Posted on by cheryloreglia · 50 Comments

Don’t Blink

Cheryl, Nancy, Stu, Ron, Robin, Carol, Lenny, Larry (from left to right)

“They talked in the shorthand of old friends and shared memories.”
― Dee Henderson

Larry and I should really have some regulations around our morning conversations. 

It’s early. I’ve only had a few sips of coffee when Larry feels compelled to share his thoughts on none other than the NFL, which is not of particular interest to me, but obviously associated with our ancestral proclivity for conflict.

Larry says, “Do you know the most-watched NFL game last year was on Christmas day?” 

Without giving him a single verbal acknowledgment, he continues unabated, “In fact, they’re going to do something they have never done before, which is play on a Wednesday because that’s when Christmas falls this year.”

He says this with the enthusiasm of a child about to unwrap a present.

I say, “Clearly, men are still influencing the world with their primitive interests.”

“Women watch too.”

“Really? Then who’s cooking Christmas Dinner?”

I get the look.

These are the kinds of conversations we have during the week when we’re having our ritual coffee, listening to the news, and browsing our social media accounts. 

It is neither inspirational nor conducive to our well-being.

Interestingly, I was just spewing something important about retirement and how difficult it is to reallocate our time after an active working life. And to complicate matters, if you happen to have a partner, you’re also adjusting to their questionable usage of time. 

You might ask, how’s that going for you two?

Not well. Thank you for asking.

Larry has the classic type A personality. He’s active and absolutely despises sitting around twiddling his thumbs, engaging in deep conversations, or rubbing my feet. 

I am a type B, which means I’m more creative, patient, and rarely feel the need to rush. In fact, my favorite pastime is deep philosophical conversations and having my feet rubbed. Bahaha.

Brewery Art

We are polar opposites in terms of lifestyle, personality, and interests.

This was all well and good when we spent most of our time pursuing our own interests, were inundated with kids, and locked in a suburban lifestyle. Now we’ve been set to pasture—I mean retired—and it’s been shockingly illuminating as if our field of dreams has been electrified. 

I make what I consider an astute observation after his NFL fiasco and share, “I could easily slip into the sloth lifestyle.”

Larry looks up from his iPad, squints his eyes at me as if he’s trying to rectify his vision, and says, “I don’t think so.”

“I love to write, which means my interior sloth is driving my interests instead of the other way around.”

“You also like to move.”

“Only when forced.”

“Or you’re out of coffee.”

Now I’m squinting at him. Okay, glaring might be more honest, but in my defense, they are similar. 

We just returned from a weekend with friends who are all retired except one of the women, and what was interesting to me is that all of us are essentially dealing with the same damn issues. 

We’ve become ridiculously judgmental about how our partners have chosen to spend their surplus time.

It’s tricky because there are no absolutes anymore. I don’t have to be anywhere at any given time, and neither does my partner, which is total mayhem for those of us who have been driven by schedules for most of our marriage. 

Maybe it’s instinctual for humans to judge what others do, a survival skill that has evolved over time, especially if what he does differs significantly from what I do. The whole hunters and gatherers enigma. 

Finding your tribe is essential. 

Speaking of tribes, this particular group of friends is unusual in that our husbands have been riding (cycling) together for decades, but the wives also enjoy each other’s company, which is imperative if you want to hang out together. 

Right?

We used to live within a mile of each other when our kids attended the same elementary school, and in a way, we all grew up together, along with our kids. 

Ron and Carol’s yard

One of the couples recently sold their home in the Bay Area and moved to a beautiful community on the outskirts of Sacramento to be near family. They invited us for the weekend, a chance to show off their new home and enjoy some meals together. The men had plans to ride the trails along the American River, while the women would consume excessive amounts of coffee and catch up on each other’s lives. 

Fortunately, their home is huge, with five bedrooms and lots of land, and it is located near charming shops, restaurants, and wineries, all of which we took full advantage of. 

And yes, our morning discussions were quite juicy. 

What was interesting to me was how similar our experiences with unemployment have been. 

For example, sleep issues become more pronounced after retirement. Larry and I have been sleeping together for forty years, and suddenly who snores, sleeps in, and/or hogs the covers has become a pertinent issue. Who’s a restless sleeper, browses their social media at night, or gets up to use the facilities repeatedly is also under intense scrutiny. 

These are disruptive issues, no doubt, and left unaddressed, can lead to meaningless feuds and other shenanigans (like someone leaving snore guards on their partner’s pillow, unscrewing the light bulb in the bathroom, or hiding your partner’s cell phone—of course, these were all derived from market research and NOT personal experience).

At this age, we’re all set in our ways, and when you’re forced to spend most of your time together because there is no job to hide behind, it’s as if we have to start courting each other again.

And believe me, no one wants to date a cantankerous old lady narrowly defined by her own self-interests and a passion for sitting on her ass for hours so she can write. When did this happen?

The transition is difficult, humorous on some level, and it happens in a blink. 

One of the best ways to overcome this conundrum is to maintain your social connections, plan activities that you both look forward to and create routines that are mutually satisfying. 

Initially, it was easy. When Larry went out for a ride, I wrote. We juggled our social commitments when possible and tried to slip in a few weekends at the lake. We’re a work in progress, making some headway and adjusting as we go.

I try and write every day, walk the hood with my girlfriends, have coffee with Nancy, and tandem cycle when it fits Larry’s schedule (okay when forced). Larry attends Boot Camp every morning, cycles with his friends a few times a week, deals with the rentals, and writes when forced. See how that works. 

To complicate matters, Larry is on a new diet, and we can not seem to coordinate our divergent needs around food, which frustrates me to no end. Eating is our thing—or used to be—since we started dating at fifteen, and now that Larry has retired from food, what is left for me to look forward to? 

Here’s the lesson I’ve been slow to glean and quick to reject: What we think we understand about each other might be different from what is actually happening. Maybe Larry is not trying to avoid breaking bread with me; maybe he’s becoming more health-conscious. Maybe I’m just being stubborn because I do not adjust easily to change, and it feels that is all we’ve been doing lately. 

And this, maybe I’ve forgotten how to live for someone else now that the kids are grown and on their own, but doing so is what makes life worth living. 

So here’s my belabored conclusion. 

“Often when you think you’re at the end of something, you’re at the beginning of something else,” as Fred Rogers wisely noted. Retirement is the beginning of something new; it requires a lot of creativity and the agility to make frequent adjustments. The thing is, living has to be an act of love, and therefore, a fair amount of generosity is needed in our mutual pursuits and interactions. It’s complicated because we’re not only influenced by our predecessors and how they managed this stage of life, but we’re dependent on a limited amount of resources and our physical abilities. It means practicing generosity, taking turns, and laughing at the ridiculousness of it all because this life—is over in a blink! 

I’m Living in the Gap, figuring it our as we go, happens in a blink. How’s your week going?

Larry, the bartender? We’re all trying to Grow Damn It!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 56 Comments

A Peek

“I stopped dreaming and woke up.” Cheryl Oreglia

It’s early Saturday morning. I’m peeking out of one eye because I don’t want to wake up but I have to use the facilities and if I open both eyes I’m going to fully wake up and the night, along with my dreams, will be over.

Do you feel my pain?

I caught a glimpse of my blurry resolve reflecting off the glass of the large French doors across from my bed. We sort of stare each other down but her tenacity is better than my weary self and eventually, I look away. 

Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I go into a hard squint so I can make out the time without putting on my glasses. I see what I think is a very unclear 5:45 am. Ugg. I was hoping it was closer to 6:45 am but that means it’s really 4:45 am if you account for daylight savings. 

Do you see the level of complex thinking that has upended my sleep?

But something is wrong because I notice it’s lighter outside than it should be at God knows what time it is. Maybe I have that whole daylight savings fiasco backward. 

Screw it. 

I sit up and put on my glasses. It’s almost 7:00 am. Bahaha.

After getting up to do my thing, I crawl back into the warm bed, with the slumbering form of my husband still nestled in the bedding. I wiggle around arranging my pillows with exaggerated motions, hoping Larry will wake up and make some coffee.

He moved but just to pull a pillow over his head. I can always be more annoying.

Larry and I went out to dinner with our new friends last night. Sara, the woman I met at the writing conference, came down to Campbell with her husband Darren and treated us to a lovely dinner in the Pruneyard. 

What a dynamite couple. Young (I mean that relative to my age), smart, ambitious. They’re from Canada but staying in the States while organizing a new business. Sara decided to utilize this time to write a novel, and hence, I met her at the conference.

I can’t wait for her book to come out, she’s brilliant, and I am excited about the topic which challenges cultural norms and focuses specifically on the evolution of women. 

It’s going to be a best seller. I’m sure of it.

Anyway, we had a fabulous dinner, some delicious margaritas, and a delightful conversation. We thoroughly enjoyed their charming company. Hopefully, we’ll see them again soon. At the very least, we owe them a dinner on the patio!

Wiggle, wiggle. Blow my nose loudly, clear my throat, and Larry rolls out of bed with a groan. Whoot. Hoot. Within minutes I can smell the coffee brewing from the kitchen and he returns with two steaming cups. 

I say, “Thanks,” and then I notice the computer tuckered under his arm which makes me smile. 

He says, “Good morning,’ and leans in for a kiss.

“We’re going to write?”

“Yes, we’re going to write.”

I sit up in bed smiling like a dufus and he says, “What?”

“I can’t believe you grabbed your computer and you want to write with me.”

“Ride, not write. We’re going to ride today.”

“Oh, I heard write.”

“We hear what we want to hear.”

“Or hope to hear.”

I get the look.

He wants to start training for our next ride, which isn’t for months, but he wants to start with a steep mountain on our first day out. I want to start easy. Big surprise. 

Regardless, I could probably leverage our writing time with his riding time. Right?

After the fourth, “Could I have another cup of coffee please,” lost its appeal, Larry wrangled me out of bed and into my riding gear.

I remember sitting on the front porch noticing the signs of spring all around me. Birds are chirping, there’s a soft breeze blowing my hair, and the magnolia tree is starting to bloom, as I slip into my shoes with the clips, the fingerless gloves, and trusty helmet. I jump on the back of the tandem and we take off down the long quiet street.

I’m a little nervous because we’re doing the “hill” today and I haven’t ridden in weeks. Since my bout with the flu, I’ve been struggling with asthma which is perplexing. Because what does asthma have to do with the flu?

The first five miles is flat which allows me to look around, feel the crisp air, and note all the splashes of color doting the landscape. When we merge onto Hicks Road off Colman, there is a steep change in the elevation, and I can feel the muscles in my leg rebel. 

I’m sweating. Larry more so. Keep pedaling, I repeat in my head, keep pedaling.

We continue to climb slow and easy for several miles before we crest the mountain and Larry pulls off the road to take a break. I guzzle half my water in one gulp. It’s a beautiful ride through the lush mountain with multi-million dollar mansions tucked behind the shrubs and oak trees. There is a small creek winding along the road if only I wasn’t so winded I could enjoy the charm.

My energy is waning and I start thinking about breakfast as I try and catch my breath.

The rest of the ride is thankfully downhill until we reach the town of Los Gatos and have to attend with the weekend traffic. A lady in a blue Tesla almost takes us out with a sharp right turn, but Larry manages to maneuver us safely out of harm’s way. She’s on her phone, and never actually sees us.

Larry pulls around the back of the car so he is alongside the driver’s side window. I believe he wants to give her the look, but she never looks up from her phone and eventually rolls away. 

When we make it back to Campbell (our town), Larry makes an unscheduled pitstop, for some nachos at El Gaupo’s! We managed to devour the entire plate. 

When we got back to the house a very strange thing happened. 

Larry grabbed his computer and went outside to the patio table. I’m not kidding. 

I gently prompt, “What are you doing?”

“I’m writing. I don’t like it. Don’t bother me.”

I bring him a warm cup of coffee and tiptoe away. 

Our book is coming along. It’s been revamped, reinvented, and reorganized and I think we finally nailed the pitch. 

Do you want to hear it? 

I’m going to assume your silence is a yes. 

Okay, I recorded a podcast today with Wynne Leon and Dr. Victoria Ponders on The Heart of the Matter! Link here to their podcasts. It was so much fun. And they convinced me to try out our pitch on their audience. I’ll link the podcast to my site when it comes out in two weeks and I would love to hear what you think. 

It starts, “Get ready for the ride of your life…”

Love to hear your thoughts, suggestions, and ideas. We have ten chapters loosely based on our first year of unemployment, along with all our normal foibles and mishaps, lessons learned, things celebrated, fought for, and established as we enjoy the transformative virtues of traveling in tandem, with two opposing itineraries. 

No detail is unimportant.

Each chapter is organized with my observations followed by Larry’s thoughts on the same subject or event. It’s pretty hysterical, some would say disturbing, and yet illuminating at the same time. 

A peek…into the intro.

Cheryl: Picture this: Larry, my type-A husband, who has the decision-making drive of a squirrel on espresso, decides there is going to be more to retirement than Bingo Night, pickleball tournaments, and senior citizen discounts. Armed with nothing but a chunk of our hard-earned retirement funds he decides to ditch the rocking chairs and outrun his aversion to aging by traversing the globe. And by “decides,” I mean he dragged me kicking and screaming into his midlife crisis, promising adventure and excitement on the back of a tandem bike.

Larry: My wife sees the world through a thick pair of rose-colored glasses, whereas I have no delusions about the world or my place in it. I work, I get paid, so I can support the needs of my growing family. 

That has been my life, my motto, my purpose for decades.

Then we turned sixty and there were no easy answers about how, why, when, where, and what we’re supposed to do at this juncture of life. There is no epiphany or map to follow. You’re on your own. And although I borrow my wife’s glasses on occasion as an act of solidarity, the decision to quit working was admittedly a rose-colored one. 

The thing is, when we are brave enough to examine our decisions, our experiences, and even our thoughts, what is exposed is what we value. Right? Because it appears our ethics are woven into our actions. So it makes sense to take a peek into the depths of our lives once in a while and look at what is truly embedded in what we do. 

Go ahead, slip on those rose-colored glasses, clarity always helps along with a warm cup of coffee.

Oh, and by the way, he’s still writing…

I’m Living in the Gap, writing my heart out, looking forward to joining you in the comments. How’s your week going? What are you writing about?

I’m obsessed with books I’ve yet to read, they’re like buried treasures, waiting to be unearthed. Grow Damn It is waiting patiently for you, a perfect read for the Spring, dig in.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 56 Comments

Text Me When You Land

“The wrong decision you made at the right time is better than the right decision you made at the wrong time.” Ben Fajemilua

Recently, I discovered how something unexpected can change my perspective, challenge my convictions, and stretch my empathy as if a rubber band.

I’m still scratching my head, “How the hell did this happen?” 

After agreeing to pick up our friends Jim and Sue from the airport on their return flight home from Sayulita, I await Sue’s text telling me when they land.

Getting to the San Jose Airport at 5:00 p.m. on a weeknight is never ideal. Although the airport is only a few miles away, as the crow flies, it would take the better half of an hour on this particular night due to unprecedented traffic.

We’re retired. 

We never use the highway at 5:00 p.m. on a weeknight because we don’t have to unless we’ve agreed to pick our friends up at the airport during commute traffic. 

As we crawl along Highway 880, we’re texting back and forth with Sue to inform her of our progress. It’s slow—very slow.

And here’s my beef. As I’m moving along at a snail’s pace in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I notice there are cars (driven by assholes) flying up the exit-only lanes and then pushing their way back into the flow of traffic when they get to the end of the lane. 

I’m like, “Look at those assholes using the exit lanes illegally. It’s appalling.”

Larry says, “Well, they certainly know how to beat the system.”

“Beat the system? That is breaking the law.”

“Look at that guy,” Larry says, “now that takes some balls.” He points to a car using the shoulder to slip past traffic when it reaches the end of the exit-only lane, its tires spitting up rocks and dust as it moves without slowing down into the next exit-only lane.

I have no words. I’m aghast. “He should be persecuted, jailed, and put in a cell with Daniel Hernandez for the rest of his life.”

“Daniel Hernandez?”

“You know, that crazy rapper everyone hates?”

I get the look. 

We watch this lunatic bypass at least a hundred cars and then slip easily back into the flow of traffic a half mile ahead of us. I’m steaming.

Sue sends a text. We’re going back into the terminal. It’s freezing. Let us know when you get here. 

Jim and Sue are coming in from Mexico after their son’s wedding. They’re dressed in outfits meant for heat and humidity! The temperature in San Jose is dropping as quickly as the sunset, and they didn’t pack winter coats.

As we make our way towards the Coleman exit, I watch with a mixture of anger and awe how dozens of outlier vehicles beat the system with absolutely no remorse.

We finally make it to the airport entrance. I race to the terminal, and we text them that we’re finally here, but there is no Jim and Sue. 

We’re stumped.

I asked Larry, “Maybe there’s an international terminal?”

“No! They’re on Alaska, and this is the only gate.” He is speaking with a great deal of agitation. I think he’s still frustrated by the traffic and taking it out on me. 

But I’m driving and have acquired my own agitation and cannot hold my tongue. “I could do without the attitude.”

I’m sure he had a response, but I’ve completely blocked the memory. 

I reached under my seat to retrieve my phone, which had fallen while driving. I pull up Sue’s original text, which says the international flights arrive at another terminal.

As I’m about to spout off about this, Larry receives a text from Sue that says the same thing.

Larry says, “They are at the other terminal.”

“Interesting, there’s an international terminal. Who knew?” I race around the airport to the correct gate and spot Sue straightaway, shivering on the curb. 

We quickly pull in next to her as Jim emerges from the terminal in a thin t-shirt. Larry jumps out to help them load their suitcases into the back of the car. 

As we laugh about the terminal snafu, they turn on their seat warmers, and we settle in for a long ride home. Conveniently, Jim and Sue live a block from our house, making airport pick-ups enormously easy. 

Or so we think. 

I merge back onto the same Highway, going in the opposite direction but with much less angst. We leisurely return to Campbell as Jim and Sue fill us in on their final days in Sayulita, who got sick, and where the kids stayed for their mini-moon (a short honeymoon).

It’s amazing how drastically things can change from one moment to the next.

As I’m merging onto the exit lane for Hamilton Avenue, only a mile from our homes, Larry gets a text from Sue’s phone. 

That’s strange? 

She’s sitting right behind him and not on her phone. 

It says, Hi, I just found a phone in the street at the airport. You are the last person this phone texted, so I hope you’re with the owner.

We all look at each other. What the hell?

Sue is madly digging through her purse in search of the missing phone but to no avail. Obviously, someone at the airport found it and was able to text Larry.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

I say, “We’ll head back. I just need to get back on the freeway,” because this situation requires a contingency plan for the contingency plan’s contingency. Hope that makes sense. 

Sue says, “Really, you don’t have to do that, but thank you.”

Larry, the only person communicating with our phone savior, says, “He wants to know what he should do with the phone.”

Jim says, “Let him know it’ll take us at least 30 minutes to return.”

Larry says, “He has a flight to catch, but he’ll wait as long as possible.”

OMG.

If he has to leave the phone with security, that will be another fiasco.

Given the circumstances, I’m driving as fast as possible, but the traffic is worse now than when we started. 

Suddenly, everyone has an opinion. 

Should we get off the freeway and take Coleman to the airport? Or is moving at a snail’s pace quicker than dealing with a bunch of streetlights? There are six of one and half a dozen of the other. 

The tension in the car is mounting as we crawl towards the airport without a chance in hell to retrieve that phone before our anonymous benefactor has to catch his flight. 

I could walk faster. 

As we approach the first exit-only lane, I decide this qualifies as an emergency, and I take it. Before you judge me too harshly, I was fully planning to exit the freeway and take the back roads to the airport, but sometimes you do things you never thought you would do out of sheer desperation or opportunity?

Larry says, “Coleman’s going to be packed. It’ll probably take us longer.”

Jim says, “We’ll never make it if we stay on the freeway.”

Sue says, “Oh shit, you have to merge. Now!”

Keep in mind that I’m zooming past hundreds of cars in the exit only and have a split second to decide my next move. I believe the occupants in the car were urging me on, but that could be pure conjecture, and I take the shoulder as if I own the damn road, praying there is no cop behind me, and merge onto the next exit-only lane with little or no remorse. 

I’m committing the same crime I was condemning less than an hour ago. How can that be?

The fact that the circumstances have changed along with my behavior is not lost on me. 

Margaret Atwood says, “She knows herself to be at the mercy of events, and she knows by now that events have no mercy.”

We are flying past all the dead-stopped cars, making terrific time as I break every known legal and ethical traffic law on our journey back from whence we came. 

Another text comes in: “Are you close? My flight is about to leave,” and he informs us that he’s wearing a yellow sweatshirt.

Now in view, I race towards our exit and skid into the airport grounds. Thank God we know where the international terminal is located. There is a rash debate as to whether he is at the departure gate or arrival, but we land on departure, if you will, and immediately spot our kind-hearted phone savior. 

Pulling up to the curb, he smiles and hands Jim the phone, who shakes his hand and slips him some cash for his inconvenience. 

There’s a round of gratuitous thank yous from everyone in the car. He smiles, pockets the cash, and slips back into the airport. 

We let out a universal sigh of relief. 

Back on the road, but this time, we’re taking it slow and easy. 

The thing is, when we fail to consider the circumstances that surround our decisions, we may land on erroneous interpretations, such as me calling all the drivers taking advantage of the exit lanes to allude traffic, assholes, and deserving of persecution. 

Who is this woman?

The question remains, have I done something so regrettably wrong that I need redemption? Probably. As a collective, we do many things due to circumstances or perceived circumstances, and maybe that’s why we’ve invented so many purification rituals. 

This might be true, but I find it amazing how easily I was able to justify my actions when I needed to bypass traffic for my own purposes. That has to include justifying the actions of others even if I don’t understand their motivation, right? A more compassionate view might have allowed me to avoid tumbling into that frustrating gap between what we expect of ourselves and what we expect of others. 

I definitely pushed the envelope, but the fact that the obstacle was overcome and I eluded jail time does not make it right. I find it ironic that I am able to deem your decisions as right or wrong until I need to make the same one. I suppose we all have a choice to condemn or uplift others regardless of their situation. As Mandy Hale says, “Sometimes it takes a wrong move to get you to the right place.” I think even our most beloved redeemers would agree.

I’m Living in the Gap, driving slowly, judging less. How’s your week going?

PS If I’m making full confessions today, I should admit that I was a little, okay, exceedingly egotistical about evading the Norovirus while in Mexico. Guess what? I came down with it the day after our airport fiasco, kicked my butt, just emerging from the fog. Thanks, Wynne and Vicki, for rescheduling the podcast. God knows what I would have said if we did it today!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 47 Comments

White Lace and Promises

“Take a giant leap into that which sets your soul on fire and never retire from that leap.” Hiral Nagda

Here’s my current reality. I’m in Sayulita, Mexico, in a rented house with my husband, most of my adult children, and their spouses, all of whom are part of my beloved brood.

What could go wrong?

Well, for one, I posted some adorable pics on Instagram of Larry and me enjoying a glass of champagne in first class while three of my children were crammed in economy. The side-by-side images were hysterical (Umm…in my opinion). Unbeknownst to me, my “unnamed” oldest child was sporting multiple chins in said image. My bad. I failed to notice the blunder. I just saw the adorable child I spent twenty-four hours giving birth to thirty-seven years ago. 

The joys of motherhood.

My gaffe did not go over well with the offspring. I was severely chastised and forbidden to post on the platform for the rest of the weekend (they never said anything about WordPress).

When we land in Puerto Vallarta, the dichotomy between the front and back of the plane widens, and I find myself staring at a rusted shopping cart languishing in a muddy stream, gathering branches and debris. The fragile current is forced into a mock division as it flows around the abandoned cart, delineating the unpredictable nature of life even further. The cart deteriorating and ignored, its purpose obvious but unclear.

So when our driver stopped at the grocery outlet so we could stock up on supplies before arriving at the rental house, I held onto my cart with a new sense of purpose. 

Shopping in a foreign country is a unique and complicated experience when six people with opposing agendas gather supplies. While I’m searching for cheese, crackers, apples, eggs, and bacon, the family is stocking my cart with Tequila and limes, chips and dip, beer, water, wine, and coffee. The price of procreation? Three thousand five hundred and fifty-six pesos. 

After being dropped off at the curb with seven pieces of luggage and six bags of groceries, it feels as if we’re permanently relocating instead of attending a weekend wedding. 

A fifteen-foot massive front gate confronts us but we have the secret code that allows us to slip inside a hidden door within this formidable wall, and seriously, it’s as if we arrived in Shangri-la. 

The front yard has an infinity pool with steps leading up to the front terrace. Just beyond the salt-water pool are two sets of sliding glass doors (yes, you can create an open-air room by shoving the sliders into the wall) that lead into the great room, dining area, and swanky kitchen with the expected colorful Mexican tiles and dark wood cabinets. 

It’s both rustic and elegant, full of artistic surprises and charming appeal. 

The second floor has three generous bedrooms and two baths, with a shared balcony overflowing with lush vines visible from the pool below. The third level is the master suite, with an extravagant bath and private patio. 

Negotiations ensue, territories are claimed, and the unpacking begins. 

When I laid out an assortment of outfits on my bed before this trip even began, I was at a complete loss for what would be needed in sunny Sayulita, Mexico, with its intense sun, abundant humidity, and all the expected diversions of a destination wedding.

You know what I mean? 

I’m always at a loss when it comes to planning for the unknown, often finding myself unprepared and lacking the most basic of skills.

I forget my bathing suit, pack too many tops, and all the wrong shoes, which results in blistered feet, fashion faux pas, and a sunburn. 

Life is a gamble, a risk, but I’ve noticed this is where our real opportunities often hide (keep reading, I’ll circle back). 

The truth is, I’m pretty hesitant when it comes to taking a leap of faith or stepping bravely into the vastness of life, including travel, marriage, and death, which come with their own mysterious caveats. I don’t know about you, but I learned the true meaning of commitment after I said, “I do,” not before. I discovered courage I never knew I had when someone handed me an infant without instructions. And eventually I realized fear is simply my own projections in need of revision. 

I cringe when I think about all the ridiculous things I’ve done because I feared rejection. I’ve smiled at rude people, failed to voice my opinion when it mattered most or advocate for my needs when necessary. 

Okay, talk about advocating for oneself. We were promised simple amenities such as an ironing board and iron. The ironing board was found lounging in the front bath, but none of us could locate the iron, instigating a hissy fit from another “unnamed” child. 

High-maintenance kids or what? 

She insists Larry call the manager and complain. Larry knows when he’s outranked, so he called and was told it’s in the master closet. 

We had already looked in every drawer, shelf, and cupboard, but in the hope of negotiating peace from the wrinkle warrior, I looked again and found that little bastard in the very back corner of the drawer. 

Our calm is restored, and the secondborn is appeased. Praise God

I also found a gigantic brown spider under a bathroom sink while looking for said iron. It was the size of my palm, and she looked pretty agitated. I was not going to mess with that gal. 

I told the entire household about the spider’s whereabouts and suggested (as only a mother can do) that someone capture Charlotte and throw her over the fence because she might have a pig to save. 

Well, things didn’t go well for Charlotte. She died. I believe my suggestion may have been misinterpreted, or poor Charlotte decided to run for it but had too many legs. Shit happens.

Speaking of shit, which I know is a delicate subject, but seems to be the topic de jour this week. I can’t say we weren’t forwarned. These are the commandments we were given for this week:

  1. Don’t eat food from street vendors.
  1. Don’t drink the water.
  1. Don’t use ice cubes even when offered in a margarita.
  1. Don’t brush your teeth with tap water. 
  1. Don’t do anything before washing your hands WITH BOTTLED WATER!

Clearly, there is an issue with the water. Enough said.

Sayulita is a charming beach town with lots of color and flavor. The locals claim Sayulita was formed more than 5,000 years ago by the wave gods, who created it as a place where the waves would be perfect. It has attracted tourists and surfers from all over the world, along with couples looking for a place to exchange vows. 

There are dozens of restaurants, food trucks, vendors, and markets to explore and taste the local cuisine. You can also ride horses along the shore, watch the migrating whales, or chill on the beautiful beaches. Everything is within walking distance, but many tourists use golf carts to get around. 

Larry decided we would use our legs. 

After unpacking, we WALKED into town for an authentic Sayulita taco. We found it on a street corner, where two guys were cooking tacos on a sizeable mobile kitchen, very rustic, slicing up fresh pineapple, steak, pork, and chicken to grill. Several colorful ceramic bowls full of homemade salsas and hot sauces sat on a table for you to individualize your taco. 

I have no words to describe the incredible flavors. 

And yes, we all broke rule number one, the first of many for me. Although I eventually ended up with the trots, so did just about everyone in our house. We’re not good at following rules. How surprising.

We are here to celebrate Connor and Sonya’s wedding, and the weekend was filled with sunset sails, whale sightings, and magical nuptials overlooking the ocean at sunset. 

What could be more romantic?

Of course, this got me thinking about marriage as a leap of faith, and how Taylor Wallinger’s mention of the vow “I will love you in sickness and health” has taken on a whole new meaning this weekend. Several members of the wedding party must have brushed their teeth with the wrong water and fell sick on the big day. 

But there was also the most tender exchange of vows, affectionate speeches, and those nostalgic first dances that left everyone misty-eyed. We enjoyed an incredible meal, good music, and a stellar sunset with the new husband and wife walking along the sandy beach with her long white dress blowing in the wind.

It was epic. And tender. And perfect.

Do you remember Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, the one that addresses their struggle with the definition of love? Well, it’s been reappropriated as a primary reading for weddings worldwide. 

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

What I like about Paul’s words is how he focuses on what love is, and what love is not, while challenging our inherent understanding of relationships in the context of community and marriage. Weddings are not about passion and romance, sauntering into the sunset, and living happily ever after. 

That is the myth.

Real love is not perfect. It can be unreliable, egotistical, and rather frail. We can be mean to each other for eating the last piece of bacon, leaving dishes in the sink, or forgetting to replace the toilet paper. On purpose, damn it! 

Love is tricky because we learn about it as children. Most of the time, we learn that love is conditional, and our understanding of what it takes to sustain a lifelong relationship can be subjugated by our expectations, ideals, and even our wounds.

I grew up in the ’60s, and culturally, I thought my loveability depended on the size of my jeans, whether they were flared and slung low on the hips. I tried to be small, quiet, and polite, but I’m not any of those things. So, essentially, I lived a lie because I didn’t think big, loud, unruly girls were worthy of love. This is more common than you might think. 

And guess what?

The real me got tired of hiding, and that’s when those words from Paul started to make sense. When we don’t know who the hell we are, that pain becomes the source of our arrogance, impatience, unkindness, envy, and selfishness. 

Right?

Those words Paul wrote were never meant for weddings, but how perfect are they when two people are trying to form an insoluble union with notions of love that might need to be stretched, reformed, or revised? 

Marriage is an act of compassion to love all the shit we bring into our relationships, to praise each other’s evolution, and champion our growth. Over time, compassion, patience, and generosity will define the relationship, or it will die like Charlotte, with too many legs. 

Paul’s words are an augury to the full potential of every human being who is created to love and be loved. 

I’m going to look for a wedding card for Sonya and Connor that says, until death do us part, I will put up with all your shit, and never leave you without toilet paper. 

Now I know why that shopping cart captured my attention. It was emblematic of a country caught in a river of inequity and structural corruption. It was literally entangled in debris and abandoned, creating a sense of apathy and indifference for all who bothered to notice. 

But opportunity is hiding in those simple words written 2000 years ago about love…It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. The people of Sayulita seemed to embrace these characteristics amid disparity and decay, surrendering to the flow of life that has been diverted around them.

Pablo Neruda says, “I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

This is the perfect description of how the two become one…

I’ve found that my person’s happiness is essential to my own. It’s the same with all people, everywhere. Radical love is our birthright, not because we are wearing flared jeans slung low on the hips and sporting a smile, but because we are all worthy of love, despite the scars we’ve encountered along the way, or maybe because of them. We all exist behind a veil of love, stitched by eternity, and like the oceans, it prevails to set us free. 

Congratulations, Sonya and Connor. Your card is in the mail. Trigger alert: It’s full of scandalous ideas. 

I’m Living in the Gap, learning about love, and what it means to give fully of myself. How’s your week going? 

To our hosts, Jim and Sue Goudreau, your generous hospitality did not go unnoticed. Thank you for including us in Connor and Sonya’s intimate celebration of marriage on the Pacific Coast of Mexico. Unforgettable in every way.