Do you ever wonder, really let yourself wonder, about where you would be if you had taken one or two different turns earlier in life? What if you had gone to a different college? Or moved somewhere else after graduation?
So I ran that race this morning. That 5K I’ve been yapping about for the last couple of weeks. My first one ever. And even though I didn’t meet my goal of a sub 10 minute mile, it turned out better than I had hoped for.
Martha was killed almost a year ago. Struck by a car as she was leaving a shop in her Brooklyn Heights neighborhood. And her death still doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t think it ever will.
Dear Bruno, I fell in love with you last Friday night in Miami. But don't worry. It's not what you may think. I'm not a stalker. And I'm not (too) crazy. I'm just a 47 year-old (happily married) mother of a teenage daughter.
In 1998, when I left Manhattan for suburban South Florida, I hadn't owned a car for 11 years. Didn't want one. Didn't need one. I had the subways and the buses, my own two feet and eventually, a boyfriend turned husband who had a beat-up Hyundai.
My refrigerator died two and a half weeks ago. After 14 years, almost to the day, the poor thing had finally had enough. And its death was not surprising. My family worked that fridge hard. Babies to teens. First marriage to a second one. While all around it, things changed. New paint color. New flooring. Two...