Midday. A young woman hurries into a deli. She scans the drink cases, hurls open a smudged glass door, and pulls out a Coke. Caffeine. To keep going. She waits behind a large man who has ordered a bagel with butter and a coffee light and talks ceaselessly about the weather. The woman digs into her purse, collecting coins from its depths. She counts. She has it exactly. From behind the man, still talking, she waves her Coke and places the coins in a small stack on the counter. She slips out of the store.

“Miss!” a voice says. “Miss!”

She turns to see a man come from the store. The clerk behind the counter. He is now on the sidewalk, beckoning her to return. She retraces her steps, stands inches from him. “I paid for this,” she explains.

“I know.”

“What then?” she asks.

“Your change,” the man says, staring into her eyes.

“But I counted. It’s $1.25, right?” she asks.

“Not that kind of change,” he says. “Real change. What would you change – about you – given the chance? One thing.”

She smiles. Studies his eyes. They are dark and kind. Shaped like almonds, glittering in late summer sun. She realizes something. Something tiny and tremendous. She never even saw this man, or his eyes, before. Even though she was standing there, looking at him. She looked, but she did not see.

“I would linger longer,” this woman says. “In my moments. I miss too much.”

He nods. And smiles. Turns to go.

“Sir,” she says, this woman.

“Yes?”

“What is your name?” she asks.

“Delta,” he says, grinning, playing with her perhaps. Laughter tumbles from him as he steps back in the store.

“One more thing!” she calls, uncapping her soda.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For my change.”

She sips Coke. And realizes that, today, she is already awake. That sometimes stopping is as good as going.

_________________________________

• What’s your change? One thing you would change about yourself or the way you approach the world?
• Do you ever wish you lingered longer in your moments? Do you also have trouble being truly “present”?
  
• Do you agree that here are gems of realization buried in the rubble of the everyday?
• Do you have a healthy relationship with caffeine?
• Do you ask people you encounter only briefly their names?

This post is a little piece of fiction, but for a charming and true story about a young woman and exact change, please check out this post from my friend Lauren at Embrace the Detour!

Last weekend, we had some friends over to our new place. My friend asked me a simple question, “What do you think about little boys having little strollers?” I told her I thought it was fine. “Me too,” she said. “As long as the stroller is blue.”

It was a simple, unremarkable exchange. But it reminded me of a question I have been pondering off and on for a while now, namely whether we parents should try to “encourage” our children toward “gender appropriate” objects and behaviors. Please note that I use scare quotes here very purposefully as I am not sure where encouraging ends and pressuring begins and I am not sure whether I believe that there are such things as gender appropriate objects and behaviors.

I remember the moment well. Toddler, two at the time, had just made the foray into potty-training. To celebrate this progress, we went shopping for big girl undies. At the store, we stood there, mother and daughter, in front of the display of baby briefs. Another mother and her daughter stood next to us, also perusing the merchandise. As fate would have it, both of our little girls zeroed in on the Diego underwear. Yes, in the boys’ section. This other mother was horrified. “You cannot have those!” She yanked some princess panties from the rack and whisked her girl away. Toddler’s interest in the Diego underwear didn’t wane. Very politely, very articulately, she told me those were the ones she wanted.

I didn’t give it much thought. I bought her two pairs.

To this day, my little girl wears these undies under her little purple outfits. She loves them.

So what? I am not sure, but I have always believed that we should let young kids be who they are. My little girls play with dolls and strollers and trucks and trains. Some nights, they sleep in blue pajamas covered in cowboy hats. Some nights, they sleep in pink pajamas covered in twirling ballerinas.

I let them choose.

Thanks to Lisa Belkin of the NYT’s Motherlode, I became aware of a recent controversy surrounding this ad wherein a little boy is depicted wearing his mother’s high heels and trying her lipstick. In the corner of said images are advertisements for a karate school. The message, presumably, problematically, is Let us toughen your boy up. Apparently this ad, arguably prime evidence of stereotyping and gender-shaming, was published online without the karate company’s consent. Click here if you are interested in the details.

I have a good friend with a little boy. He is a wonderful little boy – exceedingly intelligent and kind. He does like to try on his mother’s heels and necklaces and is an amazing dancer. I see this little guy and smile. I applaud my friend for raising such a charismatic character. Never in a million years do I think anyone should try to change this little creature into something he isn’t. Never in a million years do I think that this little boy at age four is emblematic of who this man will be at age forty. And if there is a connection? He will be an awesome forty-year-old.

Now, I am biased. I grew up an unapologetic no-frills tomboy. I lived for sports. When I was eight and attending soccer camp, I was called “Rambo’s wife” (I was tough and could compete with the boys). I wore a Larry Bird jersey to fifth grade more often than not. And my parents? They let me do my thing. They bought me autographed basketballs for my birthday. They came to my games. And when, in high school, I suddenly started wearing skirts and makeup, they rolled with it. They did what I think a good parent should do (within reason): They stayed out of my way.

But is it this simple? It never is, is it? We parents are doing the best we can. Each and every day. And in each of these days, we are faced with decisions. Some as simple as pink or blue. Some far more complicated, nuanced than that. And so. I don’t pretend to know what’s right and what’s wrong here. All I can do is draw on my own experiences as a child, and now as a parent, in this big, bad world.

___________________________________

• Do you think we should steer kids toward “gender appropriate” activities and objects?
  
• Is there such thing as “gender appropriate” activities and objects?
• Are there certain toys you wouldn’t let your little girl or little boy play with?
• Do you believe that we parents should, in many respects, “stay out of our kids’ ways”?
• Would you have bought your little girl the Diego briefs?
• Do you agree that the karate school ad was offensive?
• As a child, did your parents steer you toward certain activities rather than others presumably because of your gender?
  

{Toddler, circa June 2009}

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.”

Henry David Thoreau

Tuesday. August 31, 2010. What’s so special about today? Nothing. Something. Everything.

Today is a pocket of time. Of seconds and minutes and hours. Of responsibilities and meetings and appointments. Before you know it, today will be over. Done with.

And it will be Tomorrow. Another day. The next in line. Another morass of mundane and meaningful moments. Moments that will slip slide away into the future. A future that is always there, around a corner, hovering.

Today is time. A sparkling stream that beckons. It is our job to stand. To tie a fly on. And to fish. We must cast out. Be patient. We might get a bite. Or none at all. Today might be about something, something big. Or it might be quiet, coy, unassuming.

What are you fishing for today in the stream of time? Happiness? Knowledge? Success? Love? Understanding? Freedom? Family? Strength? Peace? Awareness? Justice? Health? Wealth?

Or are you fishing to fish, living to live?  Are you a creature who enjoys the simple act of standing there, here, on the edge of the stream? Do you fling the fly just to feel it go? Do you seek for the sake of seeking? Do you relish the sport of existence, the fine art of squinting at the opaque and glittering surface of the water that awaits us?

Either way. Today is time. A tiny stretch of the big stream.

Let’s go a-fishing, friends.

_______________________________

• Today, I am fishing for knowledge and peace and relief. What are you fishing for today?
  

Once upon a time, I did many things. I went to school and worked hard, yes, but I also played sports. Three of them. Soccer. Basketball. Softball. In high school, I was the captain of all three teams and nothing made me happier than slipping into my Dalton uniform, playing an afternoon game, and coming home bruised and grass-stained and smiling. I also played the trumpet. In the orchestra and in various jazz groups.

I also collected things. Cabbage Patch Kids and baseball cards and Absolut Vodka ads. (Anyone else on this third one? This seems bizarre now.)

I set up lemonade stands in front of my house. I made jewelry out of tiny toys with friends. I played jacks and jump-roped.

I did things.

Now. Now I am doing things too. I am raising two wonderful, energy-zapping little girls. I am writing words here and elsewhere. I am ingesting embarrassing amounts of terrible television. (Yum. Yuck. Yum.) I am making to-do lists and running errands and checking Facebook and floating tweets and bemoaning the fact that I no longer have hobbies.

What happened? When I was a kid, I did so many things and indulged in such a variety of activities. Now that I am a big girl and have kids, not so much.

Is this just what happens? Am I in a stage of life where my most important purpose is raising and rearing creatures and finding them happiness and hobbies? Will there come a time when our kiddos are a bit older and Husband and I reunite with our hobbies or find new ones? I don’t know. But I hope so.

Who knows… Maybe ten years from now, I will be captain of a Central Park soccer league, have a gig playing trumpet at a famous jazz bar downtown, and sell organic free-squeezed lemonade at the local street fair. But will this be as cute as it once was, or will it have midlife crisis written all over it?

Am I the only one who has lost her hobbies along the way? Or am I viewing things through the wrong lens? Perhaps the fact that I no longer do the things I once did and enjoyed is not in itself problematic. Maybe, just maybe, I should realize that I have embraced new hobbies. (Dancing with little girls before bath, picking outlandish wallpapers, having conversations with Husband, writing blog posts, etc.)

Are my words today just further evidence of my allergy to adulthood, my unwillingness to embrace the stage of life in which I sit squarely? It’s entirely possible.

(Childhood was awesome, huh?)

_____________________________

• Did you do many things as a child? What were those things?
• Have you been able to maintain a healthy dose of hobbies?
• Do you think this loss of hobbies is about adulthood or parenthood or both?
• Is it up to us to maintain the “play” alongside the “work”?
• Did you collect anything as a child?
• Are you having a hard time embracing adulthood too?

For a chance to win a free copy of Life After Yes, please click over to Luxury Reading and enter Vera’s great and generous contest!

I don’t know where to begin, but begin I will… I am a woman. I am a writer. I am interested in telling stories about existential grays. About life and love and relationships and philosophy and pain. I have high hopes. With but one book under my writerly belt, I am still a rookie, but I do hope my stories will, over time, reach oodles of people. I also hope that they will receive critical acclaim should they deserve that acclaim. It would also be nice if, by doing what I love (and, man, this is it right here), I am able to contribute mightily to the financial integrity of the family I cherish. That’s right, here I am, at the starting gates of this literary race, hoping humbly and boldly for commercial and literary success down the road.

(Per New York law, dreaming big is perfectly legal.)

Late last night, friend and fellow blogger Kristen of Motherese sent me a link to a Huffington Post article by Jason Pinter wherein Jennifer Weiner and Jodi Picoult, two vanguards of women’s fiction whose talents and careers I respect deeply, discuss a recent online controversy about “the alleged shoddy treatment of commercial writers, in particular writers of what is commonly referred to as ‘women’s fiction’” that arose after the New York Times and other publications extensively covered Jonathan Franzen’s most recent novel Freedom. In this Huff Po piece, Weiner and Picoult offer “their thoughts on what role gender plays in literary criticism, the importance of popular fiction in our culture, and whether progress is being made.”

I implore you to click over and read the entire article now because it is stuffed with insights and angles and I can only scratch the surface of it here. Picoult and Weiner argue, each wielding her own compelling arguments and anecdotes, that the literary establishment, and the Times in particular, tends to overwhelmingly review male authors over female authors and “literary fiction” over popular or “commercial fiction.”

Something Weiner said really struck me, and concerned me: “I think it’s a very old and deep-seated double standard that holds that when a man writes about family and feelings, it’s literature with a capital L, but when a woman considers the same topics, it’s romance, or a beach book – in short, it’s something unworthy of a serious critic’s attention.”

When asked why she deems it important that commercial fiction receive critical attention, Picoult responds, “Because historically the books that have persevered in our culture and in our memories and our hearts were not the literary fiction of the day, but the popular fiction of the day. Think about Jane Austen. Think about Charles Dickens. Think about Shakespeare. They were popular authors. They were writing for the masses.”

Is there this double standard? I don’t know, but maybe so. Why might there be this critical rejection of tales that appeal to the masses? Again, I don’t pretend to know, but these things worry me and make me wonder about the literary world into which I tiptoe at this very moment. Here’s the thing. I have tremendous respect for Picoult and Weiner. Both of these women are immensely gifted; their writing is good and resonates with so many of us. I also love the Times. I grew up watching my parents flip through this paper at the breakfast table and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t dream of one day seeing a book of mine reviewed in its pages.

So what now? Should I duck behind my decidedly male name and allow some readers or reviewers to think I am a man? Of course not. Should I whip up some tales of espionage or murder? I don’t think so. I am a woman and I will write the stories I want to write.

What more is there to say? A whole lot. This thicket of questions and concerns is far too complicated for me to understand or address fully on this Friday morning. But what I can and will say is thank you. To Kristen for sending this article my way. To Jennifer and Jodi for standing up and speaking up on behalf of all of us. To Jason for bringing this article to life.

And thank you to you guys, my readers – writers and people – for allowing me to dream big here. And doubt big, too.

____________________________________

• Have you followed this controversy? Have you read the article? Thoughts?
• Do you agree that there is a double standard in the writing world (and maybe in other professional worlds)?
• Do literary and commercial success need to be mutually exclusive?
  
• Why do we insist on a distinction between literary and commercial fiction? Can’t a book have literary heart and soul and pack a commercial punch?
• Do you think I should keep my unwieldy dreams to myself?
  
• Have you read books by Picoult and/or Weiner? Have you enjoyed them like I have?
  

“All first drafts are shit.”

Ernest Hemingway

I am a perfectionist. Full of paralyzing pride. I like to do things well, and right. Quite often, this perfectionism serves me splendidly. There’s nothing wrong with having sky-high standards, right?

Wrong.

Particularly when it comes to writing. As I have mentioned, I am in the process of writing my second novel. And, depending on the moment, my fingers are flying fabulously or I am having a hard time. In these difficult moments, I am getting stalled and stuck and stranded. And I think I know why.

I want exquisite prose and deft dialogue to tumble out of me. I want my ideas to be crisp and spicy, full of authentic and existential bite. I want my story to take shape like a famous statue. Right away.

Ha.

Thankfully, I have a good memory. I recall Life After Yes’s infancy. That famous first draft. It was utter and unequivocal crap, a big clumsy pile of paper riddled with inconsistencies and holes and nonsense. It was embarrassingly bad. But, you know what?

It was also a start. The start.

I shaped that pile of paper, that stream of words, into something better. And then? I shaped that something better into something even tighter. I did this over and over again, working hard, having fun, chipping away, adding, reinventing. And one day? One day, I had something that was okay. And then one day I had something that was good. And one magical day that good thing was really good. And then great. (Hey, I am biased. I wrote the thing.)

It is so helpful for me to remember this. That this writing thing is a process. It is so helpful for me to read Hemingway’s words. And I am not a fan of profanity but I make an exception here because, well, first drafts are shit. They just are. And an important and subtle distinction must be made. That distinction? First drafts are perhaps meant to be shit. This has nothing to do with experience, with rookie-dom. This is the way it should, perhaps must, be every time. Writing a first draft is an inherently messy endeavor; we are spilling shreds of self and story onto page, gathering bits of imagination and invention, collecting ingredients for what might become something wonderful.

But not yet.

So, on this fine Thursday morning, I want to thank Mr. Hemingway for his sage words and reminder to just write and write and write some more. To spew shit. The good kind. There is plenty of time to clean up later.

________________________________

• Do you agree with Hemingway that first drafts are meant to be mangled and messy things?
• Are you a perfectionist too? Does this help or hinder you more in your life?
• Do you spend more time writing or editing?
• Do you agree that there is wisdom in Hemingway’s words not just for the writer, but for the person? That, so often in life, we should just stop worrying and act and then edit the drafts of days later?
• Would you be suspicious of someone who claimed her first drafts were marvelous? (I would.)
  

Okay, this is a bit random. But also interesting. (To me.)

Have you ever been to UrbanBaby.com? Well, it’s a message board largely populated by urban parents and discussions chez UB range wildly from the practical (paint color suggestions, pediatric advice, baby name votes) to the more bizarre (sexual confessions, political rants, comparisons of household income to waist size – huh?!) Anyway, I used to frequent this site quite a bit when I was pregnant with Toddler and when she was young. At some point though, I stopped because I was disenchanted with the palpable meanness and snark that emerged in this anonymous forum.

Recently, I have popped back on from time to time. Out of curiosity. To be honest, this site is an amazing resource for the writer. Where else can you log on and get a real-time sampling of human conversation and concern? Where else can you pose an anonymous question and get a near-instant response from real people? (Warning to all: if you are a UB regular, your antics might just appear in my next novel!)

Anyway. I was on the site the other day and I watched a curious debate ensue. I will give you the basics. A mother of three children says that she has lost all of her baby weight, that she is quite thin actually, but that she still has a conspicuous belly (she calls it a “ball”). Fine. So what? People have kids and their bodies change. This is hardly revolutionary, right? Anyway, this woman says that she does not want to lose any more weight, that she has tried every exercise under the sun, but that this “ball” will not deflate. And. And her husband will not stop talking about it and mentioning it.

Ugh.

This woman mentions that she cannot afford plastic surgery and that she just doesn’t know what to do. Then she (foolishly?) turns to the UB population for advice. And this lucky lady gets some pretty unanimous advice: Don’t worry about your baby belly. Lose the husband. Yes, that’s right. People get angry and told her that the issue here is not her body, but her betrothed. A few people defend her husband a bit and say that he is allowed to make comments about his wife’s appearance, that partners should be able to be honest about such things. Another responder says that there is a vast difference between discussing issues of weight and health and suggesting that a woman change something about her appearance that she might not be able to change. The general feel here is that this man was essentially evil for disparaging his wife, and particularly her belly, that safe and cozy place where his own three children had grown.

I logged off and thought about this some. Obviously, none of us has the whole story here. We have no real grasp of the dynamics in this marriage, or whether this guy, this critical-seeming husband, is bad news. But. I will say that this woman’s words made me a bit sad and a bit feisty. What should she do?

Of course this is not just about this one woman. This is about all of us, isn’t it? When we enter into relationships, are we tacitly agreeing to an atmosphere of honesty even on tough and upsetting concepts? Or are there things that are off-limits like body and particularly body after babies? Goodness, I don’t pretend to know.

What I do know is that in my opinion, 99.9% of women have some kind of body issue/insecurity. (I really can’t speak for men, but I imagine most men do too.) Personally, I could never be with a man who criticized my body at any time (short of some more serious obesity/health concern). I have witnessed men telling women not to eat the bread rolls at dinner or that they better watch it (and women saying these things to men too) and this stuff makes me cringe. I could never handle this. But maybe I am super-sensitive and idealistic?

Then again. Presumably, we all want to look good. For ourselves and those we love. Maybe, just maybe, this anonymous poster on UB is just as frustrated and critical of herself as her husband is. Maybe she wants to get her body back and is genuinely seeking advice about how to do this? I have no clue.

All I know? These body battles are tricky, tricky things and maybe come down to the individuals involved. One more thing I know? If Husband ever said anything negative about my body, particularly after popping out his precious progeny, there would be some old school fisticuffs. Thankfully (for him and for me), Husband, my sweet and supportive man, has never gone there. Maybe that is because I am so freaking hot and perfect???

__________________________________

• Has your partner ever said anything critical about your body or your eating habits? How have you handled this?
• Do you feel at liberty to criticize your partner’s body or eating behaviors?
• Do you think there should be an added sensitivity surrounding body after babies or no?
• Do you think this man in the hypothetical above seems like a bad guy, or just honest?
• Do you have any advice for the woman who dared air her issue on UB? How to banish the belly “ball”?
• Assuming you could afford it, would you ever consider plastic surgery apres kiddos?
• Are there any places you go to cull instant and killer writing material?
  

Forty-two years ago, my parents got married.

Fourteen years ago, Sister I and Brother-in-Law J1 got married.

For obvious reasons, I don’t remember the first of these weddings. But I do remember the second. I was seventeen and a mere week from heading off to Yale. I was so happy. So excited. So stuffed with anticipation. My sisters and I were bridesmaids. We wore big blue ball skirts and ivory tops. Five minutes before we were to process into the picturesque gardens, the skies opened up on all the lemonade-sipping guests. What ensued was an unpredicted and utterly perfect evening of celebration. My keenest recollection of that night was gathering with my four sisters and my parents at the center of the dance floor where we all threw our arms around each other and got down to “We Are Family.”

I remember when Sister I and BIL J1 so graciously presented my parents with an anniversary cake. I remember Mom cutting a slice and feeding it to Dad and how tuxedo-clad Dad, ever the goofball, bit her finger. The laughter that erupted was priceless.

I remember how beautiful my oldest sister looked that day. How her big dress bounced and twirled. How she looked at the handsome man who was her guy. That night? I am realizing today, on this happy and sad anniversary, that it meant more to me, young me, than I ever realized. It was a night on which generations commingled to celebrate and commemorate life and love, a night when Mother Nature intervened, soaking us all with sweet summer awareness of what really matters.

And here we are. Many years later. College happened. Life happened. Beloved creatures have arrived on the scene. A certain beloved creature has departed.

Today. I am full of love and reverence, my soul tinged with a bittersweet ache for what was and a profound affection and admiration for my predecessors in this good, if sometimes cruel, game of love.

Happy Anniversary, I and J! Love you guys.

Happy Anniversary, Mom. I know today won’t be easy, but I also hope it is laced with laughter and marked with memory. Do you remember when he bit your finger? Silly, silly man I love you. Today. Always.

Saturday. Late morning. We arrive at Turtle Pond. Two girls smile and skip. The grass is green and ready for us. Sunshine shimmies above, and around. We find a spot, a good spot, under a big tree. We spread out a blanket, plaid, and sit. We unwrap sandwiches Daddy made. Turkey and cheese. Little ones sip from juice boxes. At lunch with us? A tiny stuffed turtle named Tuck. A little stuffed bunny named Ruby. Lucky guests at our family picnic.

Big girl stands and does the pee dance. I have to go potty! A strong guy, her father, scoops her up. Little girl chants, Coming too! This mother sits on picnic plaid, amid turkey shreds and bread crumbs and watches her creatures go. Little legs wrapped around a broad and tapering torso, feet kicking, hands flailing, dangling turtle and bunny. Bye bye, Mommy! Sweet words trail them.

Soon, they are back. And big girl is wet with tears. Her turtle is gone. Went swimming in a feces-coated Central Park public toilet. Was rescued briefly only to make a swift plunge into the trash. This girl is inconsolable. She collapses onto this mother’s lap, shaking with sobs. And we stand and walk to the dock. To see the ducks and the turtles and the life.

We will get a new Tuck, this mother says, foolishly says. It will be exactly the same.

Behind her simple and desperate words of reassurance, this one mother wonders about something big. Loss. It will happen. It will happen with things more consequential than tiny turtles. It will happen with things and creatures and places that cannot be replaced. This mother knows this, and deeply, because she has lost things. Important things.

But for now. This is hard enough. A little girl quaking at the loss of a friend. An untimely goodbye. A small and cruel snapshot of what’s to come.

She is okay. I am okay.

(Are we ever really okay?)

It’s just a toy turtle. It’s not just a toy turtle.

(Is it ever just a toy turtle?)

I love you, Toddler. You are my brilliant babe, so strong and so sensitive, keen already to the lessons life has no choice but to teach us.

R.I.P. Tuck (#1)

___________________________________

• Did you lose any cherished toys as a child? Have your children lost anything dear to them? How did you deal?
• Do you agree that life is a constant lesson in love and longing and loss?
• Do you think Husband did the right thing by tossing Tuck? (At first, I thought the poop-slicked little guy should have been brought home for a bath.)
• Do these tiny tragedies make you think about the bigger instances of loss in your life or is it just me?
  

(Ha.)

Once upon a time, there was a young woman. She was a happy, if thoughtful, creature. A jolly, if jaded, city soul. One Thursday night, she went on a date with her husband, a handsome man whom she simply adored. They picked a small bistro. Settled into a small table for two. They perused the paper menu and nibbled on fresh bread. They smiled at each other over the flickering candle between them.

They talked and laughed about life and love and learning. About the subtle shifting of seasons. When the time came, this young woman dug into her crab salad with peppers, a dish colorful and spry. He tasted his lamb and declared it delicious. And then this young woman started talking about something she rarely discussed; her writing. She talked about her new protagonist, a smart young woman with issues. This woman’s husband did something at which he was singularly skilled: he listened. And they discussed this character. Her childhood scars. Her curious academic fetishes. Her sexual blocks.

And this young woman, this writer, was thrilled when her man spoke up. Asking questions. Offering ideas of his own. This man helped her create; making this character come to life in that tiny bistro. But then. He said something. Something little, but pointed. Something intelligent, but critical too. And this young woman put down her fork.

In mere moments, this woman’s mood soured. Her words departed. She looked down at the napkin in her lap, so white, so blank, so stiff, no longer hungry. Her husband apologized. They vowed to talk about something else, but silence ensued. That flame flickered between them. And, in a soft voice, she apologized too. For sliding down, and away. For being so sensitive. For everything.

They paid the check. Walked into the night. Inched block by block toward home. I wish I could do something to snap out of this, she said. Her man nodded. A short time later, she felt better. Silly again. She grabbed her man’s hand and skipped beside him. His hand, though, was limp. She looked at his face, his eyes. And she saw what she had done. She had made him plunge too. Into that place. That bad place of blah.

She apologized again, her words sincere. He told her over and over that it was okay. That he was fine. They walked along, hands swinging, not touching. At home, they surrendered to the couch. In time, the fog lifted from them both. Their fingers laced, they watched a television program. Their smiles came back.

***

Okay, that woman was me. Shocker, I know!

But this happened, this little something. Just last night. And this morning, I said to husband: Is it okay if I blog about bad moods? He said: Sure. We talked about last night, about how miserable I was in those moments, about how that misery was short-lived, but utterly yucky and contagious. Husband said something interesting. He said that he is immune to other people’s moods; that mine are the only ones that really affect him. I chose to view this as sweet instead of sinister. I chose to see this as a sign that we are unbelievably tight and that if I am sad, he is too because he cares so much and feels so close.

I don’t know. But I am sitting here in my yoga pants and bedhead wondering about bad moods and whether they can be cured before they spread and infect others. Whether there is something I could have done in that quaint restaurant to treat my momentary malaise. Just now, I did what any savvy modern soul would do. I Googled “bad mood.” The first search result was an article from Real Simple magazine called Banish a Bad Mood in 15 Minutes. Yay! I clicked.

And then I laughed. Because the article tells us that we can pull ourselves out of a funk with three simple steps: (1) Decode your mood! (2) Calm down!; and (3) Create a Strategy! I had zero tolerance for this article. I felt, and immediately, an aversion to the prescriptive strategy it offered for everyday blues. I guess I think that bad moods happen and that we just need to wait them out. (Or eat a cupcake. Yum.)

I don’t know. Maybe I should really go back and read that article. Maybe it contains true pearls that will come in handy on my next date night when my mood threatens to dive. Perhaps I need to be more open-minded. Or maybe I shouldn’t talk about my writing. Maybe the material is just too raw, too delicate, too fragile. Again, I don’t know.

I do know though that I am now fixated on the question of moods, on whether they are truly transmittable, and even more so between partners. Are good moods equally contagious? Let’s hope so because this morning I’m feeling quite perky. I’m going to go throw my arms around my man, maybe tickle him a bit, shower him with my silliness.

We’ll see what happens…

Dear Husband, Thank you for tolerating me and loving me, marvelous mood swings and all.

___________________________

• Do you ever unexpectedly slide into bad moods?
• Have you ever given someone else your bad mood? Have you ever fallen into a bad mood because of someone else?
• Do you think bad moods are particularly contagious between romantic partners?
• Are bad moods and good moods equally contagious or are germs of malaise more powerful?
• Do you ever discuss your writing with others? Are you sensitive about your material?
• Do you think we can follow steps to banish bad moods or are you skeptical like I am?
• Do you think moods are contagious through the screen? If you read a post from someone who is up or down, do you then feel better or worse, respectively?
• What do you do to combat bad moods? (Come on! Share your tricks. This post could end up being very helpful for us all!)