to their story. So I got back on the phone with my father.

Now in fairness, I assumed the importance of and story behind these candlesticks since my dad kept nagging me about recovering them.  Accordingly, I was surprised by the fact that the only significance of these dusty, rusty candlesticks was my dad liked them. Some family member had given them to his mother as a hostess gift probably in the 1950's and he just liked them.  They reminded him of life in the Bronx and in his family home in Lake Hiawatha, NJ. That's it.  

I assumed these were "Holocaust candlesticks," carried through Hungary or Austria by someone in our family as they escaped the Nazis and certain death, and then passed along to my grandmother.  Pure silver and the only thing of value our family could carry with them as they came to America.  Nope.  Just  cheap, silver-plated decorations.  And now, I have them in my front closet. (with everything else...)

Thinking about those candlesticks and the stuff we keep, I had a great conversation with one of my oldest and dearest friends (and he will certainly remind me that I am older than him, but we have known each other since the first day of Rutgers Freshman Orientation in August 1994 and managed to come in and out of each other's lives since then).  I asked the question: "Aside from people and pets, your house is on fire, what do you grab?" My answer was my baby blanket from my grandfather because it's my favorite thing.

The question led to a side conversation about favorite childhood things and my friend offered that he recently reclaimed his Fisher Price record player from his parents' house.  His family is very talented, very musical and some of his fondest memories were listening to records on the beige and white record player.  I had one and I remembered exactly what it looked like.  I recalled singing and dancing in my bedroom for hours to my records.  Perhaps between the ages of 4-6, the record I listened to most was the one pictured above - the Original Cast Recording of Sesame Street.  I knew all the words to all the songs on both the A and B sides.  

And that brings me back to my dad's house:  when it was time to check to make sure all the most important things were either claimed by him, my sisters or me, or appropriately stored or discarded, I went back to the house and grabbed this record.  I left the trophies, the plaques, the accomplishments.  I left books and even photos.  I took my first memory of "performing" for an "audience."  I would build a stage in my room out of wooden blocks and line up my stuffed animal audience to watch me.  I would sing and dance for them for hours, turning the record over and over and replaying the songs.  

There were a lot of difficult and even terrible memories in that house.  A LOT.  Throughout my life, I turned to writing and music to drown out the horrible things and celebrate the beautiful things and I still do that.  My Sesame Street record reminded me only of good memories.  I bought a record player and surprised myself that I still knew the words to most of the songs (can't find my keys or cell phone that were in my hands five seconds ago, but song lyrics from 1980, those I got...)

I shared my record with my daughter, who was not nearly as interested as I imagined she would be.  When she is a little older, I will explain to her why this very old thing was so important to me and maybe, just maybe she will keep it along with grandpa's candle sticks.  

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For the first time in probably 10 years, I had no plans for the Fourth of July holiday weekend.  July 4th is my second favorite holiday, right behind New Years' Eve.  While New Years' has always been symbolic of a "new beginning" to me, the Fourth of July has always stood as a reminder of my youth - carefree summers, friends, warm sun and summer romances. I'm a fairly patriotic person, love my country and all that, but July 4th has always meant more to me than celebrating our nation's Independence. What's more fun than a beach clambake or a BBQ?  What is more romantic than kissing under a sky filled with fireworks?

I didn't realize I would be alone this holiday weekend until it was already too late to make new plans, although I tried.  Through heavy sighs (maybe some tears too - don't judge me, I just told you how much I love this damned holiday) I resigned myself to celebrating Independence Day by myself in my own way.  Perhaps I would try to re-create the July 4th of my youth.  Or more likely, I would stay home, do laundry, move some furniture around, do some writing and hope for a last minute invitation somewhere. Most likely, I would crack open a bottle of something and feel sorry for myself. 

I completed all of the chores on my list - I even moved a piano from the carpeted family room into the more formal living room.  That was my shining accomplishment for the weekend.  Really, it was. I watched some adult movies (no, not those you perverts.  Movies that don't star Barbie or a talking creature.)  I finally got to see Deadpool, for example. And while I enjoyed the movies (sort of) and a bottle of 2013 Reverie Cabernet Franc (definitely) my alone time wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  I had a terrible case of FOMO ("fear of missing out" for those of you without access to Urban Dictionary).because I knew the rest of the world was enjoying fireworks, BBQ, family and friends while I sat home alone with a cat, wine and On-Demand.  Clearly this was the universe punishing me for all of the terrible life choices I have made. Clearly, I would have to take action to fix this situation, because although the days are longer, hotter and sunnier now, New Years Eve is really only 6 months away and sitting home, alone is not going to be an option.  Time to re-create.

Re-creating myself and my life was much easier at 18 or 28 because then, it was just me and really, my life was just beginning.  First, I was in college so there was a ton of opportunity to find myself and I did. I found an amazing group of women in my sorority, Delta Gamma and that led me to student government and even my first professional position after graduation.  At 28, I was a new lawyer.  I found a great clerkship which led to the wonderful firm to which I remain affiliated 12 years later. So despite personal set backs during those periods in time, I had enough opportunity to eventually come out of my funk and create a life for myself.

But now, I have a child and a mortgage and an expensive taste in handbags.  Re-creating myself requires a whole new procedure and protocol than it did years ago. 

I should be more clear - re-creating myself does not mean that I become someone new.  I tried that.  It didn't work.  Slowly, the real me began to creep out from behind the character I was attempting to portray and slowly, I realized I could not longer maintain this facade any longer - my soul was rotting from the inside, literally.  I had all sorts of digestive issues brought on by the stress of trying to pretend I was someone that I most certainly am not. When I finally made the dangerous choice to cut it out and  start acting like myself again, miraculously, the stomach problems went away.  When I began to surround myself with the people who do not simply tolerate the real me, but accept the real me and in some ways understand me, life became a little easier (in some ways, anyway).

But because of all of these revelations, I'm now alone on major holidays.  Depressing, but it is what it is.  So how can I re-create?  I just spent the week with my daughter at her national dance competition.  This year it happened to be in Long Beach Island, NJ.  Growing up, my family did not vacation at the NJ Shore so my only familiarity was through other friends and family as I got older.  In fact, I even lived in Ocean County briefly while I was in law school and studying for my bar exam.

Based on our time this past week, I recognized one thing I can do is re-create summer vacation for us and I believe I found a nice beach.  Having only been to LBI once while in college, I had no real memories there.  Now I do.  I have a great memory of Anna "summoning" the waves to crash on the shore as if she was conducting a magic spell.  We had fun in the sand, pretending we were "real builders" responsible for a new magical castle for the princess.  We even played "Master Chef" creating and judging various sandy dishes made in clam shells. The beach was beautiful, clean, uncrowded and the water was uncharacteristically clear.  We even saw dolphins not far off the beach. I'm not a "beach vacation" person, although relaxing for a few days is not so bad.  So I've already started planning for next summer.  A few days on a beach.  Check.

This re-creation is going to be a slow, piece-by-piece process.  It's about creating and re-creating routines and letting go of what was.  I am only now understanding the art of re-creating. .I have so many wonderful memories of the past ten years, and I will always remember them fondly, but now it's time to make new ones. I'll always be grateful for what I had, but now it is time to take stock of what I have.

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At age 38, I ran my first 5K. Not everyone may believe that to be a tremendous accomplishment.  To me, it was.  Having grown up with chronic asthma, distance running was not my best sport. On and off, I ran - for sports practice, or even for a hot five minutes one summer in college.  But that was just an excuse to stalk the guy I liked as I would run by his fraternity house at the same time each day in my skimpy sports bra when I knew he and his brothers would be sitting on the porch.  If I made it 5 blocks, I would be surprised. Yes, i was that girl.  (Didn't work anyway.) 

I dreaded cross-country in gym class, because in order to get an A, i had to run an under 10-minute mile. Short legs and asthma were not the best combination to accomplish this goal. And of course my competitive nature forced me to not just meet this qualification, but exceed it.  So I did it in 9 minutes as I recall and then my mom had to come to pick me up because I had an asthma attack soon after crossing the finish line, despite taking more puffs than advised of my inhaler.  Painful and embarrassing.

If you have asthma, you know it is terrible.  For me, it was often debilitating.  It affected every activity and decision I made, even into college.  I was sick, really sick, a lot.  If I caught a cold, likely that would turn into bronchitis.  In college, I was having trouble breathing for a few days, I could barely sleep or eat, and when I was gasping for air, I finally went to a doctor close to campus who took one look at me and sent me to a specialist.  The specialist took one look and admitted me to the hospital where I remained plugged into oxygen and medications for more than a week.  By the time I made it to St. Peter's hospital, my boyfriend had to carry me from the car because I was too weak to walk on my own.  I felt like I was drowning in the ocean with a 1000 pound stone on my chest. A little asthma trouble turned into pneumonia.  My doctor told me I was lucky I came in when I did, because I could have died.  What?  From asthma? 

Luckily, I found the right specialist and he set me on a course with the right medications and treatment.  Asthma was always annoying at the very least, but I didn't know it could be deadly.  And once I was released from the hospital to rehab and bed rest, after already missing the first week and a half of my last senior semester of college, bloated and puffy from Prednisone and whatever cocktail of drugs they fed me, I decided asthma was not going to be the death of me.  Not then.  Not ever.

But I also became very cautious, probably overly cautious.  I stopped exercising.  I quit smoking (yeah, duh.  Seems like a no brainer, right?) and made my boyfriend quit too.  I stayed inside in air conditioning as much as possible.  After all, allergens like pollen, mold and animals would trigger my asthma.  Walking up stairs or walking outside in the cold also would trigger an attack.  Activities like running and swimming were certainly out of the question.  Forget soccer or hiking. Even my love of tennis took a hit.  Ever have an asthma attack in the middle of sex?  Oh, I have.  It's not oh, oh, oh - awesome. (I hope my parents aren't reading this - oh well, bygones).  I basically gave up doing anything strenuous.

So fast forward from 1998 to 2011.  I organize and run the wellness and fitness challenges for my office.  it's fun and I enjoy helping other people reach their fitness goals.  We started them after I had my daughter in 2011.  I had gained 45 pounds with her at the age of 35 and while perhaps 10 years earlier, losing extra weight was easy, this extra weight was not easy to lose.  So I organized these challenges to help motivate myself to move.  My asthma had been under control for many years so I had no other excuse than perhaps a lack of time.  In the fall of 2012, I began training with amazing personal trainers and the weight started coming off.  I started taking lyrical ballet classes. An extra 20 pounds I'd been carrying for a year disappeared in about 8 months.  I was feeling pretty good. Sure I resigned myself to wearing "mom bathing suits" - one pieces and tankinis - because I may have been in better shape, but I still had a mom body.  But I felt fit and I was.

In 2013, we started a running team at the firm as part of our wellness initiatives.  We had some fairly fit people who enjoyed running, my youngest sister included. They all seemed to have a ball competing together in 5K races throughout the community, representing our law firm.  They trained together after work too. Then the question was asked of me: 
"When are you going to join us?" Me: "Oh, I don't run. I have asthma. I can't run. I don't like to run..."

My excuses were embarrassing. So I took my co-worker's advice and started running that summer.  It was very difficult for me and at most I could do about a mile in 15 minutes before wheezing, needing my inhaler and giving up.  Running just wasn't for me.  So that fall, I picked up tap dancing instead.  But there was a bit of shaming going on in my office since I was asking others to participate as part of our run team, but I didn't participate.

"Fine," I said, "I'll run a race in the spring with you guys if you'll leave me alone. Don't expect much.  I really can't run."  

So that spring, I began working on my running with a wonderful app called Couch to 5K.  It was exactly what I needed.  It took me slowly from walking to running a full 3 miles.  In my life, I think the longest distance I had ever run was 2 miles.  Lo and behold another 7 pounds fell off my body.  I was strong, toned and could actually see my abs again!

And then the second weekend in June, with asthma inhaler in hand, I ran my first 5K in 30:38.  Not setting the world on fire.  But I did it.  And now I was hooked.  I was a runner. I spent the summer running - not long distances, just enough to keep me in shape.  I ran on the beach in Watch Hill and through the neighborhoods in Mystic, where I spent most of my summer.  By my next 5K that fall, I had shaved a full 2 minutes from my time - I was able to run a 28:34 5K.  Still carrying my inhaler like a security blanket, but running a little faster.  By spring of 2015, I ran that same June 5K in 27:43.

This year, I could only participate in one race due to scheduling issues and I had a limited opportunity to train thanks to crummy weather and time conflicts, but I managed to run that June race in 28:19.  Although I missed my goal of besting last year's time for that race, I accomplished another goal - I ran without my inhaler this spring.

Now to add to this story, I can tell you that just about every homeowner in the neighborhoods through which we ran decided that this was the morning to mow their lawn.  Information I did not have when I started the race and forced myself to leave the inhaler in the car.  Having battled allergies all spring, perhaps this wasn't the day to run without it, but for some reason I needed to prove to myself that I could - that after years of being on proper medication and being fit, I didn't need this crutch.  

​Unfortunately, I absolutely could have used it during this race.  By mile 2, I thought I might have to stop running. I was getting worried.  I was upset and I was having a hard time breathing.  I was coughing and wheezing and working hard at convincing myself I would be ok.  I had taken an inhaler hit before the race and all my medicine.  But what if I had a full blown asthma attack? What if I had to stop running? I started to feel that drowning feeling in my chest.

And then a musical miracle occurred.  My girlfriend, Felicia, had shared an awesome Dance Fit playlist with me, which I was enjoying immensely because it reminded me of our fun hip-hop dance class and not of how difficult running was for me.  Suddenly, a dance version of John Legend's "All of Me" popped into my ear buds.  The regular version of the song has special meaning to me because we dance to it often in my lyrical class while we are working on technique.  I started to sing it - not loud, but out loud to myself: "You're my downfall, you're my muse, my worse distraction, my rhythm and blues..." and so on. I stopped coughing; I stopped wheezing and I picked up my pace.  I took a deep breath in of the air around me and I kept going.  I was a runner now and that's what runners do. Just breathe and keep going.

Even at the time, I recognized the life metaphor, and it's a good one. But even better, the Prince Royce song, "Back It Up," started playing and I started dancing a little as I hit the last half mile of the race, up a steep hill and through a cemetery (talk about metaphors!).  I was "dropping' it down and backin' it up right" right to the end. And when I finally crossed the finish line, 36 seconds slower than last year, I was smiling (after I threw up - every race, I throw up at the end.  I don't know why.  But now it's a thing.  A very gross thing, but my thing, nonetheless.) Big smile.  

​I found my soon to be brother in law, Mario who had completed the race about 5 minutes ago.  He asked: "How'd you do, sis?" And I told him, "I think I did ok." But I knew I did better than ok. I finally, truly learned how to just take a breath and keep going.  

Even when I can barely breathe, I know now, I can just keep going and be ok.  I think it's funny that the co-workers who shamed me into running have no idea how they have changed my life.  And I'm immensely grateful.

Please excuse my absence over the past few weeks; I have been a busy little dance mom.  Synergy Dance Company, where both my munchkin and I spend much of our time learning and growing as dancers and people, had its recital at our local county college last weekend.  Last night, they held the end of the year awards banquet for the competition troupe and I had the privilege of once again awarding one amazing dancer a dance scholarship for next year. This is the time of year I realize just how grateful I am to be a part of such an amazing group.

Choosing this year's recipient, Miss Julia, was not difficult (especially since I created this scholarship and the criteria for it.)  When I joined my first Synergy adult class in the fall of 2012, even before Anna became a tiny dancer, I noticed and appreciated the family environment Synergy offered.  This was not your typical cut-throat, competitive dance studio.  Yes, they offer an audition only competition troupe, but I learned quickly that the family atmosphere extends to the troupe.  These are girls who genuinely like each other, help each other and cheer for each other. They warm my heart.

So when I had to make a choice for the scholarship, it wasn't easy. But over the course of this year, Julia emerged as a leader, a team player and a true role model for the younger girls. When drama and some unrest struck the dance school in the early winter with one of the competition dancers abruptly leaving the studio completely, Julia helped calm the very upset teenagers.  Despite the disruption, Julia led her team to a place at Nationals this year with grace and maturity.  

Yesterday's troupe banquet made me even more proud to be a part of the Synergy team and to have my daughter a part as well.  The kindness extends from every teacher to every student down to the parents. They are as grateful for us as we are for them and that makes the difference.  Attitude.  They even got us Dance Mom flasks...cause they know us so well.  (kind of an inside joke, but what person sitting for hours, for days on end in an auditorium at a dance competition with hundreds of kids wouldn't wish they had a hidden wine somewhere?)

The kids are terrific too. Well mannered and they all watch out for the littlest dancers.  There is no need for "helicopter parenting" at Synergy.  An older girl always has a little one by the hand, and I know that older girl takes her responsibility seriously. They are fully aware that the little dancers look up to them and each of them rises to the occasion with both behavior and attitude - and with a number of teenagers, you'd expect there to be some issues.  Of course, with mostly girls, we do have our disagreements and squabbles here and there, but they quickly pass. 

And I cannot say enough about the "Red Hot Mamas" in my adult classes.  We have a wonderful friendship and energy that I am so grateful for. These ladies are each so incredible and the time we spend together flies by.  No matter the mood I come in with, I always leave with a full heart and a smile. 

Pardon, the gushing, but my dance studio is amazing.  Thank you Ms. Kerri, Ms. Heather, Ms. Becki and all the teachers and families who make it a fabulous second home. We had a beautiful recital and now, onward to Nationals!  

I still recall all the instances throughout my life where I would come home crying because someone at school was talking smack about me. Kids can be cruel; we all know that.  My parents used to tell me that the kids who were mean to me were jealous that they were not like me. They explained that those kids wished they were as smart as me or as well-rounded as me (really parents? The haters wished they were more "well-rounded?").  Maybe those mean kids wished they were me (Again, really parents? They wished they were 4'8" tall and barely 75 pounds? Really?)

While I doubted my parent's explanations as to why a group of eighth grade boys felt it was a good time in our lives to subject me to daily torture, I did learn something valuable - sometimes, people are just a*#holes. There is no justifying it.  They just are. Maybe they were in some way envious of me, but ultimately, they were just complete jerks. 

But now we are adults (some of us, anyway) and required to be accepting of so many people from different walks of life. And yet, there are still haters.  We're nice to them, they are nice to our faces and behind our backs they are throwing darts at us.  They are "frenemies." Pretend friends who are waiting patiently to knock us off whatever pedestal they perceive holds us above them. They are people who take great pleasure in others' misfortune.  They are the "did you hear about...?" people.  The first person to report on gossip and spread a rumor regardless of how hurtful, true or damaging it might be. 

At times, we all enjoy a good dose of gossip and we all know that one person who seems to always be "in the know." But I've come to realize that the "did you hear..." person is a dangerous person when you are on the other side of that sentence.

Just like when I was a kid wondering why the boys were picking on me, I've started wondering again why there is this need for people to concern themselves with other's business and spread gossip. I consider it a non-aggressive form of bullying.  Certainly, these people aren't acting this way out of kindness for the subject of their gossip. 

When we were in high school, these girls ran in packs.  Luckily, I never did anything interesting back then to serve as the subject of their gossip.  As adults, separated from their original flocks, these women tend to find each other, but they are fairly harmless.  The ones who are not are the guys and girls desperate to fit in who latch onto others and attempt to provide the impression that "they know stuff." And if they don't really know it, they will either find out or fill in the blanks with what they think you want to know or hear. They disguise themselves as helpful friends full of information about everyone else.  One day, they are sharing information about you.  And they do this because they believe it furthers their own status with the people with whom they share. 

These aren't the mean "haters" who call other people names behind their backs. These are mean spirited people who await opportunity to undermine other people's reputations in order to further their own.  They get into our business, because mistaking them as caring friends, we let them in.  Then, we are surprised that we end up at the other end of the "did you hear..." question. 

Sadly, my realization is that not everyone is my friend and too many people simply cannot mind their own business.  Purported concern turns out to be an information gathering opportunity for an afternoon session of "did you hear..." at the coffee machine. It's poisonous. It's dangerous. And yet many of us fall prey to these people, repeatedly.

Just like in middle school, haters gonna hate, but now they do it with a smile.  I suppose the lesson here is to recognize that at any time, you can be the subject of  the "did you hear..." person.  But when we provide them with an audience, we validate their existence.  My advice, walk away and reply, "no and I don't want to hear."

Not everyone is a jerk, but as I get older and wiser, I'm able to better identify those who are.  As a mom, I'm not going to lie to my child if and when kids are mean to her or talk about her behind her back. Yes, perhaps they are envious, but the reality is, they're jerks.  Little jerks grow up to be big jerks.  Better to know that and avoid them in the future.

​###

Perhaps like many people, for quite sometime, I have begun my day with a quick scouring of my Facebook newsfeed for what I may have missed during my 8 restful hours of sleep.  Admittedly, it's where I pick up much of my morning news.  Which celebrities died. What adorable things cats are up to. What weird thing the Donald said this time.  You know, the important information we all need to know to properly start our days. 

I tend to scroll through liking stuff - pictures of kids holding up certificates for being awesome, quotes about "strength" in the face of life's challenges, pretty much any post with a cat (I have a thing for cats). And of course I post tons of pictures of my little munchkin dancing and being her generally cute self. I do this among the community of sharing that social media has created.

And with my posts, I rarely ever stop to ask myself "has Facebook had enough of my kid's dance moves today?"  Two reasons: 1) Who could really ever get enough of her? I mean, come on, she's freaking adorable; and 2) If you don't like it and I've somehow offended your newsfeed with #annabanana overkill, you can avoid my posts (and if you don't know how, I'm not telling...you will suffer through another cute picture of my kid like my 5000 other Facebook BFFs - ->inject evil laugh here)

Well, I have recently decided that I need a Facebook break, personally.  There is nothing to read into here.  I just need to step out for a moment.  I realize I created a great stir with changing my name on my personal page.  Some people reached out to find out why and the answer is simple, it's my personal page and I want to keep it separate from my public pages.  That's all.  

So knowing that the Social Media world is abuzz (maybe not the whole world, but a couple people seem very interested) with my name change controversy, I decided to explain why I'm stepping back from the personal page a bit.  Shocker alert - not everyone on my Facebook friend list is actually a friend. I've just decided it's time to be more mindful of my personal posts which are shared among a large number of contacts - family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. Not everyone really knows me or gets me.

Clearly, I live much of my life out loud.  Like it or not, that's just who I am.  I'm not apologizing.  But I do recognize that if you don't live in my house or my brain, some of my posts may generate speculation about what I actually mean . Why would I post a certain photo or quote? Why did I change my profile or cover photo?  There's probably no hidden agenda at all.  I like to switch stuff up.

Here's a question: why does anyone care?  Seriously.  I'm not posing this question to be mean or snarky.  Why should a Facebook friend of a friend of a friend who I met one time at the friend of a friend's backyard BBQ 3 years ago where we hit it off about whatever care about how many selfies I post of my kid and me?  Why should she wonder what's going on in my home life based on a hashtag I may have used or a quote I shared?

And here's the thing: she doesn't really care.  She's not concerned about my life in the least.  If she was, she would reach out and say "hey, I hope everything is ok. Saw you changed your name on FB" with a winky face and kissy face emojis - as many friends actually did. (And I probably disappointed a great many when I explained that I was uncomfortable getting friend requests from total strangers.) 

My Facebook friend of a friend of a friend I met at the friend of a friend's backyard BBQ 3 years ago cares about herself and her family and maybe her very few close friends. That's it. What makes my posts so intriguing is that social media allows us to see into the lives of people we really don't know and compare our own lives..  "Wow, so and so is getting chunky!" "Did you see how amazing so and so looks?" "Looks like trouble in paradise for so and so..."  "Did you hear what happened to so and so? How awful." 

We are voyeurs, spying on other people, comparing ourselves, feeling good that whatever happened to them didn't happen to us, feeling badly about ourselves that so and so can still look so freaking amazing after having a litter of kids (you know who you are, you sexy bitch!), feeling anxious that our good friends are supporting this one or that one in the Presidential race, feeling envious of so and so's "perfect" life, family and dog.  Actually, it's not really spying -we're all sharing aspects of our lives with people we probably would never have either the interest or ability to interact with in "regular life." 

I share my blog posts because I know how it feels to believe I'm the only jerk out there with certain feelings, insecurities, passions, or fears. There is a cathartic effect to sharing in this way that I appreciate and I do hope what I share is meaningful to those of you who read it.  Perhaps to some of you, my posts are a great source for gossip.  If I'm being truly honest, that hurts, but hey, I'm the idiot with a blog so knock yourselves out.  

For all my criticism of Facebook and the folks hanging out there, I am an admitted addict and voyeur. I do love being able to tune in and see the amazing things people are doing and their kids are doing.  I love baby goat videos and cat videos and pretty much anything Taylor Swift does (or her cats for that matter). I love that so many people in my social network have been able to re-create their professional lives with direct sales and social media marketing.  That is remarkable.  I also love that my first book, Trinity became an Amazon best seller through the power of social media - and fingers crossed, we can get Queen Makers there too (did you pre-order your Kindle edition???) And I love that we have broader awareness of social issues and opportunities to give to charities and to help others with Go Fund Me drives and the like.  

This is a tough decision for me.  While I have my Facebook friend twice removed probably texting gossip about the true intentions of my posts on one hand, I have all these great benefits of social media on the other.  Despite all the pros though, I'm still going to take a break - just a breather to spend more time building my public pages.  Given the volume of cute kids, cats and goats in your newsfeed, I doubt you'll miss me all that much. Be sure to tune in and follow my "Lauren D. Fraser" author page, my "Trinity of Kirana" page and of course "Full Court Mom" page. I'll still overshare, don't worry. 

###

I have been at a loss for words or more specifically, the right words for the last two weeks.  Certainly, I have been busy juggling - I presented at a large New Jersey lawyers conference to hundreds of attorneys continuing their educations; I put the final touches on my novel, Queen Makers and created a loose publicity time line with my amazing publicist; I am creating programming for yet two more conferences; and I have been rehearsing for my upcoming recital in addition to shuffling my little peanut to her dance rehearsals and social engagements.

 To add to that, this Monday, I suffered a rather surprising and debilitating injury to my right eye. Naturally, I chose to share my misfortune with my friends and family on social media because, dammit, I wanted sympathy and also I needed a public announcement that a) I couldn't see, b) whatever people were asking of me would have to wait and c) I could use a ride...anywhere.  

For those of you who need a good laugh, I took a tennis ball in the eye - directly in my eye.  Literally, did not see it coming. Gives "keep your eye on the ball" a whole new meaning. Terribly embarrassing and worse, painful.  Although my vision is still quite blurry, turns out I will live and hopefully see just fine once this steroid wonder-drug kicks in.

In between the busy stuff  and temporary blindness, during those rare quiet moments, I have been thinking about regrets.  I have more of them than I did a year ago and they haunt me.  It is unnerving.  And I'm not including rushing the net for a volley in the eye as a regret, yet.

I was a big, big fan of "Ally McBeal" when it was on television.  One of the lines I adopted was "bygones."  The character, Richard would say something off the cuff or without diplomacy and follow the statement with "bygones."  So, for whatever reason, I picked up the phrase.  It became a way for me to articulate that I had moved passed a particular issue or that I didn't really care that someone was spreading rumors about me, for example.  "Really? She said that about me?  Huh.  Well, bygones."  Everyone deserves a free pass once in a while, right?

One of the reasons I have been able to live with so few regrets is my deep and full mental adoption of letting go.  Not always forgiving and forgetting, but more like a refusal to spend too much energy worrying about negative events or people.  Of course, I don't ignore bad things or bad people, but bygones had become my way of looking ahead and moving on.

The last few weeks have been a challenge to my bygone methodology.  My regrets came upon me like that contagious stomach virus I suffered through in March - suddenly, violently and traumatically.  All of a sudden, I was faced with all of the consequences of decisions I made all at the same time.  Trying to tackle them all at once became impossible because one seemed to feed off another.  I couldn't offer "bygones" to anyone or any thing because I couldn't see the other side of the problem.  I was unable to push forward.

Instead of trying a little harder to move on, I went with plan B; listen to Adele records (yes, I said records.  Of course I have her on vinyl), sing loudly and pretend all of the demons attacking my well being never existed.  I wished them away.  I wished X never happened; I wished I never met Y; I wished I never said Z; I wished I hadn't gone to A; I wished I hadn't done B...  Poof! None of it ever happened.  Automatic bygones. No need for regrets.  No need for overly solicitous apologies.  Just moving on. 

Well, plan B is a failure.  First of all, some Adele songs are kind of hard to sing.  I just don't have her range - even in the shower where I am a true rock star. But second, I realized I can't really wish away this pack of regrets because they aren't true regrets.  They - the events, the people involved - are actually the catalysts to the changes coming in my life.  Without the most recent chaos in my life disrupting my status quo, I wouldn't have moved toward this goal of a more satisfying and fulfilling life.  I would have continued marching forward in quiet misery, disregarding my most basic emotional needs.

I don't want to wish any of it away after all.  I'm not willing to hand out free passes this time either.  I am willing to close the door - I'm not throwing away the key so fast, but the door is closed so that I can open the next one.  I may be half blind, but I'm smarter. I'm stronger and in the musical words of Elle Woods, "I feel so much better than before." Bygones.

​###

April Fools! This title is a complete misrepresentation of my Friday morning.  The opposite happened; I lost my match...again. More precisely, my sister and I lost together at First Doubles to a very nice team of women that we should have decisively beaten.  But I did look pretty cute in my new skirt and top, so there's that.  (And yes, I do own a selfie-stick, every self respecting "look-at-me-girl" should.)

My younger sister is an excellent tennis player.  In fact, both of my younger sisters are excellent tennis players.  Both had terrific high school records and went on to play Division-I College tennis on scholarships.  And there is me.  I was a decent high school player.  My doubles partner and I even won our Interscholastic League tournament and the county title.  Of course, that was 24 years ago, but who's counting?

I probably picked up a tennis racket for the first time when I was 10 or 11 years old because both of my parents liked to play and I wanted to try tennis too.  I had no training, other than what my dad showed me and whatever little I picked up in gym class.  But I was athletic - remarkably so for a runt - and I picked up skills rather easily.  But tennis is unlike any other sport, except maybe golf.  The nuances of the skills you need to succeed are practically endless.  And it can be so frustrating.  One miscalculation and you lose a point.

It was not until fall of 1989 that those nuances actually became important.  That was the moment in 8th grade I recognized that I was no longer going to be able to play boys' soccer. Back then, neither my grammar school nor the high school I was planning to attend had a girls' soccer team.  So, since I had no interest in getting hit with sticks in field hockey, I joined the boys' soccer team in 6th grade.  I was ok.  Not a stand out, too small, and not overly skilled.  I was good enough.  I played JV, mostly and then some Varsity in 7th and 8th grade.  I was a forward and scored here and there - most likely when the goalie tripped over himself or fell asleep on the job.  I was good enough, but not good enough to play Varsity soccer on an all boys high school, which was exactly what the high school coach told me when he came to scout my team.  Like ever.  He wouldn't play girls on Varsity. At least he was honest.

So, I went home and cried.  I railed against the "system" and "the man."  And then my dad suggested, "Why don't you try to play tennis?"  Huh.  I never thought of that.  Up until that point, I thought tennis was just something we played at the public courts or rich people played in Florida. Tennis?  Brilliant! 

That spring and summer, I think I played every day for hours with my dad, who is unpleasant to deal with as an athletic coach.  But he did his best, picked up every Vic Braden book he could find from the library, and started teaching me about top-spin, slicing and ground strokes.  He put rackets in my 11 year old and 5 year old sisters hands.  He was on a mission. He was going to make us into tennis players.

Sure enough, I made Varsity as a freshman - sort of.  I started the season playing second doubles after winning enough games in our ladder match challenges, but was just not very good at doubles, since I had never played before.  So after losing at that spot 3 or 4 times, our coach decided to make a change.  And luckily, my good friends ended up sliding into that second doubles spot and did a great job, helping our team win the county championship that year. Thanks to them, I still got a cool "champions" jacket in 1990.

After that first season, my parents recognized that I needed tennis lessons.  That winter, my middle sister and I started playing with an area pro and we got better.  The next season, I made varsity decisively and had a winning season at the first doubles spot.  Again that winter, both sisters this time and I played with a different tennis pro. This was the coach who trained the #1 girl on my team (who also happened to be the #1 girl in New Jersey at one point, by the way). Fall of my junior year, teamed up with the same doubles partner, our team once again took the county title.  But now our winter, spring and summer needed to be serious - our #1 girl was graduating, my sister was joining the team as a freshman and she was beating me.  A lot.  I wasn't about to let my younger sister beat me out for the top spot.  What would everyone think?

My senior year was reasonably successful.  I ended up with the #1 spot on the team and won most of my matches.  My sister had one loss, maybe two all season. Really, she probably should have taken the top spot. I graduated high school and ended my tennis career, deciding to focus on academics since a tennis scholarship to Rutgers where I had a full academic scholarship was just not in my future. (Of course instead, I focused on fraternity parties, but that's another story for another time.)

My sister finished her high school career successfully and her college career even more successfully.  She even became a teaching pro for a short while before entering a corporate career.  But once she began her own family, she too gave up the game. The other sister, 9 years my junior followed a similar path - amazing high school career, great college career at UNH, teaching pro at some of the most exclusive clubs in the country, but then she opted for law school. However, unlike the middle sister, the little one never gave up the game and she still plays amazingly well.  Tennis skills are not like riding a bike.  In tennis, if you don't use it, you lose it.

And that brings us to today.  My sisters and I never played doubles together when we were younger for a lot of reasons. One of those reasons was the middle one and I used to fight like maniacs. So when the middle one and I took court #5 at the Center Court Tennis Center this morning, I was excited.  We had a fairly good shot at winning the match, we thought as we eyed up the competition.  We even won the first three games of the first set.  And then, the wheels came off our wagon.  Lets just say, we should probably practice together a few more times before we decide to play again.

The first problem was that our adversaries did not hit with any pace on the ball whatsoever.  We call them dinkers.  Neither my sister nor I have ever played well against dinkers.  Our second problem was my lack of experience on the court in a competitive match.  9 times out of 10, my sister had to remind me where I should be on the court which led to a lot of shots I should have been able to return, missed. Third, our lack of opportunity to play at all over the past few years was a problem.  We both just started playing again after about a 10 year hiatus.  You can say we're a bit rusty. Best line of the day from my sister, "Well, I would have gotten that one...in the 90's!"

After losing the last point of the last game in the last set, frustrated, we immediately started rehashing what we were doing wrong.  We spent another hour talking about it in my sister's kitchen.  

Here's the point: we're winners.  Or at least we have a strong desire to win. Losing, although never the end of the world, isn't fun.  If we had played better and lost, we would probably have had more fun.  But we tanked and we knew it.  We are so much better than we played, and we knew it.

The generation of kids who grew up with "participation" trophies don't feel what we feel.  Earning an award or a win feels great. And sure, we didn't feel great not winning today because we didn't want to let each other or our team down, but even as middle-aged adult women, we understand that we need to do more (i.e.: stink less) next time around to succeed.  Just showing up may be half the battle, but it's never enough and unfortunately, there are too many people in our society who disagree (but we can save that debate for another time too.)

In the scheme of our lives, does it really matter all that much that we lost our match this morning?  Probably not.  We're still alive and all that good stuff.  But in a way it does matter a great deal.  We refuse to compromise in any aspect of our lives.  We continue to push ourselves to be better.  To be winners.  And we know we won't always win, but it doesn't mean we don't try.  Because earning the trophy or even just the high five from your team after a win feels great.  We don't give up - we work harder. 

In this age, maybe that makes us complete out of touch jerks who don't want our kids to "feel good" about themselves.  I think it makes us the exact opposite - winning and losing are important parts of life. It is how we measure and define success. In order to win at anything, you have to lose sometimes too. I want my kid to understand both so neither event comes as a shock.  I want her to understand that losing isn't the time to give up, rather it is the time to work harder. Also, being both a gracious winner and loser are also good life skills.  

Today my sister and I were gracious losers. We thanked our opponents for a "nice match" (even though they made some terrible, terrible line calls...bygones, we still lost) and we thanked our team for giving us a chance to play together (we're just substitutes on this team). And then, my sister and I planned how we are going to win the next time we play together.  That's just how we roll.