Two More Sleeps

"Sleeps," that's what my mom calls it. When I'm a week away from coming to visit she'll say, "I'll see you in seven more sleeps!"

My baby is leaving for college in two more sleeps, and I'm starting to freak out. Like seriously. A kaleidoscope of butterflies (yes, that's what they're called) has taken up permanent residence in my stomach, my heart is beating harder, and my mouth is dry. Why am I so anxious?

1) My baby is going to college! How is that possible? Since when did they start letting 10 year olds into universities? What? He's 18??? When did that happen? How is it possible, especially given I'm only 32???

2) He's my rock. He is dependable, caring, kind, smart, ambitious, funny, and he's got an old soul. I often feel like I'm the kid and he's the parent. How will I get by? Who will help me take care of the kitties? Who will hug me when I'm feeling sad?

3) I'll be alone in my house for the first time in my life. I lived with my family, then a boyfriend, then my husband, and then my husband and kids. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE ALONE!!!

I had been looking forward to the "empty nest syndrome" up until a few months ago. Now, I'm slightly petrified. And a little excited. And a little sad. And a lot nervous. Will I be okay? Will I figure out how to change a fuse or how to get all the apps onto my cell phone or how to use the DVD player? These are guy things, right? No? Crap!

But, my baby is going to college - HE'S GOING TO COLLEGE!!! He was accepted pre-med to Penn State Altoona, and I know I shouldn't be sad or nervous or afraid. I should be happy, overjoyed, proud, verklempt. And I am those things, all of them. I know this is a true change of life for both of us, and I know we'll both be fine. No, we won't be fine. We'll be freaking awesome! We'll thrive and grow and learn and become more of who we are, who we're meant to be. I'm going to miss him like crazy, and I'm going to have to learn how to do a lot of things I've never done before, but, such is life, right? Things, people, and situations change, and people have an uncanny ability to adapt.

But, still, I'm going to miss my baby...

So, here's to you, Ethan - may this be the first step towards the beginning of an unimaginable life filled with exciting challenges, new frontiers, and dreams come true. And, thank you, my precious son, for filling my life with a kind of joy I will never be able to fully express. I love you to the depths of my heart and my soul.

What about you? Have you sent a child off to college or experienced "empty nest syndrome" or undergone a major life change recently? How did it go? How did you get through it? Any and all advice will be greatly welcomed and appreciated!

Oh, and sharing a birthday with Madonna today is my dear friend, Carolyn. Happy Birthday! You truly make 50 look like the new 30!

Am I on The Truman Show?

Strange Call

Monday morning I answered the phone.
"Is Tracey there?" I heard a middle-aged sounding man ask.
"No. I'm afraid you must have the wrong number."
"Sorry!" click.
About ten minutes later, the phone rang again.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Is Tracey there?"
"No. You still have the wrong number."
"I can't believe it. She must have deliberately given me the wrong number."
Like an idiot I asked, "Who?"
"Tracey, or whatever her name is - a woman I met at a bar last night."
"Bummer" I said.
"Maybe you can help me. What is it with women these days? Why would they be so cruel as to give some poor guy a wrong number? And, of course, after I'd bought her and her girlfriend drinks all night."
That's how I got into a 45 minute with a complete stranger. We discussed male vs. female, what it's like "out there" after a divorce (it turns out Mike, yeah I asked his name, who's in his 50's was married for 26 years and has been divorced for two), and how do you know if someone is "interested" vs. "lying through their teeth for drinks." And, why are all the beautiful women 'high maintenance?'
"I don't know, Mike," I said, "I run with a pretty good looking crowd, and they're not high maintenance. They're really great gals. I think that's too much of a generalization, like all Jews are this way or all blacks are that way. People are people. Everyone's different."
"Yes," he said, "but it seems like the beautiful ones are the least trustworthy."
"Then, don't go after the beautiful ones," I said.
"But I don't want to lower my standards."
"Look, Mike, you can't have it both ways. You need to figure out who you are, what you want, and go find it. You're way over-analyzing this."
He couldn't believe I judge a guy on things other than his looks. Like sense of humor, views on politics and religion, how interesting he is.
"You mean to tell me a guy gets better looking to you if he has a good sense of humor?"
"Are you kidding? Hell, yeah! In my eyes, Jerry Seinfeld's almost as good looking as Ashton Kutcher!" Not really, but I was trying to make a point.
"I can't believe you're spending this much time talking to a stranger on the phone about his love life, or lack thereof."
"Me neither. I guess you just caught me in a good mood."
"Can I call you back if I have more questions?"
"Sure, I guess."
"When would be a good time."
"There's no such thing. I'm in and out." This was getting tedious. "Look, Mike, I gotta go. I've got a potentially life-changing submission to an agent I've got to get in the mail. Good luck with the girl thing. My best advice? Lighten up a little."
"Thanks. You're amazing. Too bad your married."
"Yeah, my husband says the same thing. Take it easy, buddy, and don't dwell on the bad stuff."

Then I checked my e-mail. My daily Kabbalah greeting that some crazy friend of Madonna's keeps sending me arrived. (Kidding - I don't know how I got on their list, but they send daily words of wisdom that sometimes blow my mind) It read:

Monday, December 8

What were you doing before you opened this email? How was that action helping another person? Heavy question. But if you truly understood what Kabbalah is about – accepting the responsibility of being a channel of the Light – then you’d be thinking only of how to share and care for others.

I looked up at the ceiling and asked out loud, "Am I on The Truman Show?"

Has anything like this happened to you? Or, am I the only idiot who spends 45 minutes of precious writing time on the phone with a complete stranger?