Woody Allen once said that eighty percent of life is just showing up.
It's the cardinal rule of blogging: You blog. You write. You show up.
So some of you (probably very few by this point) may be wondering where I've been for the past two-and-a-half weeks, why you have opened up this site a couple of times (no more than that, would be my guess) and found the same old, same old.
Let me explain -- because of course I have my reasons.
Things like nonstop travel, and the implosion of my laptop (which has been resurrected, thank you very much, Chris Herbold), and staying in the only hotel without Internet access in the country (how does that happen? it's an interesting story), and of course the recent death of my father (more on that in a minute).
Those are not just excuses. They're reasons. Good reasons. But insufficient nonetheless -- because a writer writes.
So here I am, back where I belong, sitting at my very own desk on the amazing Stephens College campus, using my very own revitalized laptop. And writing.
I'm back. If you missed me, I'm sorry -- and I'm glad.
And if not...well, never mind. And let's talk about something else.
Like what's been going on since the end of September. Lots, as it turns out. For example:
- Since we last talked here on the blog, I have been to New York, Connecticut, St. Louis, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Washington DC. (And there's just no getting around the fact that air travel is today's version of the long-distance bus trip, with all of the attendant odors, annoyances, odd strangers, and nasty tidbits of detritus stuck into the seat cushions. Only difference is, it costs more. A lot more.) And even so, it was worth it: I have met some of the most extraordinary and exceptional women in the country, each one unique and special but all of them committed to this institution and its future. It has been inspiring and heartwarming, and I am so grateful to be a part of this amazing community.
- And speaking of community, my father passed away on September 24. He was a man who dedicated his life to hard work, family, God and country. And at 89, he died -- unexpectedly -- the way he always hoped he would: in his sleep, next to the woman who had been his wife for 66 years. The world is a very different place when your father is no longer in it -- but I have been so touched by the outpouring of support and sympathy from so many of you. It has made such a difference, and I am grateful.
- The Westboro Baptist Church came to town. All six or eight of them (if you don't count the kids...and just fyi, editor Rachel Gaynes of Stephens Life did a pretty good job this week talking about what she thinks of that whole kids-with-obscene-signs thing....). What matters about that event is not what the WBC did. It's what we did. We were Stephens -- at our most inclusive, proud, rational and respectful-of-difference. Through and through.
- And I was reminded -- by a spry, feisty and in-my-face New York septuagenarian (that's right - she was 70+ if she was a day) about why I am so happy to call Columbia, Missouri home.
I was in New York, a city I love -- despite the fact that it is as unforgiving and self-absorbed as Columbia is gracious and welcoming. And I was in the wrong place at the right time -- a mistaken address took me 45 blocks out of my way -- and I was desperately in need of a cab.
Problem is, I was on Park Avenue, right in front of Grand Central. And you're about as likely to catch a cab in front of Grand Central, especially during rush hour, as you are to find a New Yorker who smiles at a stranger: It happens, but only after a lot of arm waving and big grins and emotional investment on your part.
I was heavily into all of that, hopping around, windmilling my arms, trying to look as much like a great big tip as I possibly could. And finally, yes FINALLY, a yellow cab skimmed past all my competitors and came to a stop right in front of me.
Hurrah!
I swung the back door open and was about ready to dive into the back seat when I felt a steel grip close around my right arm. I spun around to find a tiny little old lady, teeth bared, mouth open, screaming "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, that's MY CAB!" at me at the top of her tiny little old lungs.
Now here's the thing: I am a nice person. I am one of the nicest persons you'll ever meet. I give up my seat to old ladies on the train or the bus or wherever there are seats and old ladies who need to be given them (except these days, I find myself getting up for old ladies who turn out to be my age, but that's another blog posting altogether).
In any case, I am traditional in that way: I defer to my elders.
Except when I'm in New York. In New York, I know better: I know that that kind of weakness can leave you standing out in front of Grand Central Station, whirling your arms like a windmill, for months at a time.
So I said, "No WAY. NO WAY. I have been waiting for 20 minutes. This is MY CAB, and you can get your own." And I proceeded to pull open the door.
Not a chance.
That little old lady lunged at me, wrapped her little sharp fingers into fistfuls of my jacket, and began to drag me back to the curb.
And then it occurred to me. Ever have one of those moments when you actually see yourself, one of those flashes of self-awareness in which you are actually objective about who you are and your place in the universe?
It was one of those moments.
And there I was, in all my glory: a middle-aged woman in a business suit trying desperately to shake off -- or take down -- a little old grandmother on the streets of New York City.
I sighed. "ALL RIGHT! All RIGHT" I said, stepping back. "TAKE THE STUPID CAB!"
She let go of my arm, gave me a little shove to be sure I meant it, and slid into the backseat. The window was open and I looked down at her. She glared back at me from the winner's circle.
"I can't believe you've gotten to be so old when you're so darned crabby," I told her. "You know, life is too short for this kind of thing."
She blinked, exhaled, and shrugged at me: Whatever. Life might be short, but at least she was spending hers in a cab.
I made it to my dinner. I made it back to Missouri. And I made a decision: Life really is too short -- but at least I am spending mine in Columbia.
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