Thirty years ago, I moved to DC to volunteer in a residence for un-housed, pregnant women. From lily-white suburbia to the mean streets of what was then known as the Murder Capital of America. (Freaked my family out, but that's a different story.) I don't remember what I was doing upstairs confronting one of the residents. Maybe she'd refused a drug screen? Maybe she'd missed curfew? Don't remember. But as I spoke to her about whatever the infraction was, her eyes began to blaze and she shoved her face near mine, nose to nose. And she shouted. I stood there. No expression, no reaction, I stayed completely still. Later, when I told my supervisor about the confrontation, she said that a woman getting that close ("all up in your face") and shouting was an incitement to fight. Had I made a move, I'd have been attacked. I have no idea how I knew to remain utterly quiet. Maybe I just froze. Either way, I surprised myself that day because I'm typically a fast-twitch responder.
The knowledge came in handy a few years later when, in a different setting, I found myself once again confronted at close range and high volume. At the time, I remember thinking how glad I was I'd already learned this lesson.
We had talked about an engagement ring, but never quite got around to shopping for one. Whenever Keith asked what I might like, I hemmed and hawed. Not that I didn’t want to marry him—I was crazy about him. But I didn’t have an engagement ring the first time around and was shy about asking him to spend money on me. One Saturday morning, sitting at my dining room table after breakfast, Keith brought up the subject again. “Have you thought about what you’d like for a ring.” “Um, not really.” I dropped my eyes. “Well, would something like this do?” Keith placed a small, square jewelry box on the table in front of me. My mouth fell open. “Oh Keith, what am I supposed to do with this?” He grinned and winked. “Open it.” I felt a flush run through my body. As I lifted the lid, my eyes widened. “Did I surprise you?” Keith asked. That’s how it started, and he’s still surprising me, twenty years later.
This morning, while getting dressed, I woke up with the oddest rash on my lower back. I was so surprised by this that I ran to the restroom, my back turned to face the mirror as I squinted my eyes, tracing the rash. It felt rocky, gravelly even, like a well-traveled road with years of stories to tell. I thought to myself, "It wasn't there last night...was it? How did it get there between last night and this morning?"
When my fiance entered the room, I asked him to inspect the rash as well. He could also feel the well-traveled road imprint on my back. With a sigh, I asked him, "Is this another 30-year-old surprise?"
In just a few weeks, I will be 31. I'm excited to celebrate, to have even made it this far, but at the same time nervous about what surprises my body and mind will have in store.
When we parted ways with hugs and kisses in Marrakech, I thought that was the last I’d see of Shank and Julie, our close Quebecois friends. The surprise came a couple of days later when we checked-in to a stunning riad in Tanaghmeilt, a few hours northeast in the Middle Atlas, to celebrate my 39th birthday. There they were, right in the lobby shouting “Surprise!” as I struggled to process the image. I had never been birthday-surprised in my life. The date always arrived with certainty, another year measured and marked. I was pleasantly shocked. Of course, the Quebecois had a partner in the operation, mine, who guided me unawares to this village and its famous waterfalls of Ouzoud with full knowledge of the surprise yet to come.
Crimson red earth, powerful rushing water tumbling from on high, wild Berber macaque monkeys, just a few memories of three magical days spent with loved ones in a far-away place. A celebration of the unexpected. The extra effort made. The ties that bind.
Thirty years ago, I moved to DC to volunteer in a residence for un-housed, pregnant women. From lily-white suburbia to the mean streets of what was then known as the Murder Capital of America. (Freaked my family out, but that's a different story.) I don't remember what I was doing upstairs confronting one of the residents. Maybe she'd refused a drug screen? Maybe she'd missed curfew? Don't remember. But as I spoke to her about whatever the infraction was, her eyes began to blaze and she shoved her face near mine, nose to nose. And she shouted. I stood there. No expression, no reaction, I stayed completely still. Later, when I told my supervisor about the confrontation, she said that a woman getting that close ("all up in your face") and shouting was an incitement to fight. Had I made a move, I'd have been attacked. I have no idea how I knew to remain utterly quiet. Maybe I just froze. Either way, I surprised myself that day because I'm typically a fast-twitch responder.
The knowledge came in handy a few years later when, in a different setting, I found myself once again confronted at close range and high volume. At the time, I remember thinking how glad I was I'd already learned this lesson.
We had talked about an engagement ring, but never quite got around to shopping for one. Whenever Keith asked what I might like, I hemmed and hawed. Not that I didn’t want to marry him—I was crazy about him. But I didn’t have an engagement ring the first time around and was shy about asking him to spend money on me. One Saturday morning, sitting at my dining room table after breakfast, Keith brought up the subject again. “Have you thought about what you’d like for a ring.” “Um, not really.” I dropped my eyes. “Well, would something like this do?” Keith placed a small, square jewelry box on the table in front of me. My mouth fell open. “Oh Keith, what am I supposed to do with this?” He grinned and winked. “Open it.” I felt a flush run through my body. As I lifted the lid, my eyes widened. “Did I surprise you?” Keith asked. That’s how it started, and he’s still surprising me, twenty years later.
This morning, while getting dressed, I woke up with the oddest rash on my lower back. I was so surprised by this that I ran to the restroom, my back turned to face the mirror as I squinted my eyes, tracing the rash. It felt rocky, gravelly even, like a well-traveled road with years of stories to tell. I thought to myself, "It wasn't there last night...was it? How did it get there between last night and this morning?"
When my fiance entered the room, I asked him to inspect the rash as well. He could also feel the well-traveled road imprint on my back. With a sigh, I asked him, "Is this another 30-year-old surprise?"
In just a few weeks, I will be 31. I'm excited to celebrate, to have even made it this far, but at the same time nervous about what surprises my body and mind will have in store.
When we parted ways with hugs and kisses in Marrakech, I thought that was the last I’d see of Shank and Julie, our close Quebecois friends. The surprise came a couple of days later when we checked-in to a stunning riad in Tanaghmeilt, a few hours northeast in the Middle Atlas, to celebrate my 39th birthday. There they were, right in the lobby shouting “Surprise!” as I struggled to process the image. I had never been birthday-surprised in my life. The date always arrived with certainty, another year measured and marked. I was pleasantly shocked. Of course, the Quebecois had a partner in the operation, mine, who guided me unawares to this village and its famous waterfalls of Ouzoud with full knowledge of the surprise yet to come.
Crimson red earth, powerful rushing water tumbling from on high, wild Berber macaque monkeys, just a few memories of three magical days spent with loved ones in a far-away place. A celebration of the unexpected. The extra effort made. The ties that bind.