In March 2020, ‘Burbia, the land that time forgot, became a claustrophobic clamshell. Work, restaurants, gyms. Shut tight. Chic dinner soirees a fading memory. My approaching birthday, one with a big fat zero in it, would not be celebrated with the fanfare, gift cards and adoring speeches I had anticipated. Little did I know, however, during this stunning turn of events, that acceptance and gratitude would guide me through.
Two weeks later, down and out already, I do the logical thing. I lie abed at 2:00 in the PM, awash in self-pity and booze, knocking back Sheep Dog Peanut Butter Whiskey, 70% woof. I mean proof. Hiccup. I remember asking my Invisible Southern Twin, Lily Pearl, “Invisible Southern Twin, if I could do anything tomorrow, assuming there is a tomorrow, what should I do?”
My Best Self Speaks and I Feel Gratitude
“Well, sugar, you may be as pretty as a Georgia peach, but sometimes you’re just not that bright,” says Lily Pearl — with that condescending note in her voice that I despise. “If I were you, and I am, kinda, sorta, I would sleep until 10, eat country ham with fried green tomatuhs, and go on the road, independent and strong, with shagbark hickory nuts in my backpack, my mighty Skechers adding bounce to my steps, the wind whipping my tresses.”
“But Lily Pearl, my neighborhood does not beguile me,” I object. Hiccup. “There are no museums and no one wears stilettos. It’s not New York!”
“At the end of the day, honey beets, going forward, it tis what it tis, so let’s downsize our expectations and focus on adding value,” my Invisible Southern Twin chides me. “Follow my advice and ya’all be happier than ol’ Blue layin’ on the porch chewin’ on a big ol’ catfish head.”
“A plague on both your houses!” I retort, taking another shot. Hiccup. And then I remember the sweet families strolling in our ‘hood, making the best of a bad deal, breathing in fresh, sweet, hopeful air. “I will venture forth,” I resolve. “Shout ‘good morning’ to the chipmunks. Sit under the apple tree on the traffic island off Courtland Ave. and remember the good ol’ days — living in NYC, enjoying cocktails at the Plaza, traveling abroad, changing careers at the drop of a hat. And I will imagine that the cars and trucks whizzing by are racing down Broadway.”
Counting My Blessings
My husband will delight in my adventure. He will know it’s good for me; he’ll have time in his art studio, in the garden, and at his computer. Fluffypuss and Peekaboo will be just fine as long as lunch arrives on schedule. “Yes, if I could do anything tomorrow, that’s what I’d do.” I am drifting off. Dreamland approaches.
Then Lily Pearl whispers quite judgmentally, “I swear, honey sugar peach. Sometimes you’re so dumb, you could throw yourself onto the ground and miss. Now, listen up. Perhaps, as you walk, you might feel grateful you no longer live in your New York apartment where an elevator ride can expose you to the virus.” My heart pounds. Thump. Thump.
“Up on the eighth floor, isolated from friends and family. Truly alone.” Thump. Thump. My Invisible Southern Twin is scaring me sober. “Your little heart would wish for a husband to love you, two sleepy kitties to comfort ya’ll, and a home safe from the pandemic where you could meander freely and safely in the crisp, clean Yankee air. So quit goin’ around your ass to get to your elbow.”
And then and there I decide to count my blessings. “Thank you, Lily Pearl,” I reply. “Tomorrow will be a good day.” Acceptance and gratitude are all it takes. And an Invisible Southern Twin!
“Well, I do declare! My goodness gracious, honey. You are just so peachy keen! Oh, and, always remember, don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!”
