The Chrome Phase

It was only 5:30 in the morning, but I was awake already. It was neither an alarm nor a bad dream that roused me; I’d simply slept enough and the sunrise was calling me. My still-unconscious friends were undisturbed as I changed into the clothes I’d pulled out of my suitcase the night before. I tied up my sneakers, filled up my water bottle, grabbed my phone and key card, and practically ran down the hotel hallway. I couldn't stand being inside a minute longer. I headed down the canal trail under the sapphire blue sky. The sun emerged from behind Camelback Mountain and made a silhouette of everything in front of me. Vacation turns me into the person I aspire to be. When I’m at home, 5:30 looks more like a grumbling lump under a pile of blankets, an orange cat at the foot of the bed, and a loud and irritating alarm that has been snoozed almost to its maximum allotment. My hiking shoes sit hopefully by the door, pitiful under a thin layer of dust. “Tomorrow,” I always say...

Candles lit, wine poured, cupcakes frosted, filet mignon in the oven, and a bowl of conversation hearts on the coffee table. As the final touch, I placed the red envelope against the vase of fresh flowers in the center of the table. Brian was on his way over, and I was a tangle of excitement and jitters. Valentine’s day, for the first time in my life, was going to be romantic and wonderful, like it was supposed to be. I wanted it to be perfect. I didn't want to screw it up. Brian arrived with a bottle of champagne in one hand, a box of Godivas and a DVD in the other.  His smile showed off his dimples – Oh! Those dimples! – and his eyes twinkled as he said “Happy Valentine’s day, sweetness.” I kissed him before he was even through the door; we lingered on that kiss for a moment before we went to the kitchen. I exhaled, calm again. I served up bacon-wrapped filet with mashed potatoes and sauteed spinach. With a California Merlot, we toasted. “This is perfect,”...

I heard the thumping bass as I drove past the place. The building looked like it was once a house, one of those depression-era homes with two stories, no shutters, and white siding that was scuffed with dirt and mold. It was the kind of place that didn't even look like a destination, just another house along a row of buildings that looked exactly the same, except for a small square sign hanging over the front door. Five blocks away, I found a parking space. In an attempt to remember which old, white house my car sat in front of, I tried to count my steps. I lost track when my cowgirl boots kept slipping in the snow that still covered the sidewalks. It had been more than 24 hours, why hadn't the neighbors bothered to shovel yet? I could smell cigarette smoke oozing from the place. Crap, I thought, it’s been years since I've been to a bar where smoking was still allowed. I should have left my coat in the car. And my scarf. And my boots. And myself,  ...

My phone rang at 2:00 am on a Saturday morning. Rather than being alarmed, I pulled myself out of sleep and reached for it. I didn't even look at the number; I already knew who it was. “Hey,” I answered in my raspy, middle-of-the-night, just-woke-up-from-a-dream-about-you voice. My inflection was deliberate. Perry and I, we’d done this a million times. “Hi, honey,” I heard on the other end. I felt prickles through my arms and legs. Not at all the voice I was expecting. “Oh, hey Rob,” I replied as casually as possible despite the fact that my heart was exploding with every beat. If Rob knew I was expecting a call from another man at this time of night, especially Perry, he would flip. Rob knew that Perry and I had a past, so he assumed that Perry and I also had a present. The truth was that the present was nothing more than witching-hour phone calls that often wandered towards sunrise. Perry and I had a close bond. Nothing wrong in my book, but Rob’s book was much diff...

“Can I give you a hand with that?” said the man in the liquor store parking lot. I wish I had known that that would be the last time I heard those words all night. I was standing there in the cold rain, wearing a dress, heels, and wool overcoat. I was a half-mile from my house, stopping for a bottle of wine because I knew I was going to need it. I didn’t want to deal with my evening’s project in my work clothes, so I planned to go home and change into a raincoat and grubby jeans first.  “No, thank you sir,” said I to the kind man. “I live down the street, so I’m just going to take it home.” I drove home, slowly and carefully, on a very flat tire. My mind and body had kicked into what I call “survival mode”. I recognized it immediately, because it wasn’t so long ago the last time it happened (the Derecho /epic power outage/absurd heat wave/car crash of June 2012). I was starving, and I’m pretty sure I had to pee, but I forgot to deal with either basic function because I was foc...

Good advice for all of us spinsters. My little paperback dictionary defines “Spinster” simply as “an unmarried woman”. That’s an overly-simplified definition for a word that carries such stigma, so I prefer the more descriptive offerings that Word provides for synonyms: “Unattached”, “Bachelor”, and my personal favorite “Free”. Spinsters today seem to gravitate towards the term “Cougar” when narrowing their entire essence into one word, but that also carries a lot of negative connotations. Based on my own observations, when I think of a cougar (in the non-feline sense of the word), I envision a woman at least a decade older than me dressed up like a woman at least a decade younger than me going out to a bar that I haven’t been to in at least a decade and wholeheartedly trying to bring home a man (boy) at least two decades younger than herself. Not one stitch of me fits that description. Now that I’ve arrived at an age where people seem genuinely concerned about me simply becau...