Thankfully, I’ve found a few websites to help me think “outside the box,” a phrase I dislike almost as much as “ah-ha! moment” and more than dressing room lighting, which is saying something.

Anyway, last Friday, I found and fell in love with a new-to-me website and subsequently gave over hours of valuable writing time to perusing What I Wore. The hostess, Jessica Schroeder is darling and very, very good at what she does; I would urge any woman who is looking for ideas to visit her site. I want to be her when I grow up, except that she’s probably 15 years younger than I am. There is no turning back the clock, but I can covet and borrow, which is the whole point of her website.

By Friday afternoon, I was inspired enough to dig out the only scarf I own. If I do say so myself, I think I looked just a little bit more fashionable this weekend as I cheered on the US men’s soccer team from my couch.  Look at me, breaking out of my normal norms and trying some thing dangerous and new:

Okay, so maybe I look a little silly with a scarf tied in my hair. But I tried it! And the influence stretched beyond me.

He puts rabid soccer fans to shame.

Alright, if Sam and I can’t successfully translate Jessica’s ideas, then perhaps we should look closer to home for someone who can…

When:
June 13, 2010

What:
Dress: Target
Yoga Top: Target
Leg Warmers: Hannah Andersson
Socks: The Children’s Place (one purple, one pink)
Shoes: Target
Flower in hair: A stranger’s garden (she only took one!)

Where:
Breakfast at Brian’s and the Hillcrest Farmer’s Market

Why:
Because she can’t not. It’s in her DNA, which obviously is not mine. I have much to learn. The question is, can it be taught?

I have no idea what tomorrow will be.

But today, right now, things are really, really good.

(First and last photos, like bookends, by Sam.)

Every Wednesday at 5-o’clock, Ruby has swim class. Once her thirty minutes of floating, leaping, belly-flopping and retrieving pink plastic rings has elapsed, it is our routine to head for the locker room and change her into her “soft pants.” This has proven to be a giant effort because while I’m trying to get her wet clothes off and her dry clothes on, she is involuntarily frozen in place like a zombie, transfixed by three 8-year-old girls who are also changing—secretly, beneath towels pulled around their bodies like cocoons—at the same time each week following their swim team practice. Oh, how her eyes swirl when these little girls tramp through the locker room in their swim caps and racer-back suits, dripping wet, shivering and hugging themselves on the way to the showers.

Ruby stares at them as I wiggle her swim suit over her bottom, around her hips and down to her ankles.  She stares as I dry her naked body with the mostly wet towel, as I coach her like I might an invalid to step into her underwear (if I remember to bring them) and then into each of her pants legs. Meanwhile, the girls completely ignore her—with the exception of a slight smile offered by one on the very first day of lessons—while they gossip about other kids and prevent any accidental exposure of their privates.

As I’m pulling Ruby’s clothes across her sticky skin, watching her rapturously watching them, I’m aware of the already-in-full-bloom body image issues being modeled not 6 feet away from my daughter. And I’m reminded of 7th grade gym class. And my teacher, Mrs. Allen.

At nearly 6-feet tall, Mrs. Allen was an imposing figure. She wore white tennis socks, white leather athletic shoes and pleated navy blue Bermuda shorts, always with a cotton tank top, usually white. She might wear a wind breaker or warm up pants if it was cold, the kind that made a wooshing noise as she walked.  She was big boned and thick-kneed with a voice like ball bearings and short, curly brown hair that looked like it had been plucked from a mannequin head circa 1977. I used to watch for wig confirmation, to see if it would slide around when she scratched her head, something she did often when she wasn’t handling equipment or managing fitness tests.

Whatever our activities, each day at the end of dreaded gym class, we were required to take a dreaded shower and then, to prove it. Mrs. Allen would lean against the doorway of the shower room with a clipboard in her hand, inspecting each girl for shower evidence. I don’t know where I’d learned to be self-conscious but, like the other girls in my class, I wasn’t about to get naked in front of anybody, which of course makes it fairly challenging to shower. But, like the other girls in my class, I managed my way around the requirement quite well.

I wrapped myself in a white towel, tucking it at mid chest like I’d learned from my mother, and I did the hokey-pokey in the communal shower like the rest of the troops: Stick one leg in, then the other. Stick one arm in, then the other. I’d splash some water on my chest, shoulders and face (sure, actual showering would have been less effort but this was equally convincing and less…nude). Then I’d show Mrs. Allen the necessary proof to be freed for a day. I was 12 years old.

Later, as a dance major in college—a situation that sometimes required full costume changes not just backstage, but in the wings—I had a very difficult time unlearning the don’t-get-naked-in-the-locker-room rule that had defined my self-loathing since junior high. I’d hidden and hated my body for a long time and that didn’t just magically come undone. And now my four-year-old is learning, from girls only twice her age, that she should be embarrassed and ashamed of her body.

Raising a daughter is treacherous. Short of stripping off my clothes in the locker room every Wednesday, I’m not exactly sure how to combat this message or if anything I say will be half as cool as what those girls do.

My goal had been to post photos every day while I was gone, but I took so many of them that trying to process and then find the time to post was just too much. So I’ve worked on organizing my favorites and have put some on Facebook. I will upload all of those (and more) to Flickr when I have time later this week. In the meantime, I can’t help but offer a few more glimpses into this sigh-inducing place.

I went sauntering as often as I could and it was the many nooks and crannies I loved the most. The ceramics and cobblestones and shockingly green moss made this very old place so vibrant, it hummed.

There was beauty in the smallest details.

And in the kind, generous people.

As Ron Carlson might say, “How many views are there of Positano? About a jillion.” And each one is more heartstopping than the last. Some feel like a proclamation.

Others feel like a secret whispered by a lover into the curve of an ear.

Is it any wonder I found myself weeping—at times, sobbing—several times every day?

I’m supposed to be a writer, a person who can use language to describe a place. But I find myself lingering over clichés, falling into a wind-blown, head-thrown-back, one-shoulder-bared Harlequin trap. And this is to say nothing about John Steinbeck, who already wrote about it so brilliantly as to render my meager attempts an embarrassment. The delete key has been my good friend these last days and for now, my pictures will have to tell you how I feel about Positano.

But I will say this: Magic doesn’t describe this place. I think accurate description requires the invention of a new word.  Any suggestions?

I went out. I braved this city all by myself and took the metro–two lines–to meet a friend.

See? Disappeared shades not a factor.

I have to admit, it was out of my comfort zone to be scooting around this city solo. Even though I’m lucky enough to have navigated this place several times, I’ve never done it alone. But I decided at one point, that—from the outside at least—I looked like I knew exactly what the hell I was doing. So I just worked it like I owned it. I left my map in my purse, stepped off the Metro at my last stop and turned right with intentional determination and long strides as if to say, See, World, I know exactly what the hell I’m doing. All while my better angel was going, I’m good enough, I’m strong enough and doggone it! People like me! And also: Please don’t trip.  Please don’t trip.  Please don’t trip.

Sunglasses are always good when playing this sure-of-myself role, removing me one safe step from strangers who can’t look me in the eye, while having the added bonus of providing an air of mystery.  Or at least, that’s what I pretend. I felt naked which was awkward, but I channeled Rick Steves’ (“If something is not to your liking, change your liking.”) and did it anyway. I stepped out of that subway car and turned right with conviction, hoping it was the direction of the exit. Not only did I turn in the correct direction for the exit (sheer luck), but I didn’t trip or get my sweater caught in the door. Girlfriend was destined to have a good day.

I had un omelettes aux fines herbs for breakfast and can I just say? One of the great things about Europe is that the herbs have flavor.  Like, actual, distinct flavor separate of the eggs. Which also have flavor. I paired it with a jus d’orange and a café au lait which had flavor, too. I was so happy as to defy description. Suffice it to say, I kissed our lovely waiter goodbye.

I could have kissed every single waiter today. They were all so charming and helpful.

I also could have taken pictures of the amazing people all day long. Pardon, Madame? Mai je vous prenne un photo s’il vous plaît? (I was actually to chicken too ask in French, so I just asked in English.) “Of course,” she said.

I think she may get that a lot. I mean: Incroyable! Fantastique! Am I right? I’m convinced this woman is somebody. I mean, I know she’s somebody but I think she must be SOMEbody. (Edited to add: Turns out, she is very much SOMEBODY. H/T Sariah). She’s mysterious with or without the sunglasses. I wish I knew her.

And her, too.

Okay, and them, too. C’est la vie.

There is so much to do in this city it almost seems ridiculous to indulge in another visit to my very favorite museum.  But God was it worth it.

It’s good every time. Again: My happiness level goes to eleven. I needed more waiters to kiss to fully express this fact, so we stopped at another café and look who I found???

Could it be…? Non…! He’s in an undisclosed bunker. This is simply a doppelgänger. Moving on…

Did I mention yet that there is love in Paris?

And other stuff that feels like love.

Vivre la France!

It’s 4:00 in the morning and I have to be up for a 7:30 ride to the airport. But it’s too tragic to waste this time sleeping when I can write. And look at pictures. Already, I can’t wait to come back.

Instead, I drank wine. I ate cheese. And took a long walk in the rain.

I saw lovers. Of course.

And the same ‘ole, same ‘ole.

And I fell in love again.

Ten minutes later, Ruby was handing her pictures over to Miss Sarah. “This is a castle,” I heard her say. I was distracted by her little friend G. who was hurrying to peel away his shoes and socks so I could see how beautiful his pink toenails looked. “And this is Miss Carlee as a princess,” Ruby continued her parallel conversation. I told G. that Ruby’s dad likes to have his nails painted, too. “He likes purples and blues and greens and sometimes sparkles! How cool is that?” I asked him. His mother seemed embarrassed but also relieved at my reaction.

“Thanks for saying that,” she said.

“I’m not making this up,” I told her. “He’s artsy.”

Just then, I turned to see my daughter handing her teacher this:

He’s artsy, alright. He’s 8th grade, trapper-keeper, boy-doodle artsy.

Down there in the lower left quadrant? That is a naked person bending over with an asterisk for a butthole. Up above that guy are two formerly androgynous people drawn “without clothes!” per request of the child. Since Sam decided to make these two clowns G-rated—unlike the blue muscle man bending to pick up a dumbbell—she who is obsessed with all things penis, grabbed a sharpie and filled in the blanks. And then there’s the scary monster thing with hair made of lightning bolts, a squiggly smile and a Sonny Crockett 5 o’clock shadow. Notice the sharpied-on boxer shorts with the open fly. I’m not positive, but given the severe focus of conversation in our home lately, those are either tampon strings or urine running down his leg. Could just as easily be one as the other.

Of course, the upshot—I always like to find an upshot— is that the child is accurate and has some fairly impressive fine motor skills. But back to pre-school.

I saw the drawings and gasped. Then I stammered. So much for having my shit together. I hemmed and hawed and grabbed the paper with less subtlety than I would have liked. “I’ll just take this back home,” I said, withering. “Ruby’s in a phase…she asked Sam to do it and…um…well, we don’t do everything she asks…I mean…she did it.” I was selling out my man and my kid. I was losing credibility. I looked back and forth at the teacher and G.’s mother, apologizing, swearing that we do not normally sit around the house drawing wieners and sphincters. Princesses with giant breasts and “nibbles,” sure. But wieners and sphincters?

No siree.

Normally, we prefer naked dancing.