Brooklyn to Venice

Leading into Memorial Day weekend, I wanted to take the kids on a trip and New Orleans was calling me. The instinct to visit New Orleans was strong, and I thought it was because there would be something about the city that each of the kids would like. And they did (ish ….it was a very crowded weekend to go!). With an extra handful of hours on our last day, we visited Baton Rouge and LSU. As we drove through the green lined freeway of Louisiana, I wondered if I would even recognize the campus when we arrived. I had been there twice before, nearly thirty years ago, for big swim meets with my club team.  In 1992, I swam the fastest 400 IM I would ever swim in the LSU pool (just slightly faster than I did in that same pool in 1991). I can almost remember my times down to the tenths of a second, though the time itself doesn’t sound as fast thirty years later as it felt at the time. 

We exited the freeway, grabbed a small bite to eat in a little “downtown” area right near the front gate of the campus, then drove in.  As soon as the rented Tesla crossed the campus line, I cried, overcome with emotion I couldn’t explain to the kids. With the feeling behind the tears gliding through every cell of my body, weaving around my heart, I tried to name it: nostalgia, longing, friendship; the fleeting nature of time; the loss of youth; a sense of opportunity; the beauty of naivity; pride.  Certainly, these feelings could would all be reasonable, but none quite aligned with what my heart felt and what populated my tears.    

As we drove through the beautiful campus, stopping to see the football field and nadatorium, my deep breaths and quiet, flowing tears led me to a sense of peace, inclusion and sensuality.  Sometimes there is no word better able to disrupt our deepest instincts than “why?”, but I couldn’t help but ask why those feelings and why did they feel so familiar on this land that I’d only ever stepped foot on for a limited number of days, thirty years ago?   

My son and I entered the bookstore to buy a LSU momento for him and for my husband.  And as we sorted through t-shirt options, I remembered doing an exercise a few years ago wherein I reflected on the feelings that I want every day – the feelings that lead me to do what I do each day in big and small moments in order to generate the emotions that are most important to me.  Of these “core desired feelings” that drive my decisions (albeit, until the exercise done during my early 40s, unconsciously),  peace, inclusion, and sensuality were three, along with a sense of adventure, honesty, and recognition/being understood. A while after I had identified that I strive for these feelings every day, I had reflected on whether my relationships (romantice, familial, professional, with myself) fostered them, and a bittersweet realization hit me: 

Swimming had provided me these feelings for 16 years. Whether through my coaches, my teammates, my own efforts and dedication or, to be honest and more accurate, through the water itself, those feelings were generated every day.  But, like with many blessings, I couldn’t name what swimming was giving me.  I didn’t know how critical the feelings were or what it would feel like not to have them.  It was a beautiful relationship, but whose lessons were hidden within the strength of its devotion. 

It’s likely true of every teenager, but it is certainly true for that girl who swam her fastest at LSU in 1991 and 1992: I didn’t know what my needs were, I just knew to dive in the water every day.    

And there, I found peace.  There was no fighting, no screaming, no loud noise.  Everything was drowned out, to the beat of my hands entering the water in front of me, the depth of my own breath, cheers of support but from an other-worldly distance.   

And inclusion.  The water folds around you, pulling you in, a constant embrace. It welcomes you (even when you resist) and everyone who dives in with you, binding you all together.

And sensuality.  It was my skin against the water, the use of my hips, the smooth motions my body would create, the rhythmic back and forths, the strength of the pull followed by the grace of the glide, the beautiful exhaustion.

And adventure, in every tenth of every second, in thousands of pools, across the country and across the world. In going stroke for stroke with strangers, striving to create something new by eliminating time.

And honesty. There was no hiding my physical needs, my emotional state, from the water, even when I could hide it from myself.

And recognition. External recognition, on the blocks, on the podiums, on the pool deck.  Internally, feeling my pace in every cell of my body, intimately knowing what my muscles were capable of, how to use them, how to incentivize them, how to connect them together. 

I’ve never taken for granted the external opportunity that the sport provided me.  But I never realized the relationship I had with sport, the emotional scaffold it provided me.  For close to 20 years, if not longer, swimming was the vehicle through which I found peace, inclusion, sensuality, adventure, honesty and felt understood and known. At LSU, the place that embodied the height of this relationship, I felt the pangs of deep fondness, realizing now how much the water had given me. I felt a sense of regret, realizing how long it took me to learn how important these underlying feelings were for me and how to nurture them elsewhere.  I felt deep completeness, recognizing the energy of having all my emotional needs met: a sense of alignment, satisfaction, pride.  The energy of Love. 

Maybe it wasn’t the city itself, but this energy, that drew me to take the kids to New Orleans and Baton Rouge.

When we are apart
I’d like to
Eliminate distance
Erase time
Make miles smaller than
Millimeters
Fill the air around me
With the sound of your voice
Make us float above
The constraints of This World

…So…

When we are together
Let me
Eliminate distance when my leg wraps around your hip
Erase time when my lips meet your skin
Capture our laughter with the shine in my eyes

Be here with me,
the beats of my heart ask,
And help me forget
All these constraints

[Precursor to a beautiful little essay ♥♥♥]

***Names of the innocent have been changed.  Names of the not-so-innocent have not.***

As a parent, I have planned for some big conversations – the beginning and end games ones: explanation that the kids’ dad and I were getting divorced; contemplation of introducing a new boyfriend to them one day.  I’ve been thoughtful when it comes to these easy black and white markers of life.  What I’ve forgotten, and what constantly takes me by surprise, are the conversations that happen in all the gray area – the vibrant middle space – between these markers.

Here’s one of those gems.

I had just finished a workout, and was getting ready for a business dinner for a passion project I’m working on outside of my day job.  Wanting a refresh to my wardrobe but not wanting to find the budget that would correlate, I had sorted through my closet to find something “new”, some item of clothing that I forgot about, but that would also still look current, relevant, and cute.  Though approaching Fall, it was warm (I live in Los Angeles, so “Fall” isn’t really the right term for the approaching season), and I wanted something almost, but not, quite summery.  Not easy to find in a sea of black.  Neither a short dress nor jeans appealed to me.  Did I even have anything else?

A light hue of purple, not quite lavender, not quite mauve, caught my eye.  A capri jumpsuit with spaghetti straps on top, an open back with criss cross straps on top, a zipper up the front with a tie at the waist.   It was perfect, but I hadn’t worn it in over a year a half – not since a romantic rainy night in Havana, Cuba – so I wondered if it would still look good, and I paused remembering I liked the jumpsuit, but hadn’t liked the strapless bra I had worn with it.   I stepped into it, and it was a more snug in the thighs than I remembered – just slight enough to not know whether it was because my thighs were a little bigger or the material had shrunk with the last wash.  As I zipped it up, I saw the snugness of the legs actually made it look better – made the rest of it fit just that much better.  I pulled the capri length pant legs up to underneath my knee, and it was flawless.  Even better than last time I wore it.  I put on my newish bright blue halter bra with the thinnest straps, giving the purple a pop of blue.  I loved it. But what shoes would I wear? I tried each of my go-to tan colored shoes – sandals, boots, wedges – and nothing quite worked.  I found a strappy pair of black wedges, rarely, if ever worn – as new as existed in my closet.  I’d accomplished my goal: I was wearing something new despite having bought the items four years ago.

Finishing my hair and makeup, I was hurrying to get out of the house.  The dinner would only take about an hour or two, and my kids were going with their dad for the night.  I had some options for some dates and fun after dinner, but hadn’t fully committed, both wanting to keep my options open but also not knowing how I would feel.  As I did a scan of finished self in my bedroom mirror I thought, wow!, I look great.  My body tingled with a feeling of beauty and subtle sexiness, and I immediately knew I would firm up one of those after dinner plans while I Uber-ed to my meeting.

As I hustled downstairs like a New Yorker with somewhere to be and grabbed my purse, my front door opened.  I quickly heard the chatter of Kai, Sasha and Gemma; the patter of their happy feet.  They were coming in to grab their stuff for the weekend with their dad.  Excited that I got to give them a hug before the weekend, I looked up to see which one would walk in the door first so I could heap my love out in just the way they each individually like.

“OOOHHHH, NOOOOOO.  Mommy, you look different.  Whhhhaaat.  Sasha, come look at Mommy.”  It’s Gemma, frozen in her tracks right at the open door.  “You can’t go out like that. You look TOO good.” Her dramatics make me smile, as does the blurry but visceral idea that she is reacting as much (more) to how I feel as how I look.

I hear footsteps speed up and get less graceful, less quiet outside.  Sasha rushes in, stopping right by Gemma as if an invisible and powerful fence existed.  “Oh, NO.  NO.  You look too good.  What is going on?  You cannot go out like that.  All the boys will fall in love with you.”  Whether Sasha agrees with Gemma because they are from the same egg, or they truly agree, I can never quite tell, even in this moment.  A glimmer like sun reflecting on water comes out of Sasha’s eyes.

“Eric is your boyfriend.”  I don’t have a boyfriend despite Gemma’s insistence otherwise (and her decision to, unbeknownst to me, post a picture of this Eric gentleman on my Instagram stories and text him from my phone).  “You can’t do this.  He won’t be happy.  You can’t wear that.”  Eric, a man they know I speak with, lives in a different city.  We haven’t spent more than a few hours together, simply talking over coffee and food and with smiles, since we met.  That we like each other, but are only friends, at most, is lost on them. They simply don’t believe it. They don’t focus at all on the other man I’d been speaking with as frequently, seeing more frequently, who lives here in this city.  When I’ve asked them why this is so on prior nights, Gemma has said, “Because I know Eric is your boyfriend.”  Sasha says, “The other one doesn’t send you all the love emojis.”  Kai never answers, pretending to be stumped.

I have no time to respond before Sasha echoes, “Eric won’t like this at all.  He is not here to protect you from all the guys falling in love with you.  You can’t do this.  Nooooo.”

I am trying to decide if I should remind them Eric is not my boyfriend or remind them that I don’t need protected, and before I can even form a thought about the existence of this decision, Sasha dives for my legs.  She tries to pull the capri length pant legs positioned just beneath my knees down over my calves.

“Sasha, those are my calves.  It is okay for my calves to show.” I had much more to say, but I had to focus on the physical activity at hand.  Her frantic hands keep pulling on my left pant leg, then my right, as I fend her off. I liked the tightness of the legs and she’s stretching out the material before I’m even out the door!

Kai walks in as I’m physically and verbally trying to get Sasha to stop.  “OH MAN.  Why is your hair so nice?’, he moans.

“My hair is always nice when I’m going out.”

He didn’t agree or disagree.  He just dropped his backpack and instantly began gently tugging at my spaghetti straps, trying to get the jumpsuit straps to stay perfectly over the electric blue thin bra strap.  I get the feeling he is doing this partially because he feels it the right thing to do, and partially to join in with his sisters. He had a look of deep concern in his eyes, but also something I recognized as admiration, longing and a day dream. I had at least four hands fiddling with my outfit that I don’t want fiddled with, while Gemma remained frozen with her mouth agape.

“Buddy, it’s okay.  The straps are supposed to show.  It’s okay.”

Kai stayed silent, though let his hands stop tugging at my straps, still tingling with a pulse of energy he didn’t quite know what to do with. Some inquisitive thought seemed to be forming in his mind, but Sasha was still ferociously pulling at my jumpsuit, trying to get it stretched longer down my legs, expanded over more of my chest, find material to cover my arms where none existed.  Her scratchy voice adamant behind her words.  “Mommy, you look too good.  You can’t show all your pieces.  I need to hide all the pieces.”

“Sweet thing, I am fine. I look nice, and this outfit makes me feel good.  It’s not inappropriate. And not that it matters, but I have a sweater for later but it’s hot now.”  Wait, isn’t that supposed to be a position statement a teenager makes to her parents? I’m teaching them these words, these positions, without even realizing it.  Will I be upset with myself in a few years? (No, I won’t.)

Gemma kept talking about Eric.  “He is not going to like this unless you are going out to dinner with him.”

“Sweet thing, I am not.  He does not live in this city and he will not be upset. I promise you I will let you know if….” (I was about to take three minutes to explain that I would let them know if I had a boyfriend, that I would be honest, that I would not keep them in the dark…..Silly of me to think I had even three seconds to respond.)

She cut me off, disagreeing, “He will.”  I see her day dreaming too, and feel these magic little thoughts coming from her mind. I want to hear the story she’s telling herself (if you’ve ever heard the happiness room story, you know her stories are dreamy and good….and if you haven’t, you one day will).  But right this moment I have a meeting to get to.

Kai put his thought together and almost spoke on top of Gemma. “Mom, I’ve never seen that outfit. Is it new?”

September 2018, Magical Night in LA

“No buddy, I’ve had it for four years but haven’t worn it in quite some time.  I found it in my closet because I wanted something different.”  He keeps track of me closely.  Always.

Not quite believing me, he asked “When was the last time you wore it?”

“When I went to Cuba actually, the last time.  So almost two years!”

I had thought that statement would resolve the questions being thrown at me and the hands trying to get the jumpsuit to cover more of me than it ever could.

It didn’t.

January 2017, Magical Night in Cuba

In unison, two little girl voices – one scratchy and one surprisingly poised — shouted, simultaneously, “NOOOOOOOOO. YOU FELL IN LOVE IN CUBA.  ALEX FELL IN LOVE WITH YOU IN CUBA.  NOOOO.” They continue shouting “fall” “fell” “love” “hearts in the eyes,” but it is just sounds jumping all around.

In the midst of the sounds, Sasha fell to her knees, “Your clothes are haunted with love. You can’t wear them. They are haunted.”  Words of protest, but there was a shine coming from her eyes.  A literal sparkle coming out of them, floating in the air.  Gemma’s smile remained like a jewel, coyly glimmering at all the different angles.  I flashed back to something she wrote in kindergarten, stating that my house was like a castle where love floated in the air.  Kai kept touching my hair, deciding what he wanted to say, but with a peacefulness, rather than any confusion, exuding from him.  Gemma leaned down, pretending to nurse Sasha back to standing, but she remained on her knees.

“Sweet things, it is fine. I am going to a business dinner with Damon, then I am not sure what I’ll do after that yet.  But it is fine. I am allowed to wear things that I like and that make me feel good, even if I did have a boyfriend, which I don’t.”  Foolishly, again, I thought that would resolve things; I thought with the facts, all true, the conversation would end.  They have met my friend Damon, they know I am working with him.  I believe that now that they know I won’t be with a stranger – and with someone they even know! – they will realize they don’t need to worry my clothes haunted with love and the potential impact of these haunted clothes on unsuspecting strangers.

“NOOOOOOOO.”  Sasha falls all the way to the ground, laying on her side with her hand on her forehead.  “Damon is going to FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU.”

“Sweet girl, he is not.  Damon and I are friends and this is a work meeting.” Behind Sasha, Gemma is now in a backbend, her upside down face looking my way and her feet taking turns trying to touch the door handle.  “Gems, what are you doing.”

“I am human locking the door.”  How was I supposed to respond to that?

Sasha talked from her horizontal spot on the ground.  “He is.  He is already in love with you.  You have to stop.  You can’t go out.  You have to change.  You have to pull your hair up.  You have to change your shoes.  Damon is going to fall in love with you and then he is going to fight with Eric. Does he know how to fight?” The questions always stretch out to the periphery of the relevant as I’m still trying to get my mind to come up with a response to the very first statement.

“Sweet girl, please stop.  You guys are being silly. No one is fighting.”  Among the words of protest and fighting, all this joy is emanating around the tiny entrance way that I am trying to exit and they are trying to enter.  The joy they all feel while talking and thinking about love is incapable of being hidden, even by words like “no,” “stop,” “can’t”, “fight” and the dramatic boneless body on the ground and the one arched in a backbend to human lock the door.  “Plus, this is important, so listen: Anyone who falls in love with me, it won’t be because of my clothes or how I look.  It will be because I’m smart and funny and kind and being myself. Even if I change my clothes, that doesn’t change! I can’t hide those pieces of me!”  Wow, I’m proud of myself that I had the wherewithal to take advantage of this teaching moment and make that very solid point.  Incredibly solid.  I instantly relish in my parenting abilities.

Simultaneous with my pride, there is silence. A split second where they are digesting this fact of which I’m so proud.  I’m teaching them something!

“Um, not to be mean, Mommy, but, ummmmm,” the left side of Sasha’s mouth scrunches up and she quickly but only slightly lifts her head from the ground.  “You aren’t that funny. Sorry, so, um, yeah.” Aside from the slight tilt of her head, her body remained still as could be.  Somehow Gemma, meanwhile, had gotten back on two feet.

“SWEET THINGS.  Enough. I AM funny.” I need to make this point above all others, apparently.  “But I also need to leave.  Let me give you each a kiss. Sasha get up.”  I kiss each of their foreheads.  Kai with a mature but kind smile, gives me a tight hug in return, one he can’t restrain.  I feel him saying that he gives me permission to go, but to remember he is my original.  The girls keep talking, even as I pull Sasha up to standing to kiss her forehead.  “Eric isn’t going to like this. I am going to text him.” (I look at them with a look that says if you do that again, I will go crazy, which is exactly what they want me to do.)  “You shouldn’t go out like this.”  “What are you going to do with all the boys that fall in love with you.”  “Will you tell them that they can’t look at you.” “Will you give them your phone number.”  “Are those shoes comfortable?” “Why is your bra strap blue and not black?”  “How did you get your hair to look more blond tonight?” “Where is your meeting?”

I hopped into my Uber car pool, all of the kids waving to me with big smiles from the front porch, the girls mouths still moving. Laughter floated through the air all around the neighborhood – if your soul is sensitive, you could feel it was much as hear it.  Kai inspected each of the men in the car – the driver and two passengers, both men – as if to study their immediate reaction to me, believing his eyes on me would keep me safe but also let him recognize if one of them instantly fell in love with me.  I say hello as I climb in, but the car remains silent with passengers uninterested in talking (this is LA, of course).  I’m left with time to digest, and try to put words around, these infinitely amazing feelings that got into that car with me:

Pride, and awe, in knowing that my kids cannot fathom that not every man would fall in love with me;

Hope, and a deep-down-core knowing, that their view of my love-ableness reflects their view of their own love-ableness;

Happiness, at the joy pulsating through that (very) chaotic three minutes;

Magical, that my internal reality created the external reality;

Love, inside of me, coming out, boundlessly.

I laughed, knowing that I was completely unprepared for this conversation.  And, then, I went on about my night, beautifully haunted by love.

Unsolicited Tarot reading, Grand Casino Bakery, September 2018

(Post Script: I had arrived to the neighborhood for dinner early, as I’m always early.  Before my dinner, this magical woman approached me and wanted to read my cards “as to do so would be a tremendous favor” to her.  I let her.  It was magic, she knew everything, about everything, about everyone: the kids, Damon, Eric, the other one that kids don’t care about, all others, work, life.  So, maybe the jumpsuit really is *haunted*. I am going to wear it more often.)

I keep referencing new stories, new essays, coming soon.  Well, I have some I really like and am really proud of.  At least one also makes me slightly petrified when I think of sharing it (it is also the most amazing one).

But I’m not (yet) going to share them here.  I’m going to make a true attempt at getting at least one published elsewhere, for real, with a broader reach.

So I am starting my efforts with that most amazing one, the one that scares me the most to share.  Because clearly, what else would I do except do exactly what petrifies me?

Hold this spot….I’ll either direct you to where they are in the coming months (year….years)…. or share them here if this ends up being the best spot for them.

Until then, I’ll come up with some fillers.

Love, Nikki

Blueprint 1

I gave him a blueprint
For how to break my heart,
And asked him not to, please.
He said, “I never will.”

I gave him instructions
For how to pull me close(r),
And told him I could wait.
He said, “I don’t want to.”

He invited me to dinner
And I paused before I said yes,
Feeling (knowing) he wasn’t ready.
He said, “I am.”

Me, foolish in my courage.

His words were filled
With lies and truths,
Unpredictable in their dependability,
The wrong ones trustworthy.

He listened, though, quite carefully.
In reverse order, he followed instructions
And replicated the blueprint handed to him,
With Impatient Perfection.

Maybe he had believed my words
Were not to be trusted, either.
Not consistent in their honesty.
Not accurate in their simplicity.

Him, cruel in his cowardice.

Blueprint 2

She had no blueprint
For how to love them,
So she scattered
Bricks of caring everywhere.

She had no blueprint
For how to care for them,
So she used her words
As mortar for the bricks.

She had no blueprint
For how to make them talk openly,
So she used her laughter and smile
To create a safe window.

But she panicked.

What happens if the bricks
and mortar
and the window
were faulty?

What happens if the materials
Were too accommodating,
Scared, voiceless, anxious,
Powerless?

What happens if the home
Was devoid of light,
Lacked a sense of worth,
Didn’t know intimacy?

She had no blueprint
For how to love them,
So she repaired (loved) their shelter (herself),
And pulled them close,
Close,
Close.

And they learned how to build (love, live) without a blueprint.

So, it is safe to assume I do not have a dating story as good as the one I started with.  I mean, that was filled with anticipation, excitement, sex, basketball, and politics.  Oh, and not to mention, disappointment and embarrassment.  For the pessimists or sports fans out there – that pretty much covers what life has to offer.

But, alas, despite how hard I try to change my patterns, I’m an optimist at heart.  So I was thinking of sharing one of a few good stories I have – about good moments, good guys, good experiences, good lessons to learn.  To redeem everyone’s hope in dating! And, for those that want to have hope in men, in men, too!

But despite none of these good men being saccharine sweet, the stories seemed a little saccharine sweet to jump to.  So I’ve chosen one that allows me to relish in self-deprecating humor, one of my favorite types though I’ve tried to reign back a little.  So here we go.

One fun Saturday night, I met up with some girlfriends for wine.  I was seeing someone at the time who I really liked, quite a bit, and wasn’t thinking of meeting anyone else at the time, as I was trying to figure out where him and I were going if anywhere. We had wine at a low key awesome wine bar in Santa Monica, and were feeling like we wanted to carry on the night.  So we went to a bar in West Hollywood that has some dancing in the backroom.  Another friend met up with us, making for a very good looking, fun loving, fearsome foursome.   I had plans to hang with my friends for a while, dancing, then go meet up with the guy and his friends, at a more low key place.  This is known as time management, for clarity.

While dancing, across the dance floor on the other side of the room, I lock eyes with a tall guy with a hat.  He is with a crew of friends – a few.  There’s four of them.  We smile at each other.  He’s a bit more the type one of my friends would be attracted to than me, but I keep eyes locked for the benefit of us all.  The four of them wedge their way through the dance floor and come over to say hi.  We all mutually meet and introduce and share drinks and dance.  In my mind, I’m making friends with these four guys, and nothing more, because keep in mind that I’m heading to meet up with the guy I like shortly.  I’m making buddies.  Before I leave, 2 or 3 of them have my number, including the tall one that I locked eyes with.  As it turns out, he lived in Crown Heights (the Jewish Hospital!) much of the last few years I lived in Brooklyn, right down the street.  In my mind, we exchanged numbers to talk Brooklyn.  To the protest of my friends and these guys, my new friends, I leave to meet up with the guy I’m interested in.  The night progresses and ends, fun for all.  A night to remember and debrief on over the next couple days.

A couple days later (not many), the Tall Guy With the Hat texts me.  We chat.  I’m thinking we are being friendly friends, but at some point he asks directly if I’m interested.  I’m not uninterested, I just hadn’t thought of it at that point because though while not exclusive, I’d been focused on this other guy who had been on my scene for a while. But, as we chat, I’m open to meeting up with him to refresh my mind on whether there is any potential.  And he keeps asking, and I like his persistence.  So we make plans to meet for lunch and maybe shop for him to get some things for his new apartment.  (Note: This is when I am in between jobs, and have leisurely time to have lunch and shop mid-day!)

When we meet up, I’m reminded that he is definitely younger than me – though it’s hard to say exactly how much younger.  I’ve dated guys from my age to, um, younger than my age.  The age conversation hasn’t been a huge thing, partly because for the ones I’ve met online, you know each other’s age (or general age, if lying) before meeting. And for the ones I meet in person, obviously our lives have overlapped somehow if we’ve met.  And here’s just a side note – I’ve met awesome men who are just a few years younger than me.  And I’ve met lame boys the same age.  I’ve met awesome men a decade or more younger than me.  And I’ve met lame boys the same age.  It really doesn’t have much to do with age.  But that’s all an aside.  Anyway, I know he is younger, but I can’t really pin his age.  I’m guessing early 30s-ish-ish?  I think he is guessing I’m late 30s-ish-ish.  But we don’t ask.  We have lunch. We shop.  He’s a gentleman.  He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, opens doors, is polite and engaging and appreciative of my attention.  He helps a homeless man who is struggling in his wheelchair, that four other people walked by and didn’t help.  He reminds me of good men I’d been involved with before, both in his kindness and his reserved, but warm, demeanor.  Admittedly, and I later tell him this, he is nicer than I expect him to be.  I’m not sure what I expected.  When I tell him, he takes that as the compliment I intend it to be.

We have a great afternoon, and we see each other every couple days for a while, talk every morning and every night.  We go to a Clippers game, we go to a movie.  We go out to dinner.  We decorate his place.  We go out dancing and meet up with my friends.  We don’t, though, ever talk about age.  We talk about careers, goals, family, friends, sports, funny stories, dance, ambitions.  The important stuff.  Just not age.   I know from the beginning he isn’t my soul mate, but I enjoy his energy and his attention and our time, so just go with it for a bit.

One night, we had plans to go out.  But it was raining in Los Angeles and he had to work a little later than expected.  I suggest we just order in at my place and watch a movie, which he is game for.  He comes over after he is off, and we order Thai food.  He brings some drinks, and helps me set the table and get the food set out, and he even goes out of his way to light the candles I have on my table and in my fireplace.  It’s all very sweet.  We have some music playing and sit down to have dinner, and it’s a perfect setting. (Side note, everyone always loves my table.  Normally when people come they sit there even when I’m trying to get them to enjoy the rest of my house! But in this instance, I’m happy to be at the candlelit table.)

Our conversation kind of meanders around, but is really intimate and nice.  He tells me about his life growing up, his mother and separately his father (they are divorced).  His experiences and influences getting into the profession he is in, and some of the recent hurdles he had faced even since I had met him.  He asks lots of questions about me, my kids, my former relationships and family relationships.  There is lots of depth and intimacy being developed.  I’m not trying to make it sound perfect – but it was very nice! We start talking New York and Hurricane Sandy (I think because of the rain outside).  We were both there during this time, and we talk about the experience of being in a city like NYC during one of these big, historic events.

He then is about to ask about 9/11, but stops himself.  “I was about to ask about 9/11, but you weren’t in New York yet during 9/11, right?”

I don’t think twice about it.  I say, yes, I was.  “It was my first year of law school…..oh wait, actually, my second.  Yeah, my second year of law school…” and I go on to detail the day in great detail.  He listens, with interest and empathy and is engaged.

“Wow, that is incredible.”  He responds.

“Yes, it was much more intense for many others.  But it certainly is so etched in my memory that it feels like yesterday,” I say.

I take a bit of my pad thai.  And as I’m taking a sip of my water, he adds, “Yes, I’ll never forget that day either.  I was in Sixth Grade….”

I immediately spit out my water.  All over my plate.  Water everywhere.  When I heard “sixth grade” – a year of school designated by a number, not even a name – I choke.  I quickly within a split second do math – my oldest nephew is 22.  What grade was he in in 2001?  Please tell me he was much younger than 6^th grade.  (He was, whew. He was only 6.  This guy is not as young as my nephew.)

“I’m sorry.  I just, I wasn’t prepared for that.  I was not in 6^th grade.”  I say, as I try to nicely wipe up the water that came out of my mouth and maybe even my nose, luckily mostly landing in my plate.  So much water that I have to get a new plate of food.  At this time, I had dated two other guys his same age.  But I just hadn’t learned of their age in this context, in this way, so it caught me off guard and made the age difference seem more stark.

“I heard.” He says, with a big kind smile, holding back a slightly enamored laugh at my clumsiness.  He’s not phased by the age, as I was.  Nor was he phased by me spitting water.  He helped me get a second plate, and we don’t even pause on the fact, we just go on with the discussion about what 9/11 was like for him.  And I keep thinking that when I was in sixth grade, the space shuttle Challenger blew up.  I was so young.  I just kept thinking of my sixth grade teacher telling us what happened — I kept thinking of the sour cherry candy we earned if we made good choices.

Eventually, we move to other topics, including relationships, and this is a grand way to even out the playing field.  As it turns out, dating in your 40s isn’t really all that different than dating in middle school, so any age difference between 27 and 43 is quite irrelevant.

And he still hadn’t figured out my actual age.  I didn’t clarify that before law school, I got my Masters.  And after that, I taught for a couple years.  And it wasn’t my first year of law school, it was my second.  I chose not to clarify any of that, because why did it really matter? I wasn’t comparing 12 and 27 years old.  It was a different story now, we were 28 and 43.  And didn’t I say I knew by this point in time, it isn’t really about the age?

Take it for what it’s worth. I should either be immensely proud or immensely embarrassed of this story.  And if truth be told, I’m a little bit of both.

Nature? Nurture? Nature.  I don’t know the answer, but when I notice the parallels between these little moments in time, 8 years apart, I see that some people are just wired the way they are wired.  And I know that if I added in stories for most days that fill up the 8-years in between, similar stories are there in abundance. Here’s a little glimpse into my opportunities to step up to the challenges of parenting:

April 6, 2009: I am not quite six months pregnant with identical twin girls. I’m working full time, and have a not quite 14-month old son at home.  All is going smooth (considering the facts just stated).  I have a routine ultrasound, and the two little baby girls are content and healthy and happy inside me.  Growing nicely and evenly, sharing all the necessary nutrients and blood.  My cervix is closed.  All my vitals and tests are 100% normal. My body completely healthy, as are the two growing baby girls.  No sign of anything other than happiness in there.  Peacefulness.  ALL IS SMOOTH. ……. April 9, 2009: Not but just three days later, ALL IS NOT SMOOTH.  Should you think 3 days is a long stretch of time when you are 6 months pregnant, it is not.  They space out routine checkups by months – weeks at worst. Three days is safe.  Nevertheless, three days later, I’m cramping and have a tiny spot of blood.  I go into the hospital and am 4-cm dilated (for those not familiar, this isn’t a great thing to be when you are not quite 6 months pregnant and want the baby(ies) to stay inside).  I spend 48 hours laying on an inverted hospital bed, my head lower than my legs, never once letting my feet touch the ground, including for any necessary bodily function.  Every doctor and every nurse reviews my ultrasound reports and medical records.  What was wrong that they missed? Nothing.  They check again and again and debate, but nothing wrong.  I spend 9 more days in the hospital bed, although with my head back to normal position. Taking 1,000 medications to stop the contractions that won’t stop happening.  What happened to these peaceful, content babies? Why are they fighting to get out? NO ONE CAN FIGURE IT OUT.  I fight to keep them in, they fight to come out.  Is Baby A or Baby B causing havoc? No one knows.  They are just causing havoc and I’m trying to manage it. I get them under control, the contractions stop.  I think I am in the clear, the contractions start.  I meditate the contractions stop.  I blink and the contractions start. April 20, 2009, 6:00pm: The monitor around my stomach picks up the contractions regularly for nine days and then doesn’t anymore.  I tell the nurse, I am having bad contractions but the monitor isn’t going off.  She says, no you aren’t having them.  I say yes, I am.  She moves the monitor, checks its functionality.  Tells me I am not having them.  I say I just had a baby fourteen months ago, the feeling of contractions fresh in my mind.  These are in my back now.  No monitor will pick them up apparently because they are not of the kind picked up by normal monitors. Sure enough, my doctor comes and I’m 9 cm dilated (for those not familiar, there is no turning back now).  We try one last thing to keep the babies in, but it just makes me hot and in pain. April 21, 2009, 12:19am: Baby A comes out, after I cursed out my doctor (who I love) because of the pain she (Baby A, or her sister, who knows) was causing me. April 21, 2009 at 12:21am: After hiding in my rib cage for an extra minute of pleasure, Baby B arrives.  Two tiny, tiny little things, no one can figure out why they came but all in the NICU are impressed by how strong these two little birds are.  The NICU, you see, is a good place to be strong and resilient and stubborn.  It’s good to remember this is how it all starts.

July 15, 2017, 8am: Baby A, now known as Sasha, has a dentist appointment to get a tooth pulled.  The tooth has a cavity down by the nerve (her only one), and no sign of the tooth being loose, so she’s getting it pulled.  She was previously scared of the dentist – not because she was scared of getting her teeth worked on, but she was scared of gagging if anything was put in her mouth (because the thought of her throwing up scares her more than even the thought of being kidnapped, murdered, clawed by a wild bear, ANYTHING).  But we conquered that fear and she wasn’t that scared.  As a precaution given the process, she was going to get a little dose of medicine that was to make her “happy and relaxed.”  Gemma had this before, and it did just that and then some.  She was also going to wrapped up in what I called a “swaddle”, to ensure her arms wouldn’t push the dentist away, and she liked that thought.  She was okay with everything.  We got to the dentist and they weighed her to gage the amount of “happy” medicine to give her.  The scale said 73 pounds.  I had an instant premonition that the dose they were going to give her wasn’t enough.  I had them reweigh her 5 times as I was certain her weight should be closer to 85 pounds.  I had them weigh Kai and me both for a reference for if the scale was accurate.  It seemed accurate, but I was still certain this dose wouldn’t be enough.  She took it quickly, and after 10 minutes was still herself (happy, but no more relaxed and loose than normal).  20 minutes the same.  30 minutes – when the medicine should be fully kicked in and then some, basically the same.  We walk back to the dentist share, she willingly lays down in the pedi-wrap and they wrap her up so her arms and legs are secure, and she’s okay with this.  The dentist leans over her, talking about how she’s gonna take a look in her mouth.  All is fine AND THEN IT’S NOT.  Suddenly, she screams GET ME OUTTA HERE.  GET ME OFF THIS CHAIR.  GET ME OUTTA OF THIS THING.  She kicks and struggles with her arms, and they come out.  We talk through it, and try again.  And the same thing happens again.  And we try one more time, and this time as fast as possible the doctor gives her the shot in her mouth and I hold her legs down and the doctor pulls the tooth.  And then she kicks and struggles her way out again.  I give her a hug and I say, Sasha, I know you were scared but your tooth is out now.  She asks “Can I have a toy AND a sticker” and all is good.  I’m exhausted, though.  The dentist apologizes for not giving her more “happy” medicine but says she never gives any child more, even those that weigh more.  Sasha seems herself and tries to act a little silly because her sister and brother expected her to be silly after the medicine.  She wasn’t.  We do a couple quick errands and go home.  July 15, 2017, 11:30am: We are at home, eating lunch.  All kids happy, Sasha is drawing a picture of her favorite book character, Pigeon.  She finishes the picture and I say, “Sasha that looks awesome.  I love the way the pigeon is smiling.” SHE STARTS CRYING.  Real, elephant tears.  Huge tears.  “Momma, I just feel so sad.  Why am I so sad?”  I DO NOT KNOW.  “I can’t take the sad inside me.”  She falls on the floor. Gemma and Kai look stunned, and I laugh because I don’t know what to do. “I’m just so sad. I’m sad that I’m sad.  And you are laughing at me. I’m more sad.”  She gets up and runs to the living room and cries some more.  Hysterical crying.  She asks, “What did you do to me?” I DON’T KNOW.  I can’t help but think of girls I knew in college (and adulthood) who get so, so sad when they’ve drank too much.  But, I am not quite sure what to do.  I console her as much as I can, but nothing works.  She is just sad.  I try to get her to lay in bed and take a nap.  She refuses, and says she wants to cry the sadness out of her.  Fair enough, but not the most peaceful process.  Because her crying involves throwing herself on every corner of the floor and against every wall, in the most dramatic of fashions, boneless hard flops.  July 15, 2015, 2pm: She throws herself into the bottom bunk of her bed, and sleeps soundly.  July 15, 2017, 5pm:  She wakes up, happy.  All is fine.  I make a note to myself, don’t let her drink when she’s older, as she’ll be a sad drunk for such a happy girl.

July 15, 2017, 7:30pm: To be clear, that is LATER THAT SAME DAY.  The kids and I are at Cupcake Studios in North Hollywood, along with about 125 other people (and a few more to come) to see the play Legally Blond.  Everyone is excited.  Everyone is happy.  This includes SASHA.  She is happy.  The studio is intimate.  The check in process was easy.  Many of the people dance with me at the studio I dance at.  The kids had the option of buying candy or popcorn when we arrived.  I had the option of a cocktail.  Just for the taste of it, I was wanting a whiskey & coke.  I ordered it “light”, but then also made it a double.  (In hindsight, great call.)  We have great seats in the very front, so aren’t crowded between others and have an unobstructed view of the stage.  July 15, 2017, 7:40pm: We are all sitting down, happy and laughing.  July 15, 2017, 7:45pm: The happiness continues.  July 15, 2017, 7:46pm: Sasha starts to cry.  I say what’s wrong.  She screams. She says she needs to leave. I say don’t leave.  She runs out anyway.  I look at Kai; we are both confused.  Gemma is happy.  I tell Gemma and Kai to stay there and save our seats.  I make a little wish that Gemma, who is normally my child who freaks in crowded loud places, doesn’t start freaking, too (I can only handle one breakdown, at most).  I go out to the lobby and Sasha is crying.  “Why are those people so loud, Mommy?”  They are just excited, they are just excited for the play.  “I thought adults behaved.”  They are behaving, sweetie.  They will get quiet when the play starts.  “I don’t want to go back in there.”  We have to, Gemma and Kai are in there and the play will be good.  But we can take our time.  “I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared.”  Okay, it’s okay.  What is she scared of, I DON’T KNOW.  The noise got slightly higher as more people filled in, but nothing severe.  I say, Let me give you a hug.  Then, she says, HELP ME THIS LADY IS TRYING TO HURT ME. I look around and there is a lady from the theater, who was being a bit boisterous and loud, ordering another drink. I think, Oh, it’s her Sasha is scared of.  She is a little loud. I thought of the instance, a few weeks ago when we were at a dance performance and there were some women talking behind us loudly and nonstop before the show started, and Sasha had told me, “Mommy, I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I don’t like those women because they are loud.”  So clearly, I think in my head, this is the woman that is scaring Sasha enough to make her scream right in this moment.  So I say, No, Sasha, she’s not trying to hurt you.  She’s just getting a drink….and I continue to wrap my arms around Sasha.  Then, Sasha screams more loudly THIS LADY IS HURTING ME.  DON’T LET HER TAKE ME.  SOMEONE HELP ME.  HELP ME.  And I realize, um, she’s talking about me. Me.  ME.  And I look around the lobby and there are about 10 people, including the GM of the theater, watching.  Fortunately, they saw us all night long, so knew that (a) I am her mother, and (b) I am not trying to hurt her.  But, nevertheless, they are trying to figure out what’s going on.  AS AM I.  So I take a deep breath (which works, thanks to the slightly relaxed nerves compliments of my double whiskey and coke).  And I ask Sasha to sit next to me and say we can wait to go in.  And we do.  And we take deep breaths together and we sit there, my arms tightly (but not too tightly) around her, our feet planted on the ground, just waiting it out.  I can’t help but contemplate, I am so easy going. I am so low maintenance. I can endure anything. I can ensure nothing bothers me that much, at least outwardly.  How am I supposed to be in tune with the finest, smallest, thinnest slices of energy that swing my daughters from happy to sad and then back to happy?  How? And, honestly, how can we be so upset at a place called Cupcake Theater, that serves M&Ms and whiskey and coke? I don’t know. I have no clue. I just keep trying to figure things out, and take deep breaths.  July 15, 2017, 7:59pm: I ask Sasha, want to try to go peek in with me?  I know Kai and Gemma saved our seat.  And the theater is a little quieter.  She says Okay Mommy.  We go in.  No drama, we sit down.  July 15, 2017, 8:01pm: Sasha and Gemma and Kai start laughing hysterically from the first note of the show, as they sing “Oh my go, Oh my god, Oh my god you guys…..”  For the next three hours, there is laughter and happiness and joy.  From all three of them (mark the date, they were ALL THREE HAPPY FOR THREE FULL HOURS). They choose not to leave at intermission, they all three want to stay.  July 15, 2017, 11:30pm: As I’m tucking Sasha in, she says, I’m so glad we went to the show.  Me, too, Sasha.  And she adds, I’m glad no one got mad at you when I said you were hurting me.

Yes, Me, too, sweet thing.

Post Script: On the way home from the play, she said “I still don’t understand why the play was called Legally Blind.  Her eyes were open the whole time and I know she could see.”  I explain that it was “Blond”, as in my hair color, not “Blind.”  She digests this for a bit, and as I’m tucking her in, she loops back and says, “I don’t understand what hair color has to do with law school or love.”  So, maybe not every puzzle is unsolvable.

Kai, Sasha and Gemma:

Some love stories are simple to tell and unshakeable in their depth. I will be everything you need, even when you don’t know what that is. I will teach you to love and be strong; I will help you find the spark to your passions. I will shelter you as you find your rhythms. I’ll teach you how to express your emotions–to find beauty in releasing them to the world. I’ll give you everything I have so you have your chance to grow and learn. I will teach you how to forgive yourself for mistakes you might make along the way. I know I won when you three chose me to be your mom, when you asked me for the tools you need to shine.  How lucky I am to be that One that helps the world know your immense Souls. Even when things don’t go as planned, even when you aren’t sure you can do it — just look to me and I’ll remind you that you can. There is beauty in the journey even when it seems dark. In those moments, just close your eyes and recalibrate your visions. I love you. For my whole life, when my hands feel empty and are missing something, it is your hands I am looking for, always.

Though I wanted to dance to express how much I love you, I never told Karma because (I thought) I couldn’t find the right song for your story. So I let go of the idea and shared this song with her, knowing she’d turn it into something for me but didn’t think it’d be you. During our first session with this song, she said “I see your kids’ faces when I hear this.”  The universe I believe in and the God she believes in connected our energies — that is how strong my love for you is. It doesn’t even need a sound to be heard and felt. It is just a Sure Thing. Thumbs up-Peace-Kisses. Love.

Back in September, I wrote an essay on what it felt like to receive a termination packet from my then employer.  There are a few versions, all true, of what my life has been like since that day, 8 months and 18 days ago.

True Version 1.  I surprised my kids with a hamster.  Many days, I was able to do homework with them.  They read to me on the sofa in the middle of the afternoon while my French doors were open, sun shining in.  I got to pick them up from school more frequently, enjoy quality time with them.  The last one learned to ride a bike, and the four of us biked down to the beach regularly.  I ran and hiked, most every day. I danced, a lot.  In group classes and alone with Karma Raines, mastering songs I picked and choreography she created to process out stories I wanted to tell.  I lived my dancing dream.  I traveled to Havana, Cuba. Twice.  I fell in love with the city and with a man, though with the man the wonderful fall would have no destination.  I guided others to Cuba, all who fell in love with the city, too.  I made global friends, and connected my global friends together.  I trained with elite Olympic athletes, in Cuba and in Los Angeles.  I dated two international male models, both of whom are also quality human beings – one, in fact, the kindest guy I have ever met (see note about falling in love, above).  I took my kids to New York City for a week at Thanksgiving, to Denver for a week at Christmas.  I wrote beautiful essays and poems and poignant short stories and touching pieces of a screen play.  I went to the Women’s March in DC with an amazing group of women, and we were hosted by my favorite Bethesda based family and closest friends.  I marched with over a million people who believe in kindness and goodness and equality and the right thing.  I took Kai back to New York City and DC with me to participate in the last Lauren Beam Foundation 5k and to speak at Georgetown University, let him see all of DC in a day and my favorite college campus (now his, too).  I had lunch dates and mid-day dates and some morning dates. I took Sasha to get her ears pierced and see an astronaut speak.  I took Gemma to get her ears pierced and a surprise trip to her favorite place, PetSmart. I had coffee with friends.  I practiced my Spanish.  I wrote love notes in Spanish.  I watched a few mid-day movies.  I trained at an elite performance training center with Mariana Reis and laughed as proved our collective toughness.  I crawled back into bed on rainy mornings and stayed there until 1pm.  I took naps.  I baked my special recipe cookies, and grilled steaks for lunch.  I paid off a good chunk of my debt and my credit score rose to literally near perfect.  I sat on my stoop and got to know my neighbors. I had lunch on my stoop and saw my favorite bougainvillea bush blossom.  I volunteered in each child’s class and chaperoned field trips and “Olympic Day” and “Field Day.” I cheered 200 kids on as they each did the long jump, some for the first time, I made them each feel good about their individual accomplishments.  I coached 7-8 year olds on a basketball team that won as many games as we lost, and called each and every player “Sweetie” from the sideline and was convinced to coach again the first time one of them called me “Coach.”  I went to pool parties and dance parties and house parties and had girls’ nights out and met cute guys and went out with them.  I fell in like with a few of them. I was surprised with good chemistry when I was least expecting it.  I networked and made new, amazing friends and professional contacts and nourished existing professional relationships and felt my world grow.  I impressed people.  I did all the things I loved doing when I was working, but just got to do more of everything.  A friend told me I lived the life people dreamed of, and I said I was certain, at least, that I lived the life that I dreamed of.  I laughed, I smiled, I felt grateful and happy and proud and content.

True Version 2.  I cried.  I dropped my kids off at school and rushed out so no one would see me in sweats, without anywhere to go.  I felt lost, unneeded.  I tried to write and had writer’s block.  I cried while I drove to dance class.  I cried before I picked my kids up from school.  I felt exhausted.  I looked in to parties I was supposed to enter and coached myself in, not wanting to enter.  I looked at networking events I planned to attend and coached myself in, not wanting to talk to anyone.  I cried to Karma before a few dance classes.  I cried to Kristina Fredericks, a friend in Los Angeles that I’ve grown closer with this year.  I cried to Harry Packman, a friend in New York that I met 16 years ago, over the phone while stuck in traffic on the 405.  I cried to my sister.  I cried to my mom.  I cried to Mariana Reis, my closest friend in Los Angeles.  I cried to my dad while sitting in my car looking at the beach, full of fog. I cried to my ex-husband. I cried to Dianne Jefferies, a personal friend and professional mentor.  I cried to a career coach.  I cried to a spiritual reader.  My kids saw me cry (for lots of different reasons).  I thought of what I would do if I could not find a job and I ran out of money – what good would my good credit do if I didn’t have income?  I imagined having to sell my Brooklyn condo – my only asset – and cried.  I imagined having to move out of my house in Los Angeles – to where? – and cried.  I heard myself say “I moved to Los Angeles for my job,” and thought that I no longer had that job or any job, and I felt sad, angry, confused, stumped.  I heard a clock ticking constantly.  I spent all my energy coaching myself not to listen to that clock, that ticking.  I yelled at my kids because I couldn’t stop the ticking.  I wanted to give up.  On my most defeating days, I felt I was failing as a parent.  My daughters wouldn’t stop fighting; my son would be unforgiving to himself.  I wanted more energy to be better for them but I couldn’t find it.  A drunk driver side swiped my car in the middle of the night and tore off the panel of the driver side front and back doors, shattered the driver side mirror, tore apart the bumper.  I woke up to the damage, not having heard it happen as I slept, and realized my deductible was way too much, more than I could afford to pay and, without evidence of who did it, my car insurance would go up an even more godly amount than it already has in LA.  A man I went out with asked me what I was looking for from him, and I said just what we had going on – I wasn’t thinking ahead of that – and he told me I was attractive and sexy and had amazing energy and he was attracted to my composure and humor and he loved that I had my life together and knew myself, but he could not offer the same.  I thought, he must be in a very sad spot if this unemployed, unlucky woman driving a literally taped up Prius with a finite and near ending amount of money has it more together than him – I don’t want him.  I cried at a band performance at my kids’ school in front of 200 parents, right after receiving bad news and not being able to keep my composure.  A father patted my back, though I didn’t see through the tears who it was or even if I knew him.  I wanted to curse the universe.  I just wanted to curse.  I felt like the universe was seeing what it took to take the positive, the optimism out of me, and I felt like it succeeded – like it found my limit.  I cried for mercy, for a f***ing break.

True Version 3.  The day after I received my termination packet, I worked on my resume.  I got feedback from a few people, including dear friends Kate Stillman in Maryland (my first NYC roommate and best roommate ever) and Laura Wesley Al-Wir in Jordan (my dear and brilliant and kind college friend).  I then made about 150 versions of my resume, before getting a couple versions that felt authentically me.  I spoke to recruiters and talent placement specialists and friends and career coaches, and created a list of things I wanted in my next career opportunity.  I wanted to be in Los Angeles, I wanted to be connected to sports and events and entertainment, I wanted to be on the property or fan side, not on the brand side.  I wanted to be with a company purposely placed in Los Angeles, with a global reach, at the front end of its growth.  I wanted to be with a company that values strong female leadership, and my leadership qualities and team oriented attitude.  I explored an opportunity with a sports league in LA and became one of the final two candidates for a dream job, only to have the search be put on indefinite pause as the entity went through its own transition after its CEO resigned.  I was offered a position with a digital media company, only to have the parent company decide the position should be based in NYC, not LA.  I was offered a position with a family of brands whose parent company wanted to reinvigorate each of them, only to have the person I was replacing decide not to retire.  I applied to 57 more positions that offered at least some of the opportunity I was looking for, had conversations with an additional 16 companies.  I was told over and over and over and over that I was over-qualified, that they didn’t have the budget for me, that they were looking for someone with less experience, that I was qualified to take the person’s job I was speaking to and they would keep me in mind if they heard of anything.  I introduced myself to more than 90 colleagues in the industry, of all levels and all titles. I had phone calls (for those that know me, this means I SPOKE ON THE PHONE). I sent cold emails, more and more of which were responded to and I made positive impressions on all that I met.  I gained even more confidence and more certainty as each day went by.  I actually grew to like phone calls, though I still preferred in person meetings.  I believed in what I could offer, and I believed the right company would come into my path in time.  When I caught myself crying for mercy, I found myself saying “F*** that, you can’t take the positive out of me.  You can’t kill my optimism.  I’m not lying down – this is on me and I can make this work out.”

True Version 4.  From Christmas until today, I had growing anxiety.  I was surprised at how hard it was to get interviews, let alone a job.  And surprised at how few opportunities for which I wasn’t over-qualified were coming up.  I remembered saying to my financial advisor earlier in 2016, “I’m so employable, I’m not worried about ever having to find work.”  Why did I say that?  The anxiety grew as opportunities that I found and offers that were made fell through.  And here is the truest version of these past months:  I made things happen.  I woke up with anxiety every morning (I had never known what anxiety felt like, less a few brief weeks in 2006 when I found what turned out to be a benign lump in my breast).  Some, but not all mornings, I spent some time wallowing in the anxiety and anger for a few minutes.  Then, I told myself to conquer the day and turn it into something.  So I would.  I’d get ready for meetings, some of which I was excited for, others I felt defeated about while getting ready.  But I’d get ready no matter– I’d pick out the right dress or outfit, I’d do my hair, I’d do my makeup, and, most importantly, I’d do my mind.  I would coach myself into the positive mindset in which I feel most comfortable.  Sometimes I’d be ready and feel my best self before I walked out my door.  Sometimes, I wouldn’t be ready until I arrived at the meeting, I wouldn’t be the Nikki I knew and liked best until the moment I shook someone’s hand and said, “Hi, I’m Nikki Hart, so nice to meet you.”  I talked and listened and laughed and connected with people. Always, I left each meeting feeling better than when I woke up.  I gained hope and remembered my belief in myself as each minute of each day went by.  Each time I cried, as detailed in True Version 2, it was in the morning, except for the breakdown at my kids school, when the potential friend or stranger patted my back, after receiving stunningly bad news at exactly 5:47pm.  Otherwise, it was never late afternoon, never after dinner.  By then – because I had met people, called people, followed up with people, wrote about what next steps I could take, made connections, followed advice, talked to people, assessed what I wanted, practiced perseverance and honesty –I felt better each day, with this one exception.  Because I would sweat and run off the anxiety; because I would dance and celebrate my Body and my Self and my Mind; because I would push myself physically and emotionally, I always felt better.  I felt myself.  And I would lay down each night to sleep and I would visualize confidence and capability and strength and poise pulsing through my body, and I would sleep peacefully and contently, having Fallen In Love with myself again that day.

The Result of These True Versions:  While I was in DC for the Women’s March in January, I told a magical spirit and my close friend Laura Allen that I thought things would come together for me professionally in April – that in Spring the seeds I had been planting would be able to grow.  On April 19^th, while at a sports industry conference that I paid a good chunk of money to attend, I found out that the third offer with the footwear brand had been, effectively, reneged.  I was surrounding by 1950 men and 50 women that I was trying to impress when I found out, and I got teary eyed.  I sat in a thankfully dark room while people were focused on the presenting panel of men and let tears run down my face for 8 minutes.  I texted a few friends that wouldn’t tell me it was going to be okay, but who would tell me “WTF, that sucks!”  Tears dripped from my face onto the black dress I was wearing.  Then, I said to myself, “Nikki, you found out this while you are here, at this conference, for a reason.  You aren’t home alone.  You are here, surrounded by people in the industry you have always been and want to be more directly a part of.  You know more people than you thought you did, you can meet even more.  Don’t waste your time on tears or lamenting an opportunity that you felt you needed more than you felt you wanted.  Wipe your tears away and do what you want and need to do here – talk to people and create an opportunity for yourself.”  So I did that.  Five minutes later I saw a woman I know, Vanessa Shay, who I know through my involvement in Women in Sports and Events and works for AEG – a worldwide sports and entertainment presenter, with ownership interest in an immense number of sport entities and venues – and who knew some of my story.  She offered to introduce me to AEG’s General Counsel, a well-liked man across the industry (and awesome).  Later that night, at the happiest happy hour I’ve ever attended, with my dear friend and former NFL colleague Christine Mills by my side, I chatted with many people – new and old contacts alike. I was reminded that my successful career was successful because of me, and hadn’t evaporated with my previous job or the lost opportunities.  My friend and former President of a NFL team told me about his “gap year”, and we joked about the joys of “Minding the Gap.”  I was reminded of my favorite city and that in this industry and as careers go on, things happen! I wasn’t the first one experiencing a gap year nor will I be the last one (one reason I am writing this so candidly).  I spoke to a man George Pappas who I felt I knew from somewhere though we had never worked together.  Turns out, he went to my rival high school and to prom with a group that included my dearest friend, Marisa Arbanas.  He treated me like the old friend I should have been but technically wasn’t.  (I suspect he treats everyone this way, which is part of his immense charm.)  He also works at AEG and made the same offer of introduction.  Later that week, George introduced me to the AEG GC and we had a phone call set up for 3 weeks later.

Meanwhile, during that 3 week interim, I found an opportunity at a digital ticketing and fan engagement company, AXS, formed through a joint venture between AEG and a digital partner.  They were looking for someone much more junior, but based off what they needed and what I knew about their goals and business, I knew it could be a bigger role.  Though they were at the near end of their interview process and likely about to make a hire, I sent my resume in, wrote directly to AXS’s GC, and Vanessa kindly put in a good word for me, as well. I got a phone interview, then an in person interview, and then a few more.  Through these interviews, we explored all I could offer to the company, despite not having the background they originally envisioned.  I authentically spoke with the hope that there was value in bringing in someone with more experience than they originally imagined, and that I was that person and could be an asset worth the money. It was an opportunity for me to both use my experience and grow and learn, in equal parts, in the industry in which I feel at home.  As I waited to hear if I succeeded, I was scared to hold my breath – other opportunities had slipped away even after an offer was made. Even if they liked me, I knew the role wasn’t originally budgeted for me. I felt helpless just waiting, but what more could I do?  I thought back to law school, when I didn’t have time to study (why I didn’t have time back when I had no kids and no full time job, who knows – but likely because I was living the True Version 1 version of my law school days), and I would sleep with my notes under my pillow.  This led to many aced tests.  So, I took my wrist bands, given in lieu of a visitor pass, from each AXS interview and slept with them under my pillow for the four more days I waited.  On Friday May 26^th, I officially found out that I convinced them it was a good fit for us both and had the offer I wanted.[1]  I’m sure the sleeping-with-wrist-bands-under-my-pillow contributed, but I know I wouldn’t have been able to do secure this opportunity – a really, really good one – without all the conversations or help I had from others.

I also would not have been able to do this without the opportunities that were at my fingertips that fell through.  I would not have been able to do this without the 57 opportunities I applied to, without the 16 additional companies I talked to.  I would not have been able to do this had I not spoke to nearly 100 new people in sports, entertainment and events and peripheral industries that I hadn’t spoken to before September 12^th, at least in any meaningful way, not to mention the hundreds of friends I spoke to that helped me connect to these 100 new people.  I would not have been able to do this if I didn’t cry silently and hopefully invisibly for just a few minutes on the same day I spoke to George and Vanessa.

I would not have been able to do this without True Version 1, True Version 2, True Version 3, or True Version 4 of the last 8 months and 19 days.  I wouldn’t have been able to do this without Me, and without the conviction of knowing what I was looking for even though that conviction was hard earned and tested in moments.  I am so grateful for all those truths, all those moments of pleasure and pain, sometimes coexisting at once, that led me here, to this job, a job that checks off so many of those qualities I centered my energy into over eight months ago. I’m so grateful to be right where I want to be.

Here’s to the next chapter.  But first, off to have a glass of wine to celebrate with a couple of those friends that I laughed, cried, cursed, cheered, traveled, and danced with in all my true versions.

************************************************************************************

[1] There is a little more to this story that occurred at 5:47pm on May 30^th, leading to the infamous breakdown at my kids’ school when the unknown father patted my back as I cried and tried, unsuccessfully, to find composure.  The details of this chapter will be saved for another story, another time (watch for future Ted Talks!).