Another Adventure in South Africa

Most of my friends and acquaintances know that I like adventure. I like interacting with nature and hanging from cliffs over deep canyons and diving around reefs in the ocean. Maybe I should amend my joy of adventure to only natural adventure, because I obviously don’t like the kind of adventure we ended up taking in South Africa.

My husband, Maurice, excitedly applied for his international driving license before we left the US. As we packed and prepared for our trip, Maurice and I perused maps and discussed driving from one township to another during our 2-week visit to South Africa.

Upon arriving in Johannesburg’s airport, we went to the car rental and retrieved our Kia minivan. We stuffed our bags in back, got my mother and kids situated in the middle, and climbed into the driver’s and passenger seat on opposite sides of the car from what we’re used to doing in America. We were fine until we looked down…

“Is this a stick shift?” I asked him cautiously.

“Uh huh,” he answered me tentatively.

It’s not that he couldn’t drive a manual shift, it was simply the odd feeling of shifting with the left hand while also getting accustomed to driving on the left side of the road that was concerning us. So he spent a few minutes playing with the gears, adjusting his mirrors and getting his mind right.

Eventually, he looked at me and we held hands for a minute – he said a prayer for our safe travels. Little did we know how much we would need that prayer before the night was over.

Tentatively, he put the car in first, released the clutch and we crept forward a few inches. We turned into the left lane and slowly started to move forward. Maurice and I smiled as he successfully maneuvered out of the rental parking lot.

“Stop by the booth and grab me a map, Maurice,” I said as I played with the GPS monitor.

“No problem,” he replied.

Problem number one: no booth to check out; therefore, no map.

Okay. No problem. The GPS was working and Maurice was handling the road well. We followed the road signs onto the “motorway” and onto the various side streets indicated by the GPS. Thirty minutes later, we were at the Holiday Inn Express just outside Johannesburg.

We unloaded, unpacked and changed to prepare for the United States vs. Ghana FIFA match in Rustenburg, a nearby city. The game was scheduled to start at 8:30 pm. Maurice had timed the drive from Johannesburg to Rustenburg to be about 2 hours. So, at 6:00, we piled back into the van, Maurice programmed the GPS and we pulled out of the Holiday Inn’s parking lot.

Everything was fine for the first 30 minutes until Maurice realized we were avoiding the motorway N4 that he had seen several times and we were on several streets with lights. We stopped, reprogrammed the GPS and agreed to take tollroad N4, which would be a direct route into Rustenburg.

Problem number two: toll roads in South Africa are not like toll roads in the United States.

We drove for several minutes, then smiled and congratulated each other as we merged onto the N4. Immediately, we saw a pair of highlights headed straight for us. Uh oh.

“Maurice! You’re not in the lane! Go left, go left!” I shouted.

“I’m in my lane, I’m in my lane!” he shouted back, but he swerved out of the lane and the path of the oncoming car.

We rode on the dirt shoulder, spitting up dust for several yards while large trucks and miniature cars zoomed past us in the lane where we originally were.

“Get over Maurice. This isn’t a lane.”

“I’m trying! I can’t get back in now!” Maurice yelled back at me in frustration, as he leaned forward over the steering wheel. I could see the intensity in his face.

Maurice was gripping the gearshift so hard, I could see the skin stretched over his knuckles. My palms were moist with perspiration and under my arms was suddenly wet. The spot on the inside of my elbow where my nervous rash pops up when I’m stressed started to itch. My mother began giving directions and suggesting things from the middle of the back seat.

Eventually, Maurice was able to get back in the lane and we all calmed down a little. We nervously giggled and joked about the confusion of the lines on the road as we moved forward.

Suddenly, a slow moving truck swerved to the dirt shoulder, kicking up rocks and dirt onto the windshield. Oh $#!&.

“What’s he doing?” I shrieked. Maurice started gripping the gearshift again and sat up straight.

“I think he’s letting us pass,” Maurice whispered, more to himself than to me. He swerved quickly around the car, and as we looked back, the truck smoothly moved back into the lane behind us.

Hm. Okay. We got it. There was only one lane going in both directions, so if you were going slow, you pulled over onto the shoulder and let a faster car pass you. Cool.

Problem number three: There is not enough room on the shoulders of the N4 for a car to pass without going into oncoming traffic.

Considering the fact that there was not enough room on the shoulder for a car to pass without heading into oncoming traffic, your pass had to be timed perfectly. This wasn’t easy on a toll road as busy as GA400 in Atlanta.

How much longer would we have to be on this road? I glanced down at the GPS. 89km. What?! Oh no, I wasn’t going to make it. It was pitch black, the road was packed with cars, and my husband was determined to get to the Royal Bafokeng Stadium to see the kickoff of his team, Ghana, against my son’s team, USA. He swerved around a slow-moving 1984 VW Golf barely missing an oncoming minivan. This was going to be a long trip.

Problem number four: wild fires are purposely burned intermittently along the roadsides of streets, motorways and toll roads throughout Johannesburg and the surrounding cities.

About 20km down the road, Maurice sees a faster car coming up behind him. As he decides to pull onto the dirt shoulder to allow the car to pass, he sees one of the wildfires up ahead. At the same time, a line of cars is coming toward us.

I’ll spare you the details of the remainder of this trip. Just know, we eventually made it safely to Rustenburg and found a parking lot several kilometers away from the stadium. I scrambled from the van, thanked the Lord for our safe arrival and happily joined the other people walking toward the shuttle bus.

Problem number five: after the match, 35,934 people had to take shuttle buses back to their cars all at one time.

At the end of the game, my mother, husband, two children and I left the stadium in high spirits. We’d had enjoyed the game, made friends with people in the crowd and danced in the stands. We continued to be excited as we filed out into the field outside the stadium gates. We were still feeling good as we moved past crowds of people to the gate marked M104 North. The happy feelings ended as we queued up with about 800 other people to get through one small opening big enough for about 5 people to pass at once.

We were pressed tightly together with diverse people speaking many different languages, some drunk and high. Others were angry that the US had lost. One group of men started arguing with another group of men about whether it was nicer to live in America or England and why. 45 minutes later, my family squeezed through the opening and made it onto one of the shuttle buses.

I was happy until I remembered – we had to drive back home.

Thankfully, God heard my prayers. The GPS brought up a totally different route to return home. Even better, it allowed us to bypass all of the stadium traffic that was completely stopped on the N4 (remember it was only a one-lane road with toll booths). We could see it from the access road we were coasting on.

Just as we were getting comfortable with the drive, we noticed the road we were on was winding, twisting and going up.

Problem number six: South Africa is a mountainous country with small windy, unlit roads that go on for 100s of miles.

I have a problem. My problem is that I love to drive. I love to drive because I like to be in control. In control of when I go and when I return. In control of how fast or slow I’m driving. In control of which lane I’m driving in and when I’m going to switch. I love driving fast and weaving in and out of traffic on freeways.

This is a problem, because when someone else is driving, I feel like I have no control. And I didn’t have control over how Maurice was driving on this dark, winding, hilly road. Sometimes, I felt like he was driving too fast, or passing unsafely, or too close to the left side. I kept telling him, “you’re not in the lane.” But I’m not sure he was really listening to me.

Earlier that day, a brick wall was right on the line of the left shoulder. I tried to tell Maurice that he was too close, but he wasn’t listening to me and… grumprhhhtwphhh. The van slid along the brick wall. I didn’t have to tell him again after that.

But now, we were way up in the South African mountains at midnight. And all of a sudden, we were heading straight down, coming out of a curve at the same time, and there was a huge body of water lit by the moonlight in front of us. I couldn’t help but yell out.

“Oh my God! Maurice, you’re making me so nervous!”

Maurice yelled back at me that I was making him nervous by yelling at him that I was nervous. He wanted me to BE QUIET. So, I sat on my hands, prayed, and bit my lip for the next 1.5 hours. I have never been so happy to see a Holiday Inn Express in my life.

I’ve always respected my husband. He’s a wonderful person, man, son, husband, and father. But after the death-trip of SA2010, I hold him in a new level of esteem.

Travel to World Cup - Day 1

How is it possible for a 16-hour flight to be more comfortable and less boring than a 5-hour flight to Vegas? My mother and I chalked it up to the days of mental preparation we’d put ourselves through for the non-stop flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg, South Africa’s international airport.

As my family and I got comfortable in our seats, I struck up a conversation with a lovely Afrikaan family from Durbin, SA who told us about their trip with their grandchildren to Disney World. They asked us about our trip and gave us tips and pointers about traveling in Zimbabwe and Victoria Falls. We talked with people who were natives of the US East Coast who had simply packed up everything and moved the whole family to suburbs around Johannesburg. The diversity and pleasant lifestyle were reasons they gave for the move. I couldn’t help but wonder about the possibilities of relocating my family here. What would schools be like? Would there be opportunities for Maurice and me in our chosen industries? What about the post-apartheid relations among the various South African races? I can’t wait to explore and find out more.

3 good meals, 2 deep sleeps, 4 movies and 16 hours later, we were coming into view of the southern tip of Africa. As we began our decent over the edges of the continent, the sun was beginning to go down, even though it was only 11:00am back home in Atlanta. Vibrant golds, fuchsias, oranges and pinks fused together over the outlines of mountains, ocean and grassy flat lands. I don’t know what I expected the city to look like as we descended closer to the airport in Johannesburg, but looking at the city below looked just like flying over central Florida – homes evenly spaced on flat land with tiled roofs and blue pools enclosed in back yards. Busy highways showed traffic slowly crawling through rush hour traffic. A van had flipped over and smoke was swirling into the sky as cars piled up behind it and snaked into the single lane left open.

Tears came to my eyes as we landed on the runway in Johannesburg. I don’t really know why – I can’t explain the feeling that came over me, but it was definitely palpable.

In the Johannesburg airport, a lively group from Germany drunkenly hugged each other’s necks as they sang the German Futbol fight song. South African porters and airport staff joined in. It was one big party of different languages and ethnicities united by the sport of futbol.

We’re currently on a South African Airways flight to Port Elizabeth along with several people from Uruguay, some Americans that now live here, and native Afrikaans and Africans. I’ve used more Spanish here already than I've used in the past 3 years.

I couldn’t help but have a flashback to pre-9/11. It was a breeze getting through security (I got to keep all my clothes on!). And they still serve full meals on all of the flights – whether your flight is 16 hours or 1.6 hours. And the food was actually good (or maybe I was just hungry?). In fact, my mother and I enjoyed delicious complimentary South African wine during our short cross-country flight from Johannesburg to Port Elizabeth.

I can’t wait to experience life outside the airport and on the ground. Stay tuned for my updates and some photos...

The Big Secret Surprise

I love surprises. I love keeping secrets about surprises for other people, and I love to be surprised. I'm always disappointed when a surprise for me is spoiled.

For instance, when I got married, I told my husband to keep where we were going for the honeymoon a secret.

"Just take me to the airport blind-folded. Don't tell me a thing!"

But days before the trip, the travel agent called me to confirm our trip to Trinidad & Tobago. Sigh...

Or what about the time my husband (then boyfriend) tried to throw a surprise birthday party for me when we were in college. I decided at the last minute to throw my own party and called the DJ to see if he was free.

"Yeah, I already discussed it with Maurice last week. I planned to get there around 9:00 to set up," he said, without thinking that I may not have known about the party to begin with. Sigh...

Anyway. This is isn't about me, it's about the biggest surprise EVER for my kids. A secret surprise that almost killed several people in its enormity. A secret surprise that got out a little too soon.

When the world starting getting exciting about the World Cup soccer tournament taking place in South Africa, I remember talking with my husband and saying... "wouldn't it be cool to go there and take the kids?" A year later, my husband announces that he's in the pool to get tickets to a match in Johannesburg. Huh?

For months, he had secretly been working on flights and hotels and travel between South African cities for the kids and us. When he explained the whole thing, I thought to myself... what a fantastic secret surprise. I didn't tell anyone. I started strategizing with him on how to make the trip well worth the expense, time and energy. By April, everything was finalized and we told our parents and my brother. First mistake.

Despite our telling my mother this was a secret surprise for the kids, she announced the trip to her brother and his children who promptly sent me a Facebook post exclaiming... "World Cup?! When are you leaving?"

Since my older son and all of his friends are my Facebook "friends", I had to quickly delete the post, and send the first of several messages alerting the family that this was a secret surprise. Sigh...

Next, my brother, who has adult attention deficit and a very poor memory, asked the kids... "Are you excited about going to South Africa?" They stood there looking at him dumbfounded. My husband gave my brother the "shut up" face and the two of them made up some silly story to cover up my brother's faux pas.

My husband later reported that one of the kids asked my older son, "what's your uncle talkin' about? Are you guys going to the World Cup?"

My older son responded with a shrug and a, "I don't know what he's talking about." And they proceeded to play a game of soccer in the middle of the street.

As damage control, I waited until weeks later and, while we were watching an opening match on television, I nonchalantly said, "Hey, I talked to your uncle yesterday. Can you believe he thought we were going to the World Cup?!"

"Yeah! I know. He said something to me too!"

"Your uncle's crazy..."

Sigh...

As we got closer to the actual trip, it became important for me to share the secret with those I worked with and the babysitter and the neighbors. Imagine trying to get all of those people to keep such a huge secret from my kids when they see them every day. There were several close calls, and I grew at least 4 more gray hairs in the the 2 weeks before the trip.

Four days away and now I have to figure out how to pack for winter in Africa when it's 90 degrees in Atlanta. More importantly, I had to get the older child to actually try on jeans and sweatpants because he has outgrown all of his clothes and keeps getter taller every month. He hates trying on clothes. He hates shopping for clothes. His brother hates waiting for him to shop and try on clothes. Long story short - shopping was not fun. 2 more gray hairs. Secret still safe. (chalked it up to school shopping while winter clothes were on sale - yeah, I'm good)

Three days away - my family are at dinner with my girlfriend and her family. She gets excited and loudly exclaims to her aunt and uncles, "They're leaving for Africa on Wednesday!"

I punch her firmly in the arm, the table goes deathly silent, she drops her head, and my husband turns to stone. My older son narrows his eyes and surveys the scene. My younger son continues to play his DSi, completely oblivious to everything taking place. Sigh...

Deny, deny, deny. That's my husband and my motto for this whole fiasco of the secret surprise. We pretend like nothing happened at dinner and go about our business without comment.

The Monday night before the trip, I'm doing laundry and folding clothes when my older son nonchalantly asks me, "Why does everyone think we're going to South Africa?"

This time I literally sighed out loud and sofly said, "Oh, Maurice."

He knows how much I love secrets and surprises. He knew I was sad that the secret was out. He knows me so well, he didn't ask me anything else and completely changed the subject. I love that kid.

Last night, my mother - who is going on the trip with us - arrived from Miami with her car loaded down. And when my older son heard that my husband was picking up my father-in-law from the airport, the inquisition began. I received a sad phone call from my husband as he was driving home from the airport, "We have to tell them."

My husband checked to make sure the video camera was charged, then he nodded to me. We went into the kitchen, gathered our parents and the kids and made the formal announcement. My older son had the decency to look somewhat incredulous. However, our younger son really had no clue. He was truly surprised and the look on his face made it all worth it.

My older son began going through all of South Africa tourist books my father-in-law had brought with him and my younger son began interrogating me about flight time, accommodations, the language barrier, and his selective eating habits.

Even though we were unable to keep the secret, our children are just as excited as they would have been if they hadn't found out until we arrived at the airport. This trip is an adventure and memory that will last all of our lifetimes. What we experience as individuals and a group will be shared with family, friends and those who don't even exist today.

My motto has always been to live without regrets and do everything I can while I'm able. This trip has meaning on so many levels, I cannot begin to put it into words. All I can say is I appreciate my husband and the spirit that allowed this to be, and I can't wait to blog about the experience...

Shero

Yesterday was my 14th wedding anniversary. To some, that's a long time and to others, we're still babies with some "stuff" to go through. I started reflecting on my husband, Maurice, and my parents and grandparents. My parents made it 16 years before they ended everything in divorce. Maurice's parents were married for 29 years before the untimely death of my mother-in-law. But our grandparents - that's a different story all together...

My grandparents on my father's side were not only married forever, but when my grandmother fell ill from a stroke and needed 24 hour care, my grandfather stayed by her side for YEARS, nursing her, bathing her, feeding her, watching television with her. His love and allegiance was not only in words, but he showed it in his deeds. My grandmother passed away a few years ago, and my grandfather is still going strong at the age of 90.

My grandparents on my mother's side were also married forever. They were hilarious because they were COMPLETE opposites. My grandmother was loud, boisterous, and big. My grandfather was soft-spoken, a man of few words, very strong (physically and mentally) and extremely thin. I loved laying in their bed because you could tell where she slept (big dip in the mattress) and where he slept (higher than the rest of the mattress). They had 13 children, but 3 died before I was born. The remaining 10 included 7 boys and 3 girls, one of which is my mother. Those 10 were SO close-knit and supportive - I've lived with two of them and consider all of them my surrogate fathers and mothers. Their children are more like siblings to me than cousins. And we cousins have continued the tradition of closeness. 3 of my younger cousins have lived with me for various reasons and I've become like a surrogate mother to some of them. My children and my cousins' children are as close as I am with my cousins. My mother's parents provided a real-life example of what family is. We stand up for one another, we're there for each other, and we help each other whenever it's needed... even down to raising each others' children if necessary.

But the real reason for this blog is Grandma Alice. My husband's mother's mother. My grandmother-in-law. She died earlier this month at the age of 90. Maurice, the kids and I went to be with her during the Easter Holiday, because she'd fallen very ill and the doctor's didn't think she'd make it long. A month later, 12 of her 13 children and their spouses and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were gathered together in a small church on a hill in the heart of Vicksburg, MS for her homegoing services. It was truly a celebration as we sang, clapped and laughed at memories of a diminutive woman with a sweet voice, but a quick and, sometimes sharp, tongue. She said what was on her mind, but said it with the sweetest smile.

I named this blog "Shero" because Grandma Alice and her late husband Monroe did something I've never known anyone in my life to do. They raised 13 Black-American children in segregated and racist Mississippi in the 1940s, 50s, 60s and 70s. Not only did they raise these children without one dying, but each and every one of the boys and girls were educated and went on to some level of success. A doctor, successful business men and women, honored military officers. Not one of them a criminal, not one addicted to drugs or alcohol, not one a high-school or college drop out. Now, some families may be able to boast of this, but how many would also be able to say they are as close-knit as my mother's family? The 13 children were present and supportive of each others' college graduations, successes, marriages, and the successes of their children. Even though they're spread out among Texas, California and Mississippi, 2 or 3 live in the same cities to be a support for one another. And like my mother's family, their children know each other more like siblings than cousins. My kids cried when we had to come home from Mississippi earlier this month. They didn't want to leave their cousins and the activities in which they were engaged. That's what family truly is.

I couldn't stop thinking about the challenges that Grandma Alice and Grandpa Monroe must have faced living in racist and rural Mississippi throughout the 1930s before they moved to the city of Vicksburg. I thought about the stories I'd read and heard of lynchings and brutality against Black people in cities throughout Mississippi from slavery to present. I'd heard of a lack of amenities like running water and, in some places, electricity. And the education system was and still is one of the worst in the nation. But despite all of these statistics and facts, a Black couple with dark skin, short and stocky in nature, African features and not much money birthed 13 children from the 1930s to the 1960s, educated them, taught them values and love, and didn't lose one to the negative statistics of the time and place. They typical reasons Black people give for their failures, the Williams family overcame - 13 times - and more with the grandchildren they also raised.

Times are different now, but are they really? There is still blatant racism and segregation all around me in my little southern community of Lilburn, Georgia. I spend the majority of my time with my boys teaching them respect and love for each other and their peers. Unfortunately, I also have to explain why someone may look at them differently than the White children in their class or in the store, especially since they both have "dreadlocks." My husband and I have to teach them to be strong in their values and beliefs, know the history of Black people in America, and value education in all forms. Just like our parents taught us, we're teaching them they have to be better than good, because good is simply not good enough.

I have only a couple of heros - people I admire for doing things against the odds. Grandma Alice is right up there with Malik el Hajj Shabazz in my mind and heart. But because life is different for a woman than a man, she gets the higher distinction of being my Shero. I'm glad I was able to experience a few years of her light before she moved on - I am encouraged to keep teaching love, values, education, and strength to my sons because of her example.

The Trampoline

My mother’s 2007 Christmas gift to the children sat in our garage until April 2009. If I told you why, that would lead to another story, and I want to stay focused today. It was a trampoline for my sons. It was the largest, most industrial, safest trampoline my mother could find, because… “I don’t want my grandbabies getting hurt out there.”

I remember the day my husband and brother put the trampoline up. It was so large, we couldn’t find a space in our back yard – which is a wooded forest – to put it. When we tried putting it in a clearing between our house and the neighbor’s, we received “feedback” from the neighbor. So, several tree cuttings later, the trampoline sat squarely in the middle of our back yard… in direct view of my bedroom windows.

When you were a kid, do you remember the house where all of the kids from the neighborhood hung out? Well somehow, that house became my house. When the trampoline first went up, there were no more than 3 kids allowed on it at any one time, and the older kids directed which children, based on weight and height, could participate at the same time. It was very systematic and I proudly watched from my bedroom window as they fairly managed equal amounts of jump time.

In the beginning, there were only 5 or 6 boys gathered in my backyard after school. But as the school year ended and summer rolled around, the number grew to 10, then 12, then more – girls too. And eventually, the restrictions lessened so that about 6 - 8 kids of various sizes were jumping at once. One day, as I watched with concern, two children aimed balls at the jumpers and they began a dangerous game of Jump-Away-Dodge-Ball. Instead of running outside and putting an end to the risky business, I watched, mesmerized, as the kids were actually able to dodge the balls and flip and fall and get back up. They laughed and high-fived each other as the ones that were hit were replaced by the ones aiming balls into the pit.

Winter soon rolled around, and I was sure the trampoline would be forgotten as the weather turned cold. But the creativity of children is amazing. They found that jumping and falling and bumping into each other with thick, fat coats on was even more fun than jumping without the extra padding. A new game of Bumper-Bodies was created and whoever fell off, was out. Now this may sound unsafe, and it probably was. But as I watched from my bedroom window, ready to spring and run to save a hurt child, they would bump someone off the edge and, he or she would roll softly onto the bed of dead pine needles and leaves. Unscathed, they’d get up, dust off, and get back on.

In January, it snowed, and this brought on a new game of See-Who-Can-Make-The-Snow-Bounce-Highest. That game was combined with Bumper-Bodies and Jump-Away-Dodge-Ball (note: balls were replaced with snowballs that week). And the kids never stopped coming.

One day last month, I noticed there were no kids jumping in my backyard. For the previous 12 months, there had been kids moving vertically in my backyard every non-rainy day. So the absence of bouncing children was a bit strange. Upon closer inspection, I noticed there was a strange dip in the normally taut material in the center of the trampoline. Hm. Eventually, my sons and 4 of their partners in crime trooped into the kitchen with serious faces. “Uh, Mom…”

I’ll spare you the lengthy details of 6 boys trying to explain how they broke the trampoline, but I will tell you that it involved a highly complicated game of heaviest, largest children on one end all jumping as hard as they could at once while small children lifted the rim on the opposite end. Don’t ask… I still don’t understand the concept.

I knew this would be the end of the trampoline and my backyard as the clubhouse. And I have to admit, I was actually a little sad. I would miss seeing how the kids communicated and interacted. I would miss watching them argue and then figure out solutions to their disagreements. I would miss watching new children become part of the Trampoline Family. But most, I would miss watching how innovative they were as they created fresh new ideas for games and activities on the trampoline.

So, you can imagine my surprise when the next afternoon, there were at least 7 kids in my backyard. I stopped what I was doing and sat, mesmerized again, as they worked like little ants to carefully take apart the trampoline. Over the next week, they pulled, pushed, propped, and pitched the poles and metal from the rim of the trampoline. Then they stretched the fabric and netting over the corners of the poles and rim. By the next weekend, they had a covered clubhouse. The twins from up the block brought chairs, and another child from across the street brought an old wooden crate his parents had thrown out to be a makeshift table. Children from everywhere brought books, and toys, and stuff, and things. (I’m not sure how I feel about all that stuff in my backyard, but we’ll discuss that at another time.)

There is a lot to learn from observing children. My sons and their neighborhood friends clearly demonstrated three important facts:

1. When you get tired of playing the game, create a new one. It can be just as much fun as the old one – maybe better.
2. There’s room for everyone to get in the game if you take turns and follow the rules. You don’t have to turn anyone away.
3. When the game becomes obsolete, reinvent it.

Our house is still the house where all the neighborhood kids hang out. And I think I like that…

Reflection

I’m planning my 40th birthday celebration. It’s not until December, but I like to plan. Because I’ve started so early, I find myself reflecting on the last 20 years. It’s strange for me, because I don’t feel like that many years have passed. It feels like I did a whole lot of stuff in just a few years.

For most of the people I know, they become morose and depressed as they reflect on the shoulda, coulda, woulda’s of their lives. When I think about my last 20 years, I smile, laugh out loud, shed a tear, and wonder – “How did I do that?”

I didn’t leave college with a plan. I just did what was expected after you leave business school – I went to work for a major company in their management development program. All of my peers did the same thing, and many of them are now Directors, VPs and top executives at companies around the world. But I knew early on, it just wasn’t for me. I hate pantyhose – always have. I love to wear heels, but not the kind that are appropriate for Corporate America. I like to wear suits, but my taste is a bit more colorful, shape-showing and sometimes Bohemian. Not exactly the right fit for a Fortune 500 company. So I left the rat race – against the advice of my peers, friends and mother – and started teaching aerobics and personal training in a gym. I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

I didn’t have a plan for a relationship or it’s future. I just did what felt right. I continued dating my college sweetheart after graduation and between multiple long distance moves, because no one was better than he was and is. When he asked me to marry him, I was shocked because - unlike most of my college friends - I wasn’t trying to hook a man, I was partying and enjoying life. So... we got married. I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

When we found out I was pregnant, we – and my entire family – were completely surprised. My family was concerned because I loved to travel and get lost and end up in weird places and explore and come home whenever I felt like it. I loved to party and sleep and get up whenever I wanted to and… just be free to be me. But sure enough, along came my first son, and I fell in love immediately. And he simply traveled with me and got lost with me and explored the world with my husband and me. Having a child stifles some people. For me, it made exploring and learning even more fascinating because I experienced the wonders of life through my baby’s eyes. And I didn’t stop partying - I just got a babysitter and kept on dancing with wild abandon to drummers and house music and hip hop. I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

I decided to take advantage of an ad I saw in a fitness magazine for aerobic instructors to teach while traveling. So, I taught Yoga and dance and water aerobics at resorts in Jamaica for many years. I got free vacations, made wonderful friends that I still talk to and visit in Jamaica, and I feel like I have another home to go back to. I explored Jamaica with my husband and my son, and had one of the best girlfriends' parties ever there. I was REAL happy and having LOTS of fun and that’s what life is about.

One year, I thought I could make a fitness video just like Donna Richardson. So I did. In fact, I made six of them that sell internationally. And I made a television show that aired for two years. And I hosted the fitness segment on the weekend news for over a year. And I started presenting on the fitness conference circuit. So what if I was pregnant with my second child and raising a 3-year old toddler. I did it all anyway. Why not? I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

Who decides to pack up their entire life – spouse, children, tv career, local fame – and move to another state and start all over again? Me. And it was the best move of my life. I spent a year getting my children settled in a new house, in new schools, and personally making new friends. Then I thought about what I hadn’t done in life and still wanted to do. I wanted to open my own fitness studio. So I did. The classes are packed, we’re hosting private exotic dance parties almost every week, I get to do Yoga every day, and I’m positively changing peoples’ lives every day. I am happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

Who thought a woman that likes to dance barefoot, water ski in a thong bikini, and knows more hip hop history than most men raised in the 80s could be a community leader? Not many people. But sure enough, I’m the president of the a local business organization, a regular fixture at the county’s Chamber of Commerce, a former representative for the school board, and very involved in local economic development. I am happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

Was it all good times and easy street and fun? No. There were - and still are - challenges, struggles, mistakes and painful endings. But those things make life interesting and colorful. They also make the good times feel so much better. They create character, empathy and understanding. They keep hypocrisy at bay. Most importantly, they offer wisdom that can only come from personal experience.

So here I am. 8 months shy of 40. I’ve done more with my life in the last 19 years than most people do in a lifetime. I have absolutely no regrets about any of my decisions in life. I’ve experienced life as a single person and a married person, a mother of a newborn and a mother of a son as tall as I am, an employee and a business owner, a face in the crowd and a leader in the community, a shy wall-flower and a party animal, a student and a teacher, a magazine reader and the cover model on a magazine, an avid reader and a popular writer. I don’t have limits. I don’t allow people to tell me what I cannot do. More importantly, I don’t allow me to tell me what I cannot do. I live every day like a new opportunity to create an adventure without restrictions. I am happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

Woman vs. Wasp

I know better than to think that 15 minutes is more than enough time to gather my notes, computer, fix myself up, check on the kids home from spring break, and drive to the studio for my private training client. I'm right.

3:40 pm
That's what the glowing red numbers indicate on the digital clock beside my bed. I had come home from work since the boys were home for spring break. They were doing their usual thing - picking on each other, screaming names at each other, throwing pillows and sharp objects across the landing and down the stairs at each other. Nothing special. So I had holed up in my bedroom, spread stacks of papers, receipts, invoices and contracts around me on the bed, and propped my cute little MacBook on the lap desk my mother gave me for Christmas.

(Note: I LOVE my lap desk. My mother loves holidays and preparing gifts - especially for holidays (see my blog "Vacation"). What makes her even more special is that she knows her targets well and always gives gifts her recipients will use and cherish. Hence my appreciation for the lap desk - she knows I love to sit in my bed and she knows I love to work on my laptop. Now I do it on my lap desk.)

As I finish paying the last invoice online and noting it in one of my many black cash books, I glance at the clock and see the time. 20 minutes before my next client.

3:45 pm
I file and repack all the stacks and zip my precious Apple notebook into my computer bag. I (reluctantly) climb down from the bed and go to inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. Everything looks good, so I smooth down my shirt, blot a little shine from my face with a hand towel, and exit my private sanctuary grabbing my computer bag as I go.

3:48 pm
"Mommmmm, my eyes are BURNING," my preteen says as he rubs his red, puffy, allergy eyes. Tears leak out of the corner of his left eye as he tries to see through his swollen lids.

Sigh... I run back to my bathroom, dig through my makeup case until I find the bottle of Allergy eyedrops. As I run back out and tilt his head back, my cell phone rings. I prop the phone between my shoulder and ear and start whisper/pointing directions to the preteen who really hates getting drops in his eyes.

Soccer coach wants him to play a tournament in Charlotte, NC next weekend. Can he make it? Hm, can he drive himself up there? Sigh... I'm holding my computer bag, two purses (one black, one brown - I have to match and I haven't had a chance to switch them yet), a cell phone to my ear, squeezing a bottle of eyedrops into a squirming preteen's eye and trying to think of my husband and my work/travel schedule for the next weekend. "Uh, can I check with my husband and get back to you by 5:00 today?"

3:55 pm
I put the bottle of drops on the table, ask the boys not to fight until I get back home (yeah, right), snatch my keys off the counter and run out the door. I have exactly 5 minutes to drive 6 miles through stop lights to my 4:00 client. I can do it!

3:58 pm
I am cruising through the 1st of 3 stop lights and talking to my husband on the cell about the soccer tournament when I notice a huge gold and black wasp as big as my pinky finger sitting calmly on my leg.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGGRRRRRRHHHHHHHAAAA!"

I beat, slap and pound on my leg with the cell phone. The wasp and my cell phone go flying across the car. As the protective case around my cell phone smashes apart (thank goodness for those hard plastic cases), my mind registers that I am driving 45 mph down a two-lane street. I look up and notice I am careening into the other lane and swerve back into mine. Then I hear my husband's tiny voice somewhere in space - "Thea, Thea, Thea!"

I grope around on the floor of the passenger side with one eye on the wasp climbing the passenger-side door and the other on the street. I calmly smile into the phone, "Oh, hi Maurice. Sorry about that. A wasp was on my lap." Out of the corner of my eye, I see the wasp climbing to the level of the window. "Uh, I have to go now. I'll call you back, okay?" I drop the phone on the seat next to me and check the time on the dashboard.

4:01
Normally my being a minute or two late wouldn't be a problem. But our studio isn't open until 5:00pm in the evenings. That means my client will be waiting outside of a locked, dark studio in the heat and pollen. We don't treat our clients like that.

So... I start to calculate. I am now 2 miles from the studio and the wasp is resting peacefully on the ledge between the door handle and window of the passenger side. I figure I can make it. I keep driving and hoping...

4:02
The wasp gets caught in a breeze coming through the window and flies across the car toward me. I scream again - louder and longer than last time - and start flailing my arms around my head. Yes, I'm still driving - without hands. My good sense gets the best of me, and I grab the steering wheel with one hand and grab a bunch of my long dredlocks with the other. I start swinging my hair like a weapon, not knowing where the wasp is or caring - all I know is that I can hear it buzzing so it's too close to my head for comfort and it MUST GO.

My mind starts to work again and I see a driveway into a neighborhood. I slow down, pull in and stop right in the middle of the lane. Too bad if someone is trying to come home, I can't move right now. Shaking, I scan the car with laser-like vision and listen acutely for the buzzing I know so well. Nothing. Then I start itching. I feel like the wasp is climbing up my arms and down my back and across my neck. Ew.

4:03
I pull cautiously out into the street and finish the commute into the parking lot of my studio. I see my client peering through the front door window and I imagine her wondering if I've forgotten our appointment or whether she has the right time. I take a second to glance at myself in the rear-view mirror, tuck a stray loc, smooth down my eyebrows (they always stick up anyway), and pick up all three of my bags and parts of my cell phone.

4:05
"Hi Patti!" I say brightly, like nothing has happened. "Sorry I'm late - come on in and let's get to work."