Running The Gauntlet


By nature, I’m a morning person. Despite the fact that I used to hate having to get up early when I was a child (I mean – who wants to leave a snuggly bed to go to SCHOOL instead of staying home to watch cartoons? Ack!), as an adult, I’m definitely a subscriber to the “early bird gets the worm” philosophy (more on that later).

There are a few reasons for this. First, my mother was an early bird. I’m convinced that she instilled in me the beginnings of blossoming agoraphobia, so that I will now go to almost extreme lengths to avoid crowds. Case in point? I have NEVER shopped on Black Friday – in fact, the mere name of it conjures up not images of fantastic deals in my mind but, rather, another term for pestilence.

It’s one of the many reasons why I LOVE stores that open early – the earlier, the better. I love that Starbucks caters to people like me by opening most of its locations by 6am, even on weekends. I love that my grocery store opens at 6.30am, and even though I absolutely despise Walmart and won’t set foot in it unless it’s a dire emergency and my preferred choice of grocery store is closed, I love that they’re also open early (although I’m aware of the fact that they’re not open early, technically, since they’re open 24/7).

To me, everything is better in the morning. Yes, everything. Normally, I’m happiest if I’m bustling around the house by 6am, mainlining caffeine, getting chores done – so that, by 10am at the latest, I can sit back and do whatever the hell I feel like doing. Like getting started on Mount Everest, also known as the growing pile of fall magazines that *somehow* made it into my house in just two visits to my personal Mecca (aka The Book Store).

My absolute nirvana is achieved when my love of early mornings is combined with dropping temperatures – and I bring out the fur-babies, a steaming mug of coffee, a twin size comforter and  pull up one of the Adirondack chairs on our patio to snuggle up and enjoy the scenery. Those are the moments when I wish we had way more trees in our backyard, of course, so I wouldn’t have to worry about Smoky Smokerson (aka one of our neighbors) marring my view. But, still – it’s pure bliss.

However, there is one huge drawback to being a morning person: THE SCHOOL RUN.

Not mine, obviously – everyone else’s.

What makes it worse is that we live in a subdivision where the most expedient and straight-forward way to get to the main road leads you directly past a school – meaning that if I leave my house or come back at certain times, I inevitably run into a slew of cars dropping off their kids or picking them up.

I try not to cry, I really do.

I try not to be resentful – especially of people like a woman before summer break who was, I can only guess, running a little behind and basically ran a stop sign, which almost resulted in a major collision…all with a child in the backseat. I’m still reeling from the shock of imagining what could’ve happened (not to mention the heart palpitations I had, since I was right behind her) – and the feeling of resentment towards people who have children but apparently fail to realize (a) how lucky they are, and (b) how easily/quickly their blessings could disappear in the blink of an eye (followed by what I imagine would be the sickening sound of crunching metal).

But in the last few months, something has changed – and it’s really scary to me. It’s one of the reasons why I figured that I need to reach out, write, say something…because, to be honest, I’m kind of terrified:

I basically don’t want to leave my house anymore.

As I wrote this line, just now, I really struggled not to burst into tears. Deep down I know I’m probably on the outskirts of PMS – which means all bets are off for even trying to contain a potential meltdown – but I also know that what I feel, and admitting to it, feels like DEFEAT.

It reminds me of what Rachel said on Friends (although in completely different circumstances):

“I really thought I just hit rock bottom. But today, it’s like there’s rock bottom, then 50 feet of crap, then me.”

That’s exactly how I feel.

I thought I had already hit an all-time low in dealing with IF – because, believe me, if you’re lucky enough not to have to deal with it, or if you are struggling with it but are lucky enough to have an active support system, you have no idea how incredibly marginalizing and ostracizing it is for most of us.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve read a post from someone who has (or, more than likely, had) a friend and/or family member who either said something mean, unsupportive or pledged their support and didn’t follow through; if I subsequently had yet another penny for every time I’ve read from other women, just like me, how lonely they feel in their struggle with IF because (a) no one seems to care/understand, and/or (b) once they opened up to those around them about their problems, people just started distancing themselves…if I had a penny for all those stories, I’d already be well on my way to affording an IVF cycle.

But, like the quote, that’s where I thought I had hit rock bottom.


As someone inherently sociable and outgoing – an extrovert, really – it’s completely out of character for me not to want to be around other people. But, as time went on and there was no baby, it became more and more difficult to be around others who seemed to get pregnant without even trying – or, in some cases, even wanting a baby. And because I didn’t want to be a “Debbie Downer”, I just stayed home. I made excuses.

First, I just declined invitations to baby showers. It made perfect sense because I felt that I couldn’t hide my own dismay well enough, I couldn’t bring forth enough “fake enthusiasm” – not because I wasn’t happy for someone else, but because my own sadness was so overwhelming that it basically swallowed everything else.

But then, more and more, I stopped declining other invitations. I knew that it wasn’t good for me, but social interactions felt increasingly forced and fake. If it wasn’t all about mothers and babies – which I couldn’t relate or contribute to (talk about sticking out like a sore thumb) – I was constantly trying to suppress my growing anxiety and panic over not just my own inability to get pregnant, but the constant fear that I would suddenly burst into tears at the most inopportune moment. Crying in public? Not without some kind of real, tangible injury to curry sympathy with. Crying in public and then either having to make up some lame excuse on the spot, or fess up about the real reason and “Prepare To Be Judged” (and, by extension, be talked about behind your back)? NO THANKS.

So I stopped accepting invitations. I continued to interact with my “friends” through FB, reminiscing, “liking”, catching up, commenting, ribbing each other and even going so far as planning some get togethers with out of state friends.

But then all the pregnancy announcements got too much to cope with and, after yet another “OOPS! Looks what happened even though we weren’t even trying/I was on BC/we already have 3 kids”, I’d had enough: I closed my FB account.

Apparently, with that, I committed social suicide.

Aside from a handful of people, the vast majority of my “friends” disappeared into the ether and haven’t been heard from again since – now going on several years. And while I’m not exactly devastated, I can’t say it did anything for my already bruised ego, either.

But, going back to the quote, after my “social suicide” there were 50 feet of crap, and now I feel like I’ve reached a new low where I literally no longer want to leave the house. I’m constantly terrified of someone asking me about when we’re going to have children – or, worse yet, assuming we already do (understandable, given our ages). What’s even more embarrassing, of course, is the quagmire of how to respond to a question about children. If I say we don’t have children “yet” – which I keep trying to tell myself is what I need to say along with “when” instead of “if” (positive reinforcement!) – I keep thinking that I’m just asking for snorting, raised eye-brows and a derisive “WHAT are you waiting for???”

To be honest, I’m just tapped out. I feel like I have nothing left keep me going – which, in turn, makes me feel even more horrible because of my loving husband who has to deal with a defective wife…


Back to School


Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always loved the last couple of weeks during our long, long summer vacations from school. It was the time when the sun just seemed different – warm, still, but the light started to have a slightly different tint, and there always seemed to be a little breeze here and there, forecasting the arrival of fall: my favorite season.

More than anything, though, I loved that time because it hailed the arrival of a much-anticipated event: back-to-school shopping! My mother, who was quite frugal and certainly didn’t just give me a wad of money to blow on the latest gimmick, would nonetheless be cajoled into springing for a new pencil case (“But Mo-ooom! Mine has a broken zii-iipper! [insert pouting and whining] – my mother was only human, after all) and a brand-new, shiny planner from a popular clothing brand that just happened to cater to teenage girls dying to commit their innermost thoughts in between homework assignments and magazine clippings of their favorite boy-bands.

Then there were new notebooks – always new notebooks! – and the “fun” thing was that some teachers specified a particular kind, size and style, while other classes left it up to the students to choose…leaving it entirely up to YOU (read: your parents) what you might end up with. Inevitably, throughout the school year, my notebooks would end up with a bunch of doodles on and inside the covers, and it would probably not be entirely inaccurate to guestimate that about 1/3 of the paper inside ended up getting used to pass notes, re-write song lyrics or draw to avoid falling asleep during an especially doze-worthy installment of English class.

I relished college because, within the budgetary constraints set by my monthly allowance for books, food and other incidentals, I could go completely crazy on paper products – and what better excuse than to do so in the furtherance of one’s education? My favorite purchase became a beautiful, glossy and brightly colored plaid set of Unicef notebooks – which I filled with copious notes and still have.

To this day, I adore this time of the year – even though, at present, it’s somewhat bittersweet as I continue to hope that, some day in the future, it will be I who will be doing the back-to-school shopping with my own children. (Thankfully Justin Bieber, Taylor Lautner et al will be MUCH too old for anyone to care. Phew. I’d like to think any offspring of mine would have more sense but…you never know. Looking through my own school planners, there are definitely some questionable “heartthrobs” in there.)

One of my all-time favorite movies is “You’ve Got Mail” – and I think one of the reasons I so adore this movie (aside from the obvious reasons) isn’t just because I love New York City (who doesn’t?), and because movies in the 90s just seemed so much more optimistic than a lot of what makes it to the big screen these days (if I have to sit through one more preview for yet another movies featuring or combining zombie/apocalypse, crude slap-stick and/or profanity that would make a drunken rugby player go to confession, I’m seriously going to projectile-vomit over the next person to say “True Blood”).

But I also love “You’ve Got Mail” because it starts off in the fall. Did I mention that I love the fall? Maybe I should mention it again? I LOVE the fall. There’s almost nothing I don’t love about it. It probably started with back-to-school shopping, complemented by cooling temperatures (it’s entirely possible that I’m part polar bear, though there’s nothing in my birth certificate to that effect – and my dad looks totally human once he’s had breakfast). My absolute favorite moment in the entire movie – and there are many – is when Tom Hanks elocutes the line he’s emailing Meg Ryan:

“I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils [sic].”

Whoever came up with that line should’ve written a dating book for nerds and bookworms – and random people like me (because, really, I’m too unique to be stereotyped or fit any one particular “label” – yes, I really, am that awesome), because seriously? That line would probably have made me swoon. Just typing it now makes me sigh, smile – and, somehow, want to buy #2 lead pencils (which my husband would hate because, for some reason, he hates pencils – talk about unique and random. I still love him, though, because as I’m typing this and want to make sure I remember correctly that the movie does, indeed, start out in the fall, he says to me “Yes, fall – pencils, remember?”. Picture me with a goofy, sappy smile because I love my husband for remembering all those little things that make me happy – even though they’re not important to anyone else.)

But there’s more! The end of summer also brings one of my other favorite rituals to the fore: the infamous September Issue. For as long as I’ve been remotely interested in fashion, the September Issue of Vogue has been my absolute favorite piece of printed material. Yes, most of it is advertising – but WHO CARES? You can have YOUR bible, I’ll have mine – thank you very much. The mere heft and enormity of it is completely commensurate with the significance of Vogue as a publication. To me, the September Issue’s size is also proportionate to just how much I adore fall fashions – especially in recent years, where peplums have met tweeds, teal has finally been given its much-deserved center-stage, and other jewel tones have appropriately displaced some of the drab monotones of the past. (Plus, “oxblood” may sound creepy but the color was stunning. I’m marking that as a classic.) I can honestly say that fall fashions make me absolutely giddy – even though I can’t afford most of it.

But there’s something about the congruence of children going back to school, fall fashion, dropping temperatures…something about all those things coming together at the same time, in the same season that brings us changing leaves and seasonal spices. It’s the season that makes me feel the most relaxed, the most hopeful, the most at peace with myself and my place in the world – even if I’m still far from where I want to be.

So I was completely aghast when, after settling into my favorite squishy armchair to read the current issue of “Real Simple” magazine, I came across what I can only describe as blasphemy with regard to my own personal belief system. May I direct you to the horror that caused me to gasp, audible, and exclaim a resounding (and extended) “NOOOOO!”, found on p. 41 “The End of Cursive?”

At this point, it bears relevance to divulge that I didn’t grow up on the Upper East Side (nothing could be further from the truth). I didn’t attend Miss Porter’s (though, if it were remotely possible, I would move heaven and earth to send any eventual female off-spring there – SIGH). I did, however, not only learn how to write cursive – I did so using a fountain pen. In fact, using a ballpoint pen and/or writing in anything other than cursive was frowned-upon in my school. Also now in my current, marital home are several fountain pens that mark the different colors and patterns I favored over the years – and though I’ll never have anywhere near the resources to obtain a coveted Mont Blanc, I STILL write mostly in cursive. Even if, now, I often resort to using ballpoint pens simple because they’re easier to carry in my purse (and less chance of a leaking ink cartridge).

But when I read the very short paragraph – that, quite frankly, felt very much like a moratorium on civilized behavior when I discovered the following:

“Cursive is not part of the Common Core State Standards, the recently established academic guidelines now adopted by 45 of the 50 states.”

I am, in short, appalled.

I kept on looking at the page – with its very apropos ink blot and fountain pen – and thought about just how barbaric I thought children my own age were, 20 years ago, when I chanced upon someone who didn’t own or use a fountain pen. I thought about the incidence, a few years ago, where someone told me she couldn’t read cursive – which made me wonder whether there were any visible signs of the apoplexy I experienced upon hearing this.

So this year, “back to school” comes with mixed emotions. Part of me relishes the advent of my favorite season – anticipating the pumpkin breads I’m going to bake and the wonderfully spicy smell that will spread through the house as they cool on the wire racks. Part of me is sad that I don’t have a child of my own yet – as I do throughout the year – wishing that I could snub all attempts to subdue civilized society by teaching OUR children to read and write cursive, read lots of books instead of being glued to a variety of hand-held electronic devices, and take a walk outside where, for all intents and purposes, life goes on very much the same way as every other year.

(NB: In case you’re wondering, I found the lovely picture for this rambling post on the following blog: – I figured it would be nice to give props since I don’t know where the photo originated.)