Week 8 prompt: "Design a t-shirt. What would it look like and say?" asked our mentor, mining for story gold.
 
Mine, it turns out, has already been designed. Three stripes. Blue on top, yellow in the middle, red below. C’mon. You know the one. Say it with me. The Police: Synchronicity Tour, 1983. July 23, 1983 in my case. Comiskey Park, Chicago, Illinois. 
 
It was the zenith of my high school experience. I was a junior. I had nice, if not semi-unhinged, friends. I had inconceivably big hair. 
 
We got dropped off by our relieved, unsuspecting parents at 9a – “See you at midnight!” Whitney Drury's mom called out, parade-waving.

“Excellent!” we responded, stolen alcohol from the adult’s cabinets buried in our purses to be consumed by 9:30a before entering the park. 
 
What WERE we thinking? We were thinking we were on top of the world (despite our unfortunate, just-above-the-knee acid wash cut off shorts, sequins headbands and aforementioned bad hair). We were thinking we could dance inappropriately with boys we would know for up to 14 hours. Mitzvah. 
 
The park was so packed that we moved, shoulder-to-shoulder as if underwater, soothed, held. We’d found our people. We’d endured the trials and tribulations of high school, made mistakes, large and small … but we were HERE. 
 
Ensconced. Embraced. Loved. By Sting. 
 
His current ran through us, electrified us  -- a coaxial cable from his voice to our starved, adolescent souls.  He knew we knew ALL the lyrics and were feeling ALL the FEELs. 
 
We were that delusional. And delirious. Deliriously happy. 
 
This was before we may or may not have dabbled with doing mushrooms in college for live shows. 
 
Before our fantasy bubbles burst and we lined up jobs, husbands, mortgages, adaptive coping strategies. Before we had --- then curated and very likely helicopter/snowplowed over and under-parented -- our children, only to then have to set them free in this brave new hellscape world. 
 
Yesterday, while running to my favorite Police radio Pandora station, Every Breathe You Take came on. Metronomic music and footfalls marking time. I was doing my monthly 10k in honor of my coworker who died from COVID-19. She was only 43, a mother, wife, friend and public servant who spent the lion’s share of her days and nights serving domestic violence and sexual assault victims. She asked to have the COVID test twice and was denied … she took her last breath in March. 
 
The co-worker who organized the virtual run set it up so we could raise money for the cause, get a medal and a Run Fierce tank top, which, alas, has become my new favorite. I think Sting would be okay with the synchronicity of it all.

​The Week 7 writing prompt was to select a fruit or vegetable you identify with, and all the ways you are like it. Have fun! 

A coworker once had a sign on her desk that said “You can’t please everyone all the time. You are not an avocado.” 
I belly laughed when I saw it – TRUE THAT! – but deep down, I considered the fact that I’ve always tried to be … had to be … the avocado. 
A versatility player … infield, outfield, pitcher, catcher. Shit, I’ve gone through life trying to sell concessions, take tickets and play short stop … simultaneously. 
Student-athlete-over-achiever-comprehensive-pretender was my default so why would fruit-that-presents-as-vegetable be a problem? 
It wouldn’t. 
You see avos, hard on the outside and soft and soothing on the inside, are nothing if not contra-indicated. 
They present as firm but flexible enough to adapt to any challenge: breakfast, lunch or dinner.
And yet … we all know they can fail epically … the strange strings, the dark spots, the unpredictable, incongruent consistency, even though they called out to you as PERFECT at Trader Joes. 
 
Avos, then, are nothing if not surprising. We have that in common.
 
Like the time I got arrested for resisting a peace officer six hours after crushing the LSAT. (In my defense, my prefrontal cortex was still a work in progress, or in avo-parlance, I was not quite ripe.)
 
Or the time when I blew up my ostensibly Rockwellian marriage. 
 
What is hidden beneath that deep green, outer casing, the cave-person must have wondered, before slicing it open to find the treasure within? 
 
One never knows –- and that’s surely the point, the magic and the mystery of the avocado – and me.*  

​
* And all women. 

The assignment is to list all the hats we wear or have worn and write about each of them. 

To start, the list: 

Mother of three amazing young women -- 17, 19, 21 
Wife of the love of my life ... we were meant to be 
Fallen woman ... see aforementioned love of my life 
Ex-wife of the father of my daughters ... kind person, good dad, wrong husband, so sad 
Stepmother of two young adults ... one of whom acknowledges my existence
Daughter of four people ... each complicated, three dead 
Daughter-in-law ... of two exceptional humans, ensconced in their RI assisted living facility, in the seventh decade of their marriage 
Half-sister of two, possibly four ... or more, can't be sure 
Sister-in-law ... of twelve exceptional humans
Cousin ... of countless
Auntie ... of more
Friend ... of those who are family to me
Former friend ... of those who were not 
Advocate ... for women and children and victims experiencing homelessness 
Colleague ... of like-minded, passionate souls
Attorney ... for twelve years, specifically  ... and forever, generally
Neighbor ... to kind people with whom we are aligned (at last, never moving) and who, unbidden, drop off books and plums and wood for the campfire
Reader ... of nonfiction, fiction, poetry, news
Rabid fan ... of live music (Brandi Carlile, Gregory Alan Isakov) 
Dancer ... in a past life, on a football field and basketball court in myriad Big 10 venues; aspiring salsa and swing -- if only
Writer ... it's in me and it has to come out, as a friend once observed
Blogger ... this blog and others, more and less private
Editor ... (currently) of the friend's client's memoir and the husband's book proposal
Producer ... of a short documentary ... and (hopefully) a longer biopic 
Figure skater ... for a decade, before and after school, five days a week, with competitions throughout the midwest on the weekends, while mother smoked outside
Figure skating teacher ... of aspiring students ages 5 - 80, at the University of Illinois Ice Arena
Bartender ... in college 
Overnight domestic violence shelter monitor ... in law school 
Court Appointed Special Advocate ... for abused and neglected children, in law school 
Girlfriend ... I was a serial monogamist, until I wasn't, at age 45 -- having been invisible for what seemed like an eternity 
Student ... lo all those years
Cubs fan ... all weathers
Aspiring bilingual person 
Yogini ... since 1996
Yoga teacher ... for a decade, when my daughters were young and I needed connection, movement, sanity 
Morning meditator ... single-focus-challenged, but well-intentioned 
Hoarder ... of NYT Magazines (for the crosswords) and Book Reviews (for the writing/recommends)
Adopted child ... having recently read in the Times that "Family is not defined by blood but by commitment and love" 
Activist 
NOW Board member ... in Chicago, 1993 - 1996
Legislative aide ... 
Legislative liaison ... 
Campaign volunteer ... for John Stroger, the first Black Commissioner on the Cook County Board, 1993 ... and for Obama for Senate 1996
Vegetarian chef ... I usually make it up 
Vegan chef ... when the three vegan daughters grace me with their presence 
Voxy mama ... we are a posse of sisters, who bare our souls thanks to an app 
Runner/surfer/cyclist ... most early mornings 
Grateful woman ... for this life of hats, worn or put away, cherished nonetheless.