Worry

“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for…what?”

I was listening to a podcast today and this “old saying” stopped me in my tracks.

Well, the big, juicy melted piece of gum I stepped in while I was listening and traversing the parking lot at Target actually DID stop me in my tracks. A stop so dead—I walked right out of my shoe.

I kid you not.

Seeing that we are deep into December, I had to park so far away that the actual Target store was just a speck on the horizon. I’m sure someone left their gum, like a bread crumb, to mark the trail back to their car so…I can’t really be mad, can I?
But enough about my glamourous life.

Back to the saying. You know, the myth that implies that there are more than enough hours in a day.

You work eight hours.
Stop laughing.
I know we’re smack dab in the middle of the holidays and what with shopping and wrapping and all—the Elves up at the North Pole have a shorter work day. And better benefits. And terrific catering. Nevermind.

So… you work.

Anyhow, you sleep eight hours. But seriously, who does? I’m lucky to get seven. This morning I woke up at 3 am because I thought I saw an orange glow down the hall and knew for sure the tree was on fire.
It wasn’t.

Too late, adrenaline rushes don’t keep regular office hours.

Then I couldn’t remember all of the reindeer names or get that damn song out of my head.
I lay there wondering where on earth my pine nut cookie recipe went and the next thing I knew it was 4am and all I could think about was how good coffee would taste with a pine nut cookie—so I got up and made some. Coffee. Not the cookies. I’m still at a loss.

So…You sleep.

But you guys, that still leaves at least several, maybe four, hours left to do whatever you want.

My friend says those hours are reserved for worrying.
Yikes.
My hubby says traffic on the 101 freeway chews up his spare time.
Jeepers, people.

What about eating?
Sex? Anybody?
Holiday merriment?

I decided to paint with a broad brush.
“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for… FUN!”

That sounds downright illegal, doesn’t it? Fun? Really? And for eight hours? Oh, sweet Jesus, help me!

But fun can be anything, right?

A glass of pink champagne for no reason?

Maybe it’s staying up after everybody else goes to bed to binge watch Netflix.

What about going out to lunch and catching up with an old friend?

Today, my friend Kim and I played hookie and went to see a movie—in the middle of the day!

How would you complete that sentence? Gimme some hints, I’d love to know.

Carry on,
xox

Hi guys,

There was a time back in 2013 where I would sit up in bed, in the dark, first thing in the morning, and write down whatever came to mind. Often, it was poetry. I’m not kidding. Like, rhymey with a message kinda stuff.

I’d marinate in this early morning creative soup and jot down my notes for about fifteen minutes and then get on with the rest of my completely ordinary life.

I say that because even though they were just this side of craptastic as fine poetry goes, it felt special and rather extraordinary and I regret not doing it anymore. These days you can find me practicing my tandem snoring and drooling routine until the last possible minute because, well, I want to medal when it becomes an Olympic sport AND I write all day. The poetry has a myriad of entry points in twenty-four hours—so why write in the dark?

But lately I’ve been thinking…maybe I should pick up this habit again. Couldn’t hurt, right?

This one made me snort-laugh. I hope it has the same effect on you because:
Everything can be reduced to a food analogy.
And nothing too serious is going on here. Just livin’ life.

We all need to remember that!

Carry on,
xox

Whilst sitting and lamenting that your life is in shreds,
Tis no faux pas, there’s been no flaw,
Even though you’re filled with dread.

Get up, and make coleslaw instead.

The Universe may leave you for dead,
Life’s thrown up in the air, there’s water to tread,
You keep ruminating, worrying, running it through your head,

Don’t do that, make coleslaw instead.

Now, you can take lemons and make lemonade,
Or you can find problems that sour your day,
The choices are easy when acceptance is present.

Get up and make coleslaw instead!

It all started on Saturday.

No. It started the week before when my husband sold a car.

I had suggested it, wanting to build on the new “smaller life, with fewer things” tact our life has taken this year. But for the first time in our entire marriage (and about seventeen vehicles later) I was having car sellers remorse. I’m embarrassed to say what it was, lest I send like Richie-rich. Just suffice it to say—It was a convertible sports car—and I loved it.

The vroom, vroom of the engine. The wind in my hair.

Oh, well, nevermind.

My husband was stupidly excited for Saturday to come, but when he asked me to drive him to pick up the new object of his affection I could barely hide my abhorrence. Battleship gray, with the lines of a cock and balls—it is SO not my thing.

I don’t think it’s anyone’s thing, but that’s beside the point. He loves it.

As a result of residual childhood, Catholic guilt, he agreed to visit the nursery of all nurseries I’d been dying to see since we were in the area and I’d taken a huge chunk out of my day to chauffeur him to pick up “the dick”.

Friends had told me breathlessly that the Christmas section of this nursery (about ten thousand square feet) was like a December visit to Bethlehem, London and New York combined.

Upon entering this mythical land I couldn’t stop shaking and not because of its magical holiday vibe (which was epic) but because I was so sad. And angry.

I know my husband hates Christmas, which is my favorite holiday and one that has brought me a childlike, innocent joy my entire life. I know it—but I can’t pretend to understand it or like it.

I also know that to him, walking through room after room where it looks like Santa and all of his elves have exploded is like walking a claustrophobe through a straw.

He was good-natured about the whole thing, poking around the endless shelves of ornaments and pine scented candles which only served to infuriate me further.

HOW DARE HE!

I started a fight. About killjoys and the hidden psychosis of men who hate Christmas. I even cried. Then we left angry. Me in my car and he in his bondo-colored penis.

That night I couldn’t let it go. Laying in bed, it suddenly seemed like a great time to relitigate this Christmas dilemma and the sale of the perfect car. After tearily making my case, and feeling dissatisfied with pretty much anything that came out of his mouth—I turned away in a huff.

After the lights went out and I had simmered down to a low boil, I asked that voice in my head, the wise one with all the answers, what she thought about this horrible predicament I’d found myself in.

After a while, I heard her loud and clear. “Why dontcha get some REAL problems?” she said. “Then come talk to me. Oh, and check your hormones you seem a little crazy.”

That struck me like a bolt of lightning!

Right? I mean, hello? Nobody is sick, nobody’s dying, what the fuck is my problem?

Believe me when I say I am not proud of this at all!
I was not born with a silver spoon, mine was a pink plastic spork. Neither do I live in a guided cage. The past decade has been a catastrofuck. I lost my business, we blew through our savings and fell deeply in debt. We even both had major surgeries.

But like life tends to do, it gives you the opportunity to right the ship.
So we did. And this year we were able to sell some assets and actually make a profit! This allowed me to pay off all of my business debts and actually put some money in the bank.

Finally, after many years, I have nothing to stress about at night.

So I manufacture things, Stupid things. Petty things. Things that if I’m not careful will manifest into REAL problems.

Monday this blog went down, corrupted beyond belief. I couldn’t cope. My head spun around backward while I finished the leftover bag of Halloween candy. Then I talked myself off the ledge, Get some REAL problems! I told myself. Does your blog distribute medicine to babies in Africa? No? Then get over yourself.

Today, my devoted tech-guru Billy was able to save it—and here I am.

I think I may be addicted to stress you guys AND I think I owe my husband a huge apology. So, take it from me—stop waiting for the shoe to drop, for the money to run out and for the opportunities to dry up. And fuck the Christmas haters!

PS: hate the car.

Carry on,
xox

“My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I could have died last Thursday. You laugh. But I could have.

It was a possibility seeing that I was going to be under general anesthesia and since the thought had entered my head via the delivery system of mountains of paperwork I had to sign. This pre-op ritual made it clear that I would hold absolutely no one responsible for my death—should I become dead while not paying attention.

Doctors make you do that just before they put you under.

Culpability. It’s a thing.
I could have choked on my pastrami sandwich at lunch today but the deli didn’t drown me in documents before I took my first bite.
Sheesh.

I get it. It’s their duty to remind you. That’s the thing about drugs that render you fake dead. And being cut open—they up your odds of becoming real dead.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about dying.

About my “exit strategy”, which is a term my deceased friend uses to refer to death. “Everyone has one, you have several opportunities actually” she reminds me all the time. Apparently, it presents itself in the form of an illness, car accident, egg salad at the beach or a cheese sandwhich from a vending machine.

Everyone keeps telling you that shit’ll kill ya.

So even though I didn’t have a reasonable reason to feel as if my days were numbered—I just did.

I lived as if I was going to die.

Imminently. Like Thursday.

I’m not gonna lie, my fake death made me a little fake sad. Mostly it made me crave bad food (because hey, why not)—and wish I’d had time to get my hair straightened (good looking corpse rule #2. Rule #1 – Mani-pedi.)

Oh, and it made me pay attention to life.

Everything felt like the last time so I savored it. Kissing my dog was delicious. Ice cream tasted better if you can imagine that. Lemons were more sour.

And it’s definitive: I can’t stand cheap aftershave on men in elevators or vanilla candles.

I noticed things I tend to overlook. The sound of the rain as it hits the pavers in our courtyard.
And have you ever noticed that lots of people hold hands? Have you? I never did. And not just parents and kids. Couples of all types. Young, old, fat, skinny, young and skinny, old and fat, didn’t matter. Hands were being held. I think that’s sweet.

Did you know that studies have found that holding hands is good for your heart? I looked it up.

I took my time. I dawdled. I went to the movies in the middle of the day and ate a hot dog—with extra mustard. I walked in my neighborhood and forgot to bring my earbuds. I noticed my feet and my legs and how they move me through life and instead of run/walking everywhere like I normally do, I strolled. I looked more closely at the street art. I splashed in puddles. I said hello to strangers.

I wondered if my fake death was making me lazy? Look, a fake problem.

You wanna know what I didn’t do?
Hold on tight to anything.
Worry (why waste my time?)
Diet.
Walk on eggshells.
Work hard at much.

Then I got the flu and it suddenly felt as if the rumors of my death would pan out to be true.

My surgery was canceled, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the energy of my “exit strategy” passed.
Just like that. It has left my consciousness so completely that I can’t even conjure the feeling of it if I try.

I know that when I do get this surgery the thought of dying won’t even occur to me.

I had my fake dry run and I took away something real.

My life.

Carry on,
xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking slowly through the canyon on my way to the hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how streets with cars lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Singles mothers can never catch a break.

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that it’s luck had run out. Splat!

There it is. I can see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering was over.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. But it was true. No one was swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing. I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve a little!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was. This roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It was a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

I overheard a woman in Trader Joe’s today and I had to stop and pretend I was looking with great interest at the ingredients on the side of the microwave macaroni and cheese.

Trader Joe’s is an eavesdropper’s paradise. Especially after school gets out and always around the microwave comfort food.

She had a seven-year-old girl with her, Sophie, (presumably her daughter), and she was on her cellphone with someone who, after listening for several minutes to her conversation, is a saint.
Literally.
The Vatican has spoken. This person earned it!
I’m guessing a sister, best friend, or telemarketer.

Anyhow, I was riveted to her rant because the nature of it was well, so absurd — and I could totally relate.

She was going on and on about the dangers of camping. Like her kids were Tributes in the Hunger Games.

Hypothermia. “What if it gets below fifty? We don’t have the arctic down bags, only the light down summer bags. I mean, I could bundle the kids up with hoods, socks, and gloves in their bags…oh, yes, they’ll be in a tent…”

Sand fleas, (so, like the Mensa member that I am (not) I surmised a beach campout. “Sam had bites all over his privates last summer.” Ouch. And TMI.

Fire. “Josh is gonna have his hands full. What if Lizzie runs into the fire.”
I’m no expert here, but I think both Josh AND Lizzie have a bigger problem on their hands if she’s running into fire. And yes, camping could turn poor Lizzie into a human s’more. So, I’m with the worried lady, no camping for Lizzie.

Wait. Maybe Lizzy is a dog. Oh, that’s even worse.

Ocean. “I heard there’s gonna be high surf. What happens if the waves are so big the kids can’t go in the water? Then what’ll we do?”

Oh, I don’t know, play cards or board games, build sand castles, run into fire, you know, the normal kid stuff.

OMG Lady, seriously? You are a piece of work! Oh, and can you talk louder? I don’t want to miss a minute!

But by this time, I’d lingered too long. I was skirting the edges of stalker-ville so I moved on. But grudgingly. I was worried about Asbestos Lizzie the fire-walker.

The woman did leave me with a parting worry as I scurried into the cookie aisle.
“Sophie, don’t run with the pretzels in your mouth. What if you fall and choke to death.”

And…scene.

I’m not a worrier by nature but if I do go there if I start with the “what if’s” then I’m on the train, miles down the track before I even realize it.

And it gets even more ridiculous as it goes along. You know what I’m talking about!

After the 1993 Northridge earthquake, I was terrified to be anywhere besides home (preferably under my bed), in the event of an aftershock.
I could “what if” myself into a full-blown panic attack.

What if I’m at the movies? Dark, crowded, scary as shit.
What if I’m in the shower? Naked, wet, embarrassing as shit.

The one that could send me over the edge was:
What if I’m sitting at this light, caught in bumper to bumper traffic, STUCK UNDER A FREEWAY OVERPASS!
Trapped, crushed, flat as shit.

I would go out of my way to avoid an overpass. If it looked like I was going to be stuck underneath I’d gun it and jump over cars like fucking Vin Diesel. I’d lay on my horn and make people move out-of-the-way. I came thisclose to causing accidents and hurting myself. I was Lizzie looking for fire.

Eventually, (like three years later), I realized that all those “what if’s” never happened and I started to lighten up. But even now, if I think about it when I’m sitting there, it makes my butt cheeks clench.

“What if” is imagination gone awry and once you board that train you may as well find the bar-car and liquor up because it’s nearly impossible to slow down a speeding train.

Well, maybe Vin Diesel can, or The Rock, or that little firecracker, Lizzie. Apparently NOTHING scares her!

Are you a “what if” worrier?  What are some of your best “what if”s”?

Carry on,
xox

In case you struggle with this the way I do.

It’s almost NEVER about you. 99.9% of the time. I promise.

Everyone is busy thinking about their own story.

BIG sigh…What a fucking relief!

Carry on with your bad selves this weekend,
xox

Oh calm down! I’m jut saying what you’re thinking! OM…Back to a loving place…

Okay you guys…
As we enter yet another mercury retrograde, and since I’m not someone who embraces life’s revisions as much as I should…In this time of colossal change, covered in a thick, gooey sauce of uncertainty, (and chocolate sprinkles), I like to soothe myself by beating a drum and running naked in the moonlight, reminding myself of all the things that are grounded in certainty.

The things that never change, the things I know for sure.

I’m sure you’ll be able to relate to several of these and maybe they’ll even spark some other ones that you can use to soothe yourselves back to sanity at three o’clock in the morning.

Don’t you love knowing that the sun will come up tomorrow? I do. I must admit; I take this miracle for granted every damn day. One small deviation and we’re all screwed.

I love knowing that four out of five dentists surveyed recommend sugar-less gum.

I love knowing that everywhere I go today there will be a toilet and I won’t be forced to pee in a stinking hole in the ground.

I love knowing that if I want to read a book that I don’t own I can walk into any library and get it. For free. I don’t do that, but I love knowing I can.

I love knowing that for the most part when lights turn red, people stop. They also stay inside the lines while driving. Can you imagine if they didn’t?

Don’t you love knowing that Google can answer ANY question you could ever possibly type into the little box? Unless you’re Steven Hawking; but I’ll wager to guess that even he’s impressed. I must use Google fifty times a day, no lie. It has ended so many arguments at my house I can safely say, without exaggeration, that Google has saved my marriage.

I love knowing that when I look up into the night sky I can see the moon from pretty much anywhere on the planet, and that you’re looking at it too.

I love knowing that blondes don’t always have more fun.

I love knowing that when I go to Rome every ten years, very little has changed.

I love knowing that in any city in the country, (and most of the world) if you find a church, the door will be unlocked and you can walk right inside, losing yourself in the darkness for some cool on a hot summer day, and maybe find a bit of peace, quiet and contemplation.

I love knowing that as long as I pay the bill, when I plug something into a light socket or flip a switch, I will have electricity. (another miracle that I totally take for granted).
I’d also like to add running water when I turn on the tap and flame when I turn on the gas stove to this list. I fucking love knowing those two will show up for me.

I love knowing that my heart will beat, my liver will filter and my lungs will expand and contract without any help from me.

I love knowing there’s a seed bank vault in Norway that holds seeds for almost every plant on the planet. Hey! I worry about this stuff sometimes.

Don’t you love knowing that unless there’s a disaster of some kind, if you dial a phone number anywhere in the world…it will ring. What about Skype? — miracle!

I love knowing that donuts exist in the world. Don’t you?

I love knowing if I want ice; it is only as far away as my kitchen…Right?

I love knowing that sunlight and water (photosynthesis) is keeping all the flora alive on the planet, again without any help from moi.

I love knowing that Kanye will do something stupefying and ridiculous at every God damn awards show.

Don’t you love knowing that there are people who will volunteer to go to an Ebola hot zone? I sure as hell do.

I love knowing that when I cut my finger — it will heal.

I love knowing that back and white film still exists and the same goes for the cameras that use that film.

I love knowing the mullet will never come back in style.

I love knowing there is toothpaste, mouthwash and deodorant in the world and they are used by most people.

I love knowing that on every intersection in LA I will find a Seven-Eleven (or two) where I can purchase bad coffee and a slurpee, a quart of milk, a laxative, Pepto-Bismol and a lottery ticket.

I love knowing that jean jackets will always be in style.

I love knowing that I can find french fries at half a dozen places within a five mile radius of my home at a moments notice (otherwise known as a french fry emergency),

I love knowing that God never makes mistakes, there are no “extra” people on the planet and that love will always prevail. Don’t you love knowing that too?

Whew!

Carry on my loves,
xox

Thank you sidewalk snail races.

For reminding me to sloooooooow down; life’s not a race to a far away imaginary finish line.

For showing me the beauty in looking down — there’s some awesome shit happening below my feet.

For nature and all the wonderful things it can teach us IF we pay attention.

For demonstrating once again that it’s the journey that counts and in the case of snails and destinations — Determination…slow and steady. Slow and steady. Don’t show off.

For also reminding me not to worry — about anything — after all, you have all you need traveling right along with you inside that shell. (at least you do in MY imagination)

And thank you so much my slithery friends for taking your fearless Saturday stroll, amid the pedestrians and dogs and rascally kids, in MY neighborhood.

And remember: keep walking and stay out of my garden.

Have a wonderful Sunday you guys; filled with long walk, friends and gratitude.

Carry on,
xox

My husband left yesterday for France, for a refined yet testosterone filled few days of car auctions, car parties, followed by a car show.
Can you say Gear Head?

Last night, after delivering the dead weight of both sleeping dogs to their beds, I looked up and was reminded of a mystical motorcycle message that was delivered to me on another night when he was far, far away.

It was a different kind of trip, raw and rugged.
He was pretty much incommunicado, racing in a desert over ten thousand miles away, but things had taken a turn and I sensed he was in danger.

So I asked for a sign, and the Universe, with her wicked sense of humor, delivered a doozy.

It was the second year he had decided to ride with his buddies at Rawhyde, down in South America to follow this crazy-ass off-road, Mad Max style race called the Dakar.

The year before they had the time of their lives, riding in that environment, among all the other idiots, I mean racers, and being worshipped by the locals, who line the route and gather in great numbers at every gas stop, handing them food, babies and cameras to capture the moment.
They are revered, like rock stars.

The riding is treacherously fabulous.
The dirt roads through the Atacama Desert are rocky and rutted and they’re racing next to Rally cars, other motorcycles, and behemoth Russian supply trucks that decided a few years back that they too wanted a piece of the action.
It’s consistently well over one hundred degrees, and they have to cross the Andes via Paseo De San Francisco, which at over 10,000 feet requires them to do what the locals do to offset the altitude – chew raw coca leaves.
While they ride a motorcycle. Yes, you read that right.

It’s an insane cluster fuck, an accident waiting to happen. People die.

But as he’s told me, it’s the most fun he’s ever had with his clothes on.

Here’s a taste in case you’re interested:
http://youtu.be/UYFt7hrMWOg

This trip Murphy’s Law prevailed.
Everything that could go wrong did – and then some. I heard about it in my one text per day. It was often terse and exhausted sounding, sent at the end of another grueling episode of Chasing Dakar.
Let’s just say, things were not flowing, and he was not a happy camper. I felt terrible for him.

The day came to cross over the Andes and because of circumstances too complicated to get into, he and an instructor were leading the group up and over.

The idea is to do it as quickly as you can, spending as little time as possible up at that elevation. Get your paperwork stamped at the checkpoint and GO!
The previous year he’d told me stories of helping other riders back down the mountain, who were literally found laying in the road next to their bikes, sick and seriously delusional from the altitude.
Apparently they’d never received the coca leaf memo.

Knowing all that only made things worse for me when I didn’t hear from him at all that day. Nothing.
The window of time in which I’d usually receive my text had come – and gone. Man, how I would have welcomed one of his cantankerous texts.
I started to worry.

With the phone tucked under my pillow, I laid there – waiting. Once I realized it was asinine to try to sleep, I decided to text him.
Hope you made it safely. I Love you.
I knew he wouldn’t answer, But it made me feel better…for about a minute.

It’s amazing where your mind can go when you’re sick with worry about someone you love.
Mine writes horror movies that could never be shown because of the graphic nature of the gore. They involve motorcycles and danger, blood, guts, and death.
That night I had him lost in the Andes, with no food or water, crazy from the altitude, eyeing a fellow victim like a pork chop. Or dead, his body carried away by the Andes version of a Yeti, never to be found.

I felt completely powerless, and I was making myself sick.

By 3 a.m. I decided to pray. I prayed the tight-fisted prayer of the terrified wife.

Please let him be okay. I even forgive the fact he hasn’t checked in. Please let him be alive. Please give me a sign.

I took a Xanax and finally drifted into a fitful sleep filled with nightmares. In one, the bedroom was filled with an eerie, greenish light. I could see it through my closed eyelids.
No, really.
My eyes snapped open and the room was filled with an eerie green light I’d never seen before. I blinked, then blinked again.

WTF? Slowly I got up to see where the light was coming from, half expecting a ghostly visitation from my dearly departed in the arms of a Yeti. What I found was almost as weird.

We have a 1953 Peugeot motorcycle up on the short wall that separates our bathroom from our bedroom. Yes, you can say it. All his friends do. I’m the coolest wife EVER!
Anyway…
You’re required by law, to have a fluorescent light in a bathroom. I’ve always hated the greenish glare those bulbs give off, so we installed it behind the motorcycle to assuage the inspector – and then had it promptly disconnected.
If you flip the switch, nothing happens.

But not on this night. I came out of my worry coma to find that the motorcycle above my head was impossibly illuminated. By a light that should NOT be working.

I stood there frozen, a shiver ran around the room, looking for a spine to run up, then it found mine.

It was my sign. It had to be. Light…Motorcycle…

Now just to be clear, he’s okay, right? This means he’s alive, not dead.

The exasperated Universe told me to cut the chit-chat and go back to bed. I flipped the switch which was already in the off position, not knowing what to expect, and the light went out.

Later that day, I received a text. It was short, crabby and filled with expletives.  It was the best text of my life
They had become stuck at the top for hours, and things had gone downhill from there (pun intended). But at last they were back at sea level; sleepless, starving, but safe and sound and back in the race.
It ended with Love you, and that’s all that I could see. I burst into large, crocodile tears of relief.

PS. That light has never worked since.

Keep Calm & Carry on,
Xox