Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 35
February 22, 2019
The End is Near
Even as a little baby, my son Harry was always looking out beyond his confines.
He didn’t think out-of-the-box.
For him, there was no box
His television ad touting his qualifications to be Mayor of Tampa emphasizes he “has plans, not just slogans.”
What the ad doesn’t say is that though his plans are well thought-out and clearly explained, his plans are also fluid, evolving and subject to community input, creativity and innovation.
Fellow mayoral candidate, Jane Castor, has clearly stated on more than one occasion that if she were not running, her choice for Tampa mayor would be Harry.
As the Tampa Bay Times said: Cohen’s government experience, civic involvement and solid grasp of transportation and other key issues have made him a formidable voice for progress. He also has a proven ability to bring people together.
Go with Harry on March 5th – the candidate who has his feet firmly planted on the ground – 24/7 – for YOU.
If you’d like to help put Harry in the mayor’s seat, forward this email to your friends and family! Election is Tuesday, March 5 and early voting starts Monday, Feb. 25.
February 15, 2019
Doing Death Right
I’m not proud to say that I found the year leading up to my mother’s death very grueling, aggravating, and stressful – not to mention agonizing – as I am sure she did too.
The details of my personal journey with my mom as she faced her own demise are irrelevant. Everyone who has buried a parent has their tale – and so many of us long to figure out how to “do death right.”
Fortunately, we don’t have to reinvent the wheel. Author Katy Butler, age 70, has done that for us in her new book “The Art of Dying Well.” Excerpts appeared in the Wall Street Journal on February 9 and most of my newsletter today is drawn from her brilliant research on “how to get the best from our imperfect healthcare system and how to prepare for a good end of life.”
Butler immediately knocks down the assumption that living as long as possible is at the top of our list. She cites from a 2017 Kaiser Foundation study that “most people cared much more about not having their families financially burdened by their care or distressed by tough medical decisions; having their medical preferences honored; and dying in peace spiritually, with their loved ones around them.”
Stressing that we have to craft a vision, Butler advocates for making clear to your loved ones what gives your life joy and meaning. Existentially, it begs the question of how much suffering we are willing to endure for more time on earth. Pragmatically, it calls on each of us to answer the question that when we no longer have a good quality of life, what medical treatments would we refuse? Butler suggests putting it in writing and giving it to someone – not necessarily a family member who may be too overwhelmed to let you go – but someone who you trust to speak for you when you can no longer speak for yourself.
Planning for and accepting the inevitable is one way to keep shaping your life all the way to its end. In my mom’s case, after her diagnosis of advanced pancreatic cancer, she made it known that she felt safest going to Hospice, where she knew she would be surrounded by a caring staff and her family could be close by.
My mom had three clear requests:
She wanted to be kept as pain-free as possible.
She didn’t want die alone.
She wanted to slip into unconsciousness and die on her birthday.
We arranged to carry out the first two. The third? I think she willed it from somewhere deep inside her and indeed slipped into a coma the morning of her birthday. When the sun was close to disappearing on the horizon, all three of her children and other family members and friends sang her “Happy Birthday.” An hour or so later, she drew her last breath and was gone.
I had already started a folder in my Notes section of my iPhone entitled “Funeral.” Up until reading Butler’s article, it only had one entry: my request that Bob Dylan’s song “Forever Young” be played before my funeral service began.
Here’s an excerpt:
May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young
After reading Butler’s article, I’ve got a lot more entries to add.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
February 8, 2019
How to Keep Your Mama Happy
One of my sons called me last week – on his way home from work. We had a nice, substantive, fifteen-minute conversation. This is pretty much what we do now that he is married, a father, has a job with big responsibilities and a long daily commute.
The next night my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID and saw his name again pop up. Automatically thinking something must be radically wrong, I dashed for my cell phone and answered his call within two rings.
“What’s the matter?” I immediately inquired. “What’s wrong?”
“Geez, Mom, nothing’s wrong.”
“But I just talked to you last night. Something must be up for you to call me two days in a row,” I insisted.
“Nah, all good. I just called to tell you a funny story,” he replied.
Here’s what he said: Earlier that evening, he had dinner with a friend he’s known a long time. This friend, my son emphasized, is a very smart guy. And he talks to his mom EVERY night on his way home from work for FORTY-FIVE minutes.
“No way,” I wailed. “What’s THE CATCH?”
“Well,” my son impishly admitted, “there is a catch. His mom, in her day, was a very bright shining star in the same field as my friend. And my friend gets her undivided attention on challenging issues with which he is grappling.”
Okay. I had two primary reactions to his story. None – BTW – that I am proud to admit.
The first was pure, unbridled anger. So now I have to be unqualifiedly brilliant to warrant a daily call from my adult sons? It’s not enough to have diapered, fed, chauffeured and diligently read to them every night? In addition to packing the healthiest lunches ever – most of which they traded away for Doritos and candy corn anyway.
And my second reaction was pure, unbridled envy: How can I get some of what she’s getting?
So I started thinking. What are my strengths? What do I have to offer to my sons that they cannot get elsewhere?
I have no musical talent whatsoever – even though my piano teacher did remark that my hands were great for piano playing, but lacked any sense of rhythm.
I can’t dance, draw or carry a tune.
I have a hard time keeping up with the progress of the mess in the Middle East, the revolving door of men being ousted from positions of power due to inappropriate sexual advances and the latest trades going on with my sons’ favorite baseball team now that spring training is looming.
As far as my proclivity for deductive reasoning? The first time I looked at a sample LSAT question, it took me about five minutes to decipher what in the world the question was asking. When one of my four sons who actually took the LSAT “gently” pointed out that it’s not only a challenging test, but timed, I thanked heaven they didn’t inherit my innate lack of logic. In my family, it is jokingly referred to as “Mom missing the obvious.”
So…… what do I have to offer my sons?
A willing ear to listen.
A person who has their best interest at heart.
A mom who loves them unconditionally.
And isn’t afraid to express a difference of opinion.
Just for the record, I’d like mothers of adult sons who do NOT live within driving distance to answer the following questions:
How often do you talk to your adult male child?
For how long?
When does he call?
My answers:
Once a week.
About fifteen mintues.
On his way home from work.
Seriously, the bottom line is – no matter what our answers – our adult sons (and daughters) are the fruits of our efforts. And if we are fortunate, they are busy, productive, and helping to heal our troubled, but still beautiful, world.
On the other hand, they can further heal our troubled, but still beautiful world, by picking up the phone to call home once in a while too.
Tee Hee.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
January 31, 2019
What kind of person did this little boy grow up to be?
What kind of person did this little boy grow up to be?
Well, as a toddler, not only did he speak at an astonishingly young age, but what he said made sense.
As a youth, he preferred watching “Sixty Minutes” rather than taking walks with his mom and younger brother. His middle school principal and Social Studies teacher remarked that he was “the most politically astute student he had ever known.”
As a teenager, he was a role model for his four younger siblings on being politically aware, fiscally conservative and liberally compassionate.
As an adult, he ran for Tampa City Council, won and is presently completing his second term.
The people we elect locally have a profound effect on our lives.
Who are you going to call when a young kid gets mowed down by a car, while walking to school, because sidewalks are inadequate?
Who will protect you when a hurricane is looming?
Who are you going to call when your street floods or rain water seeps into your front door?
A neighbor oversteps his bounds?
Lack of parking downtown drives you nuts?
Your adult kids can’t move back home due to lack of affordable housing?
Your doctor has increased your blood pressure meds due to your aggravation over your long and congested commute to work?
What kind of person did this little boy grow up to be?
The person who has, can and will solve these problems.
The person most qualified to be the Mayor of Tampa.
HARRY COHEN
What have I learned while my son is running for mayor that applies to whatever city you live in?
The importance of being informed on each candidate’s stances and qualifications.
The importance of attending candidate forums to see each candidate – unscripted – responding to specific questions.
The importance of voting.
If you’d like to help put Harry in the mayors seat, please contact me at irisruthpastor@gmail.com. To learn more about Harry and his plan for Tampa, visit www.Harry2019.com.
I’m “just wild about Harry” and hope you are too.
Iris Ruth Pastor
January 24, 2019
Some cool things to do in the new year!
Broken New Year resolutions making you feel despondent? Here are some cool things to do in the New Year that are not guilt-inducing and will leave you more creative, energized, self-aware, and healthier.
My hubby and I drove to the Berkshires last summer. One sun-dappled afternoon, we wandered through small gift shops laden with unique items. I came across a purse. The price of the purse was close to what I would pay for an original piece of artwork. I passed on the purchase, but the image of that purse nagged at me. I put my ingenuity to work. Bong! I could buy the purse to carry on special occasions and also display it in my home as an original creative piece. Lesson: If you want something, find multiple purposes for it to reduce guilt and buyer’s remorse.
Start a Gratitude Jar or a Mood Jar. Take your pick.
Gratitude Jar:
It may seem trite, but years ago, I vowed to find three specific things to be grateful for each day and to recall them right before bed. Over time, I noticed my shifting toward a more positive mindset. Instead of looking for things to be mad about (and I was expert at finding plenty) or over-focusing on the negative, I became pre-occupied with watching for specific things on that day to be thankful for.
Mood Jar:
When the mood strikes you, describe your state-of- being in one word. Write it down. Date it. Drop it in the jar. At the end of the year, dump out the contents. Read through your entries. Assess the degree of positive vs negative moments and brainstorm about how to increase the former. Lesson: awareness breeds contentment.
Another cool thing? Designate a door for people who enter your home in 2019 to sign their names in permanent marker. I’m not sure why I wanted to do this, but my husband wasn’t a fan. First, I proposed we utilize the rectangular column in our front foyer as the perfect repository of signatures. He flatly refused. We compromised and selected the pedestrian door from the garage to the house as autograph central. I like keeping track of who comes and goes. Lesson: I’m not sure why I felt compelled to do this, but I have learned to follow my gut.
Post a list of healthy things to do daily on an inside cabinet door in your kitchen.
Studies have shown in surgical settings, a visible to-do list increases the probability of all going smoothly and that nothing important is forgotten or neglected. Plus, if you are neurotic, like me, checking-off things accomplished jump-starts a surge of adrenalin. Lesson: As we age, our short-term memory goes South. Adjust.
And the coolest thing to do? Keep this quote close. From the novel, The Dinner List, by Rebecca Serle: Happiness is not constantly needing things to be at their full potential.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom
(the best you can),
Iris
October 22, 2018
Iris Ruth Pastor Wins Prestigious Award, Announced at 2018 Florida Writers Association Conference
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
(October 22, 2018: Tampa, FL.) The Florida Writers Association, Inc., (FWA) has announced that Iris Ruth Pastor of Tampa, FL won a prestigious Royal Palm Literary Award (RPLA). Iris’s winning entry, “The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman”, won Second Place for Memoir. The award was announced at FWA’s recent four-day annual conference in Altamonte Springs, Florida.
“This is the most competitive RPLA we’ve ever had,” said Chris Coward, RPLA chairperson. “The RPLA administrative team, judges, and entrants did an amazing job.”
In all, the competition covered 26 adult genres and 5 youth genres.
“The competition was stiff and I am thrilled to have my book selected as a winner,” exclaimed Pastor.
For more information, visit www.irisruthpastor.com or contact Iris Ruth Pastor at irisruthpastor@gmail.com.
July 6, 2018
I’m Taking a Break
Well I had such a darn good time on my “Running Away from Home” trip that I decided to “run away” again. With my husband this time.
The first stop is a tough one. We’ll be spending July in Cincinnati, Ohio – our hometown – for the first time without my mom there – and closing up her apartment. It’s an end of an era.
In August, we are treating ourselves to two weeks in the Berkshires. We’ll celebrate both our birthdays and our anniversary there.
In September, we head to New York City and for the first time, we will have a whole month to enjoy our New York based sons and their families.
I like to think of myself as part of the “Elastic Generation” – a term I read about recently in the New York Times. It’s defined as living according to how I feel, rather than how I ought. It’s not rebelling but it is re-inventing, welcoming change, stretching the boundaries and challenging the status quo. And accepting what is.
I’ll be back weekly in October – reporting faithfully on the paths I followed, who I met on the way and what I learned in the process.
And if you want to keep track of my wanderings, check me out on Instagram. And please share your journey with me too through your comments.
Until then, keep Preserving Your Bloom – just as I will be doing too.
Iris
June 29, 2018
Looking Fabulous at Any Age
He told me that for $13,000 not only could he make my neck look like I was ten to fifteen years younger, but my whole face – from the skin under my eyes downward. (He said my eyes and forehead were in good shape).
The problem was I didn’t want to look ten to fifteen 10 years younger. I just wanted a firmer chin line. I just wanted to look good for my age.
So I passed on the proposal.
This is what I know:
I’m seventy years old and I still wear bright red nail polish. And I still wear the same number of rings on all my fingers as I did fifty years ago:
I was boho chic in my thirties and I intend to be boho chic in my 70’s – only with slightly lower heels and a little less cleavage showing.
It’s okay to retain our youthful style as we age.
Many say that baby boomers are the entitled generation – challenging boundaries, pushing the envelope, living according to how we feel rather than society’s rigid dictates and they have a point – we are unharnessing our constraints. We are forging new paths and pushing the boundaries. Status quo is not part of our mindset nor our vocabulary.
I’ve noticed that I have become more confident, more assertive, more resilient and more outspoken. I’m not content to sit on the couch and knit – except late at night – because I’m finding out there is so much more to learn, to explore and experience. And I look for the unusual and eclectic.
Like a teenager, though, I’m still impacted by my peers. I’m impressed by my friend who craved a red leather chair for her living room and bought it. I’m inspired by a friend who walked the El Camino Trail two summers in a row. I’m energized by a friend who goes to art camp three times a year. I’m in awe of a friend who starts a program in one school to empower inner city, disadvantaged youths and now it has spread to seventeen city schools thanks to his co-creators and the financial support of local businesses.
What my peers wear influences me too. I’m hyped up by my friends whose style is ageless. Who don’t throw out clothes because they are too youthful, but adapt them to conform to their maturing bodies. Their refusal to give in to matronly, dumpy wardrobes buoys me up – encourages me to stick to my singular style of lots of layers, funky jewelry, and boldly patterned scarves.
As someone a lot brighter than I once said about the boomers, “Age no longer dictates the way we live. Physical capacity, financial circumstances and mindset arguably have far greater influence. And there’s no fixed pattern for how any of us grows older.”
So for many of us, we may not be getting second looks or even first ones from strangers on the streets, but we still want to display our unique sense of style and buck the stereotypical image of a woman of a certain age, who only wears muted colors, lots of beige and conforms to society’s portrayal of us as no longer chic, stylish or daring.
Personally, I found I can still present a funky image at age seventy – I just adapt it to fit my body. For instance, I bought an interesting one piece denim article of clothing but wore it over a black one piece body suit that covered up my jiggly knee caps and slimmed down my hips. At age twenty, I’d have gone without the body suit and probably a bra too. Now, with just a slight alteration of articles of clothing, I wear this piece with confidence that I can be fashionable and the clothing I choose can be flattering. And I feel good about myself because I wear clothes that are comfortable and fit my body.
I like what Alex Rotas, the photographer says: “LIFE BEGINS AT ANY AGE YOU DECIDE LIFE BEGINS.”
And It’s okay to strive to look our best.
I whiten my teeth; I get facial sun spots removed.
I do yoga to remain flexible.
I exercise regularly to feel energized.
I take some supplements to replace what is being depleted.
I strive to look, feel, and perform at peak levels for my age.
And I’m appreciating that I’m still healthy enough to build on the confidence I’ve acquired, the self-esteem I’ve earned and the love and support of a husband and five children that I have diligently loved, guided, and looked after.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
June 22, 2018
Calamity on the Road
The first challenge occurred after eating a leisurely lunch of shrimp and grits – kind of an interesting combination. And after I impulsively buy a floral-patterned pair of linen pants.
I then drove down a winding boulevard lined with Grand Oaks and Southern style stately mansions. Shortly after, I left Beaufort heading for Fayetteville, North Carolina. My plan was to spend the night there and then the next morning head to my sister’s house in Newport News – about six hours away.
The temperature was 92 degrees outside when my air conditioner stopped working. Highly irritated and sweating profusely, I made a split-second decision to bypass Fayetteville and head straight to Newport News. I assumed two things:
that when the sun went down, the car’s interior would naturally cool off
that there was a BMW dealership in Newport News that could hopefully fix my car’s air conditioning.
Assumption #1 proved faulty. By 8:30 pm, though darkness was closing in, the car remained hot as hell. I was sweaty. I was sleepy – and I had at least three more hours to travel to reach Newport News, Virginia.
When it started raining heavily, accompanied by sharp flashes of lightening and loud, banging thunder, I began lamenting the whole “running away from home” endeavor and my cavalier, free-spirited attitude about driving the East Coast solo.
As I exited off I-95 to finish the last leg of my trip to Newport News, fog was swirling all around me. I stopped for gas. And tried to figure out why my GPS on my I Phone was no longer talking to me and why it was routing me in a different direction than my car’s navigation system.
I spent the next ninety minutes driving down dark, deserted, curvy two-lane backroads, while my GPS mileage count continued to hover around “forty-two miles” to Newport News.
I did two things.
I repeatedly assured myself that I was okay. “There is no need to panic,” I sternly admonished myself. “I have a tankful of gas and a fully charged car phone. And eventually I have to hit some sign of civilization.”
I looked for the humor. And irony. I’m the one who stubbornly declared to every family member who dared question my decision to drive up the coast alone that I was fully capable of handling unexpected events. And further, I’m always the one in the car who wants to exit the highway and drive the scenic route. Well, I got my wish.
Around midnight, I capitulated and finally called my youngest son to help me out. He instructed me to take a screenshot of what was appearing on my GPS and send it to him. He helped me figure out where I was, where I should be and how I should get there
About an hour later, I pulled into my sister’s driveway.
Assumption #2 proved accurate. The BMW dealership was able to fix my air conditioning. And my sister and her husband and I went out to dinner to celebrate my arrival.
Two days later, I left for Baltimore to visit a high school crony. Once again – me – the person who never gets lost – who intuitively has a great sense of direction – got lost again after exiting the main highway into Baltimore. This time, I didn’t even attempt to find my own way. I immediately called my friend, who has lived in Baltimore for over forty years. “I have no idea where you are,” she exclaimed, and promptly handed me over to her husband.
“Lock your doors immediately,” he sternly instructed me. “You are in just about the most crime-ridden section of the city.” He then literally remained on the phone with me until I pulled into their driveway thirty minutes later. We went out for dinner and drank to my safe, but perilous, arrival.
Early the next morning, I left for New Jersey, where my son, daughter-in-law and three of my grandchildren live. Fully confident of arriving at their home without travail, once again I got lost upon leaving the main highway. After much re-routing -courtesy of my GPS – which for some unknown reason had begun talking to me again – I found myself in familiar territory and made it to my son’s home before dark.
I never took one wrong turn when I went from my son’s home to Newark two days later to pick my husband up from the Newark Airport. It was then that it finally dawned on me what the lesson was to be learned from “My Running Away From Home” trip.
Remember the play Fiddler on the Roof? Remember the lyrics from the songFar from the Home I Love? There is one line in that song that encompasses the lesson I learned: “There with my love, I’m home.”
I’m convinced that we always do find our way home. And Home has always been and always will be right beside my husband.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
June 15, 2018
My Solo Road Trip
I set my car’s mileage tracker back to zero and pull out of my driveway as planned at 8am sharp eight days ago, Thursday, June 7. Waves of pure joy and images of unbounded freedom wash over me as I head for the highway: Savannah bound.
I left nothing to chance. Called my friend, Joyce, who knows everything. Told me where to stop for lunch – a sleepy little river town: St. Mary’s, Georgia. And where to stay in Savannah: the Ballastone Inn in the historic downtown area.
All goes seamlessly. I pass roadside stands and markets so popular in the south
I cruise down sleepy streets lined with dilapidated old houses. I imagine restoring one to its former glory.
Pulling up to the Ballastone Inn, its curbside appeal instantly enchants me.
A charming private room and bath await me – with floral patterned wallpaper and a queen size bed with a canopy.
As per Joyce’s precise instructions, I had called ahead and asked the concierge to make me a reservation at a very well-known eatery in Savannah – The Painted Lady. I was a little disappointed with the time slot – I had preferred 7 or 7:30pm, but they were booked until 8.
Getting dressed, I heard massive amounts of sirens in close proximity. I paid little attention. Emerging details of Anthony Bourdain’s suicide being broadcast on TV kept me captivated while I brushed my lashes with mascara and highlighted my cheekbones with powdered rouge. Still the sirens blasted away.
Plugging in walking directions in my Google maps on my iPhone, I merrily proceed on the route. My leisurely strolling is harshly interrupted when I witness a crowd of people clustered behind that bright yellow tape that signifies an emergency.
I approach a younger woman standing with a group of four. “What’s going on?” I ask hesitantly.
“Oh, you know the Painted Lady Restaurant? Well an unaccompanied driver apparently had a heart attack, around 7:25 PM,” she relates. “He lost control of his car, hitting something that set off a gas leak right in front of the restaurant. They’ve cordoned off the area in case of a gas explosion.”
Potential disaster averted, I find a small cafe, order a Moscow Mule and ponder the randomness of life.
On Friday, I shop the galleries and owner-operated boutiques. Walk the plethora of historic squares highlighting Savannah’s war heroes and founders. Indulge in a little retail therapy and sample local specialties like waffles coupled with crispy fried chicken. And walk the side streets lined with row houses.
Around 5:30, I set off for Shabbat services at one of the oldest Jewish congregations in the United States – Congregation Mickve Israel.
And as the familiar service concludes, many congregant send me off with “Shabbat, y’all” ringing in my ears.
I sail off in high spirits for Jazz’d Tapas Bar to spend the remaining evening hours listening to a three-piece jazz band. Alone.
It didn’t turn out quite like I anticipated. The trio played folk music and country, not jazz. And I ended up not alone, but with unexpected companionship.
As the hostess seats me at a table top with four stools, she cheerily announces that the trio plays in an hour. Immediately, I’m ill at ease. How can I stretch out my food and drink order to last over an hour so I can hear the music? And then, how can I sit in a crowded place taking up a table with three empty stools?
I begin with a Moscow Mule to quiet my apprehension.
8:15: my drink arrives.
8:30: I order a Caesar salad.
8:45: I order Crawfish Mac & Cheese.
9 pm: Finished eating, I look around. I’m the lone unaccompanied woman in the entire bar, which is filled to capacity.
9:03: Against my better judgment, I order a second Moscow Mule as the trio warms up.
9:15: A tall woman, about my age, clad in layers of tie-dyed materials, is cruising the bar looking for a seat. Totally impulsively, I beckon her over. And offer her a seat at my table – thinking that at least her presence will alleviate my uncomfortable feeling of taking up a whole table.
Beaming with pleasure, she nods affirmatively and goes off to get her companion. Seconds later, the two sit down. Music blaring, it’s impossible to hear much but their names: Robyn and Misty Iris.
A chill runs though me. How serendipitous. She has “Iris” as a last name; I have “Iris” as a first.
“Actually,” she confides above the din of the music, “Iris is my middle name. My last name was too hard to pronounce and spell, so I dropped it.”
At the next break in the music, I learn they are two very close friends from Colorado who haven’t seen each other for eighteen months. Robyn has been living with her adult daughter in Atlanta, who is on dialysis and waiting for a kidney donor. Robyn and Misty traveled to Savannah for a little “girl time.”
We immediately hit it off. Misty and I both remark that the music is so loud it reminds us of bar and bat mitzvah celebrations where conversation is virtually impossible due to the noise level. We share stories. We exchange business cards. We ask the waiter to snap our picture.
“We rented a boat, docked at a nearby marina, through Airbnb. Come back and see it,” they implore. “We can have wine on the top deck.”
I am speechless. My rational mind says, “Are you crazy, Iris? Though we seemingly have lots in common, these two are literally strangers. Are they planning on robbing me? Plotting to dump me overboard after weighting me down with rocks? On the other hand, Misty is a nice Jewish woman born and raised on Long Island. How wacky can she be?”
I envision my mom jumping out of her coffin, screaming, “No, no, no, Iris. Haven’t I taught you to be cautious?”
In spite of vividly imagined admonitions from the grave, I hear my addled brain – awash with two Moscow Mules – send a signal to my mouth and I answer affirmatively.
Off we go.
In retrospect, my intuition – though impaired – must still have been working. After unlocking the hatch, Robyn and Misty eagerly show me their quarters and then usher me back up to the boat’s deck for a little wine. The warm night and the gentle lapping of the water induces more storytelling. Forty-five minutes later, I call Lyft and they walk me back to the parking lot abutting the marina. We hug hard and promise to keep in touch.
At the inn, I fall asleep immediately – part of me enthralled with meeting two such delightful women – and part of me astonished at my recklessness.
Next week: Calamity on the Road
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris