Sell It

My neighborhood held a community yard sale last weekend. This involved a sign in front of the Villages at Lakeshore entrance, a lot of confusing emails to and from homeowners, and piles of junk in people's driveways. Twenty years ago, I thought of yard sales as inevitably frustrating opportunities to make as much money as possible on a Saturday morning. Now I view them as a chance to psychoanalyze my fellow humans while getting rid of shit I no longer want. My method was "Make me an offer - everything must go." If I hadn't used it in a year (or four), it was out on the driveway.

Who wouldn't get out of the car for this?

I applied my merchandising background from high school department store jobs to organize neatly with curb appeal. Shoppers here prefer to drive by and roll down their windows, gaze at wares from the climate controlled comfort of Trailblazers and sedans. Yet I didn't get nearly as many shoppers as my neighbors two doors down, whose stuff was in messy stacks and piles in huge plastic Rubbermaid bins. Maybe the mystery of those untidy tubs of junk is what lured customers out of their vehicles. They couldn't resist a peek into the unknown, whereas my naked display gave away too much at first glance.

The few shoppers who braved my yard were uncomfortable if I didn't name a price. When I said, "Make me an offer" they averted their eyes, shrugging awkwardly. If I caved in and stated a ridiculously low number, they of course offered half, to which I responded, "Great! I'll take it."

In this unorthodox way, I made 30 bucks in less than two hours and got rid of half of my junk. The rest was headed for Goodwill, as soon as humanly possible.  

Just as I started packing up, the passenger of a maroon minivan rolled down her window halfway to ask "How much for the picture?" She referred to a huge, ugly print I'd picked up off the street - free - about two years before, thinking I might someday use the heavy black frame for something. I said, "Name a price." She looked distressed, then faintly disinterested, and shook her head. I feared she'd wave the driver on. "I'll give it to you free," I said, my voice a tad overeager. Could she see the thought bubble over my head? Please! I beg you! Take this hideous behemoth off my hands!

Then she smiled. "I can't do that. But I'll give you $2.00 for it." 

Sold.

Curves

The elegant tree.

Motorcycling is like yoga for speed freaks – a lot about balance. Learners topple the way we do in tree pose in beginner sessions. My first bike weighed 311 pounds, had an engine that sounded like a lawnmower, shuddered at 55 miles per hour, and gave even non-bikers the opportunity to smirk over her paltry 250 CCs. But at least she could be picked up when I dropped her - which I did, frequently, just like I drop myself in raven pose on my yoga mat. 

When I do this, I land on my head.

When the insurance check arrived after Rebel's destruction, I decided that my six weeks of experience and a mild concussion rendered me ready for a 471-pound, 500 CC Kawasaki Vulcan. At stoplights, this baby chomps at the bit like Secretariat at Churchill Downs. We take off like jockey and race horse, and we feel real cool doing it.

But there’s this concept called a learning curve. I'm not even talking about trying to figure out where to lock my helmet or why there's no gas gauge - let alone, reverse gear. The night I bought her, I tried to back the Vulcan across the grass into my backyard. 160 pounds makes a big difference. This stubborn new mule wouldn't budge, and neither would I. I gnashed my teeth and yanked those handlebars, grunting like an Olympic weightlifter until my arms gave out and I dropped the thing. Attempting to lift it was like dragging a 500-pound man out of quicksand. I couldn't do it without help. I felt foolish and stupid. I can't lift my own bike? Just give up, McQueen. It's over. 

Not fully recovered from that humiliation, I rode to work the next day. The bike sputtered and died at every stop. I thought amateur things like, “Pull out the choke, rev harder, is the battery failing, did I buy a lemon?” Ultimately, it quit with the permanence of an obstinate child, so I got off and pushed - discovering that I am strong enough to propel the beast forward over pavement. At least there's that.

Determined to stay upright.

Just as a cute cop pulled over to help, I remembered something important. I bent over the seat, flipped the fuel valve to the reserve tank, and the bike started on the first try. I shrugged goofily at the officer and sped away, thinking What kind of damn fool novice nearly runs out of gas?

The thing about learning new things is that curve. And the thing about learning curves is they get a whole lot steeper the more years that pass. Negative thoughts much more easily creep in, like I don't need to do this. Why even try when it's so hard?

I don't have the answer yet. All I know is that as the curves get tighter and steeper, I am ever more determined to get around and over them - upright and forward, with plenty of momentum.

Crash it!

Now that I finally worked up the nerve to tell my parents, I can reveal all in the blogosphere. (News flash: even middle-aged people fear telling their parents some stuff.)

There I was on my birthday, cruising along in the cool spring air, smiling and watching traffic in the defensive way I'd been trained. I entered the roundabout with its big, fancy fountain; I saw the SUV, which appeared to be yielding the right of way; I headed on toward my exit.

What I remember of the next few seconds is thinking "No no no!" and "Stop stop stop!" as the sparkle of her giant side view mirror rapidly approached my head. There was an awful grinding sound. I was flat on the pavement, and my sweet Honda Rebel was skidding away from me. Then I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, a big-eyed band of concerned looking white people surrounded me. "Don't move!" yelled a man who resembled Tom Selleck. "Don't move!"

I sat up and shook my head, then shouted back, "Let's get out of the street. People need to get to work." I inched my way to the curb, sat on the perfectly manicured lawn by the fountain, and took off my helmet. I blinked a few times and thought, Okay, no big deal. Park my bike somewhere, and I can walk to work from here.

"Do you know what day it is?" said Magnum P.I., still feeling the need to shout. I thought for a second. "Yeah," I yelled. "It's my birthday!"

"Call 911!" he bellowed. "Call an ambulance!"

"Don't call a fucking ambulance! It's my birthday, for real - great birthday, huh?"

Two sweet women crouched beside me. They spoke in the soft tones of professional soothers. One turned out to be my would-be executioner. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you, you were in my blind spot, are you okay, I'm so, so sorry..."

"It's okay," I said. It's like that for me - always important to assuage the guilt of the hurter. "Don't feel bad."

The other woman conferred with Magnum. "I'm a nurse at Richland Memorial. I'll drive her to the ER."

From there, things got hazy. There were police cars. Strangers pushed my bike out of the roundabout. A wave of panic... "Who hit me?" I said. "Who hit me?" Insurance information was exchanged, but I didn't seem to have any of it. My heart thumped in my chest. Things were happening fast, outside of my locus of control. I'm forgetting something. What am I forgetting?

"Is there anyone we can call?" Magnum P.I. again, up in my face. "A family member?" There I was stumped. Family. Hmmm. 1,800 miles away. No husband. I'm single. Ah. Work. Call work! "I need to call work."

I panicked again when I couldn't remember the number. Something's really wrong with my head! I pulled out my cellphone and started dialing at random, one dead end after another. Finally it occurred to me that not just the brain-injured can't remember phone numbers.We don't store them in our brains anymore, thanks to the nifty little cellular address books in our tiny mobile phones.

In the nurse's van, stuck in dense Commuterville on our way to a hospital I couldn't remember the name of, I called the closest thing to family I've got: my ex-fiance. "Hey," I tried to sound casual. "I was hit by an SUV and I'm going to the ER. Do you think you could meet me there?"

A short pause and then: "Debra, you called me five minutes ago. I'm already on my way."

So this is what a concussion is like!

All that's left of my sweet Honda Rebel.

A pop song ended on the car radio, followed by one of those annoying updates I always tune out. Chitter chatter, blah blah blah, crash on I-77, southbound lane of I-20, but then this: "Traffic delayed in Lake Carolina due to a collision involving a motorcycle..."

"Hey! That's me!" I was elated. "They're talking about me!"

The bike was totaled, but I was released from the ER in under an hour with nothing more than an Advil and a wheelchair ride for legal purposes. The refrain of the day? "It's a good thing you were wearing your helmet." Yeah, yeah, yeah. Why is it that people who don't ride love to say that so much?

Now the search for the next motorcycle begins. Let it be bigger, with a more powerful engine. Everyone says you dodge SUVs faster that way.

Flying Solo

Call it what you will: partner, fiancé, boyfriend, husband, long-term, monogamous, committed situation...

I have been without one of those for more than six months now. This is an all-time record for me. I turned 47 two weeks ago and I haven't been without one of those for more than a month in the past 25 years.

I've adjusted - pretty well, some might say - finding my way back into the family of creatives, reading "fresh ink" (what we call the stuff we've just written) at open mics, keeping up with my blog, my letter-writing, my exercise routine. I bought a freakin' motorcycle. I ride it as often as I can and feel the wind in my face and experience this great and joyful sense of loving my life. (I'm fairly certain, for a reason that eludes me, I never would have bought a motorcycle had I been in one of those.)

A friend said recently, "We need to fix you up with someone. You need to go on a date." I shuddered visibly - maybe even audibly. A date? Sitting across the table from a stranger asking inane questions like, "Where do you work?" and "What are your hobbies?"

It is as inconceivable as finding myself on a rocket bound for the moon.

Some friends have had luck in the online dating world. See above reference to rocket bound for moon.


As I get on with my life I sometimes wonder, will it always be like this? I have so little experience not being in a relationship that it actually feels like - how do I explain? - like my only way to ensure being in a relationship was to run them back to back for a quarter century.  Not doing that makes me believe - quite deeply - that I'll never find my way into another one. I just don't know how.

This might actually be okay. I've had more than my fair share, and I may have even proven I'm not exactly cut out for it. Would it be so bad to carry on, riding my motorcycle to poetry gigs, meeting my friends for book talks and meals in swanky restaurants, and devoting myself to the unconditional love of a little dog named Bill, whose only daily expectations of me are two scoops of Purina One Smartblend Lamb and Rice Formula, throwing the tennis ball in the backyard approximately 20 times, and cuddling up at bedtime for 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep?

If you ask Bill, he'll tell you: I'm great at this.

You're Soaking In It

Now where do I get that hair-do?

When I turned 40 - an astonishingly brief seven years ago - I took the day off and spent it with my friend Winnie. Win was a woman who knew how to take care of herself, and was ready to show me the way. "First, we're going to get mani-pedis. Then we're going to have Thai food for lunch. And then you're going to buy a bra at Victoria's Secret."

I scoffed at everything but lunch. I do love me some Pad Thai.

But ... mani-pedis? I hadn't let anyone clip my toenails since I was a baby. And scrub my feet?  Soak my hands in ... mystery liquid? Remember the ads with Madge the aesthetician (I'm sure she didn't have such a fancy title back then) plunking her clients' digits into Palmolive dishwashing liquid?

Don't even get me started on Victoria's Secret. Me, pay $42 for a bra? I had long believed I wasn't sufficiently endowed to warrant such an expense, and thus resigned myself to uncomfortable and ill-fitting over-the-shoulder-pebble-holders for $12.50 on sale at Ross Dress for Less.

"Debra," Win said authoritatively, "You're 40 years old. It's time."

So we got all dressed up and went for our mani-pedis.  Since I abuse my hands with an abundance of clicking and finger-picking and dishwashing in non-Palmolive liquid, the mani was sort of an indulgent waste.

The pedi, however... well, what's not to love about immersing your tired toes in a hot bath, getting your calves massaged, having some pepperminty exfoliating mixture rubbed all over them and then never having to bend over to awkwardly trim your own toenails ever again as long as you live? 

Oh. Yes. I am forever and always all-in for the pedi.

And definitely go for stripes and leopard prints!

Lastly, the $42 bra from Victoria's Secret forever holds a special place in my heart (located conveniently close to my bosom). It only took one, but I've never gone back. It's not all sexy pushups and lace. There's wireless relief to be found there, too. After 27 years of bra-agony, to suddenly discover there exists a contraption that actually fits and is so comfortable you forget it's even there? And comes in a wide array of fun colors and patterns?

For my 47th, I splurged on four all at once. It helped that they were on sale, but really, I would've done it at full price. It's my birthday, and Win taught me it's okay to go big on your birthday (even if "going big" is a 34A).

Tomorrow I'll be soaking my feet in a hot whirling bath having someone else make my toes look pretty. And may I recommend this to all the ladies in the house? If you walk upright, you deserve a pedicure. And if you wear a brassiere most days of the year, you damn sure deserve to have it feel FANTASTIC! So go out there and treat yourself to (at least) one, wherever it may be and at whatever cost. You are worth it. We are all, every one of us, worth, at the very least, a decent, if outlandishly expensive, bra!

And some pampered feet.