There are days when I can’t believe how fast the past twenty years have flown by.  Wasn’t I hanging out in Duddley’s Draw just yesterday, promising to go to class “as soon as we finish up this next ($1.75) pitcher”? And my years at Ogilvy - the first few in Houston, surrounded by hilarious co-workers, traveling from tradeshow to tradeshow, and vowing never to step foot in Las Vegas again (never say never).  Then off to Ogilvy in New York - several accounts, new, lifelong friends, countless amazing and sometimes trying experiences - and, of course, 9/11.  How has it been five years since I’ve been back home…wading my way through the world of freelance and children’s books and the Texas dating scene? How is it possible?

Most days I feel like a kid. Still trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up…dreaming about ways to make my mark in this world, and, outside of an occasional aching back, feeling pretty much like I did when I still carried my sister’s expired driver’s license.

But there’s the occasional day, when I see my thirty-something face in the harsh light of reality. Like today, in the dressing room at Buffalo Exchange (a high-end, funky, second-hand store frequented by clientele of all ages). Packed with an armful of blue jeans, I carefully navigate my way around a giggling group of teenage girls - likely doing some last minute shopping in preparation for that first, nerve-wracking day of school.

I close the inadequate dressing room curtain and take a quick peek out at the girls in the waiting area. Half of them chattering away on the phone, the other half texting, all of them simultaneously dissecting outfits and boyfriends. I look in the mirror. I haven’t taken a shower today. My hair is a bit, well, slick - pulled back into a loose ponytail. Minimal make-up…enough to get by. I look a little tired, and the lines on my forehead are pronounced. Another look at the girls…not a line on their faces. Am I really 20 years older than them? They’re not babies. It wasn’t so long ago that I was 20 years older than babies. Now I’m 20 years older than 17-year-olds. How is that possible?

After a frustrating hour of trying on a mountain of clothing (most too small to pull over my thirty-something hips), I amble to my car in the blistering heat. I’ve just started my period (sorry boys), I’m bloated, and I need TCBY…like now.  I’m a woman on a mission, and 15 minutes later I’m scooping spoonfuls of the heavenly yogurt into my mouth while expertly navigating the rush hour Kirby traffic. It’s time to go home, put on a hydrating mask, and slather on some anti-aging cream.

Then it’s time to recall all the unbelievable things I’ve experienced in my life and all the hopes and dreams I have for the future. It’s also time to remember the insecure hell that was life as a 17-year-old girl, and how grateful I am to be past it…happy, confident and wise. I may have a few lines on my face, but at least I’m done, forever, with dateless dances, Geometry and countless hours of detention. And I can legally drink. I’m opening the Cabernet now.

Here’s my question tonight…does life control us…do we control life…or is it a combination of the two?  As I flew back from San Francisco yesterday and looked out my window seat at the beautiful Sierra Nevadas below, I asked myself that very question.  The truth is, intrinsically we all know the answer, don’t we?  If we sit in our homes with our heads buried in our pillow, life will rapidly pass us by, and it will take with it all the squandered opportunities.  

I don’t sit here pontificating from my pedestal - quite the opposite, actually.  I’m just as guilty as the next, maybe moreso, of allowing fear or exhaustion,  heartbreak or complacency to keep me from pursuing passions…pushing boundaries…living up to my full potential.  But there is a fire in my belly - as I’m sure there is in yours.  And there are moments in my life, as frightening as they initially seemed, where I risked it all, calmed the butterflies and went for it.  As you might suspect, these decisions brought with them tough lessons and sometimes, great victories.

Eight years ago, I peered out another airplane window at the imposing Manhattan skyline.  It would be only my second trip to the city, but this time would be different…this time I wasn’t coming home.  A written description of my feelings at that moment would pale in comparison to reality.  But suffice to say, I was a mish mash of emotions:  fear, excitement, sadness and elation.  I was leaving my family, but I was starting a new life.  I’d never felt so alone, but I’d never felt so alive.  And as I looked down upon that amazing city, I knew, in my gut, I would never be the same. 

My years in New York taught me a number of things, but most importantly, it revealed to me my true strength and drive and slapped me in the face with the knowledge that we must push through our fears and face the unknown to find out what we’re truly made of.  Had I ignored my wanderlust…had I casually ambled my way through the safe and familiar, I would have robbed myself of the wonderful feeling that independence and progression and, yes, fire-bellied fear brings.  It wasn’t the obvious that changed me - the big agency job, the trip to the Empire State Building or the dueling billboards in Times Square.  It was the little stuff:  the early morning walk in my Upper West Side neighborhood…when the streets were quiet and it felt like the city was all mine, the first meeting with Diann and Milan…two people that are not just friends, but soulmates, afternoon-long “consumption” sessions with Dawn and the crew at the Spring Lounge, or McAleers or the Streetcar Cafe, and a million other nondescript moments that made it my place…my life.

I did miss my family, but the time away only strengthened our bond.  And when it was time to come home…when it was time to decompress and reevaluate and temporarily bury my head…they were there, as they always have been.  The past five years have brought their own lessons, growth, precious time with family and some amazing opportunities that would probably have escaped me in Manhattan.  I delayed my trip to San Francisco…put off Milan and Dawn for months, or if I’m truthful, years, because I think I knew what it would conjure up, and I wasn’t ready.  But the time has come to jumpstart the learning curve of life, push through the fear and raise my potential bar once again.  And what about you?  Are you ready to pull back the covers, open the curtains and let in the sun?

Oh, Oprah…my dear, dear friend, Oprah.  You would be so proud of me.  I had a real, unadulterated “Ah-Ha” moment last night.  Yes, I realize it was while viewing Men in Trees (when I should have been catching up on a healthy backlog of work), but it was a moment, nonetheless.

You know Jack…Marin’s love interest on the show (and, apparently the reason for the demise of her last real-world marriage)…well, I was basking in the loveliness that is him, when, out of the blue, something hit me.  The words “unrealistic romantic media conditioning” swam through my brain, and I actually stood still a moment to absorb them, pull them into the outside world and ponder their validity.  You may assume that I was searching for a partner in crime to share the burden of my poor relationship choices.  I can’t deny that the thought did cross my mind…I’ve been carrying a heavy load for far too long.  My shoulders are a bit slumped, and frankly, damn sore.  But I didn’t let myself go there.  I thought of The Secret and Eckhart Tolle (we’re back to Oprah)…I revisited their collective teachings and murmured to myself “what we put out there is what we get back.” Was that my Ah-ha moment?  Ummm…no.  Because, really, I do get the reasoning…but mostly, it just makes me feel guilty when my mind goes elsewhere.  A sad side-effect of this new age of enlightenment…it carries with it a shitload of guilt when we’re unable to practice it 24/7.

My realization came as I was watching Jack and Marin suffer through one of their many dramatic, uncommunicative, we-might-break-up-again moments.

“Why!” I heard myself blurt out.  My, God, where did that come from?  I looked over my left shoulder…then my right.  Then it happened again… “Why am I rooting for them?”  After assuring myself I hadn’t spontaneously developed Multiple Personality Disorder (or MPD – as my Psychotherapist mother calls it), I allowed a ticker board of past and current TV dreamboats to flash before me:  Jordan Catalano (My So Called Life); Dylan McKay (90210); Big (SATC); “Sawyer” (Lost); and, of course our beautiful, silent friend, Jack Slattery (Men in Trees).  Why did I love these brooding, broken men so?  Is it because of their fabulous wit?  Their supportiveness or emotional availability?  Is it because they make our heroine’s lives easier…or better yet, because they “put them at ease”?  The answer, I realized, is not only “no”, but “HELL NO”! 

And then it got worse…the more difficult-to-swallow list of men barraged my brain…my own personal brooders:  “Dental School Boy” – my first love and a child of multiple – and I do mean multiple divorce.  He was tall and blonde and beautiful and smart and completely screwed up.  And then there was the Navy pilot – the tall (yes, this is a pattern), dark-haired adrenaline junkie…I was his first love some ten years ago – and I broke his heart.  I then went back for more last year, and he broke mine.  It seems that his new career as a commercial pilot and his shiny capable-of-speeds-up-to 200 mph-“crotch rocket” (motorcycle) were now more enticing than true love.  Then there was the NYC writer…the one with the floppy hair, gorgeous, rugged face and penchant for multiple women.  He was brilliant and talented and would never fully be mine.  And last, but certainly not least, how can I forget the culprit of my most recent bleeding, gaping hole…the pseudo photographer, who moved to this fair town fresh from a separation with his 2^nd wife.  Well, wasn’t he a gem.  I thought so – at first glance.  Those initial couple of months, he came off quite charming…in hindsight, they all did.  But time would prove otherwise.

So, there it was, staring me in the face like a rabid pack of coyotes…I was chasing the unattainable…the Jordan’s and Dylan’s and Jack’s of the real world…but with much less success than my favorite TV goddesses.  “AH-HA!”  My heart began to race.  A smile edged itself up my face.  I don’t want to conquer Mr. Big anymore.  I don’t want to cry over the pilot or the dentist or the “photographer”.  I want someone to laugh with.  I want someone to rub my back when I get chewed out at work or if my cat gets sick.  Most importantly, I want someone who is there…someone who really appreciates and adores all the great things I bring to the table.  And if they could be tall and gorgeous and full of sex appeal, I’ll take that as well.  I’m only human, folks.  A girl has needs.

So there it is.  I think you’ve just witnessed a revelation – or at least the day after a revelation.  Bring it on, world!  Bring it on!  Mama is ready for the next chapter…and this one, if I have any say at all, will not be a tragedy.

Join me again for the next entry from an anomaly.

Cheers!