Girl Enters Roller Rink, Turns 90.

By Kim Brittingham

If you've been following my home blog for a while, you might remember a while back when NBC Universal offered me my own video series. They called it "Big Life" but we never shot any episodes beyond the pilot.

I'll never really know why NBC Universal decided not the move forward with my series, although my theory is that my anti-diet stance was just a little too progressive for them, and probably didn't gel too well alongside their favorite baby, "The Biggest Loser". (You can read more about my experience with NBC Universal in "Video Star", a chapter of my book "Read My Hips: How I Learned to Love My Body, Ditch Dieting and Live Large".)

I was supposed to be scripting my own episodes for "Big Life" based on my own convictions, but it didn't take long for NBCU to start nudging me in the direction of things that didn't ring true for me. When it came time to talk about episode #2, I was encouraged to write a script that took me into a Crunch gym for a workout with one of the network's preferred fitness experts -- a personal trainer.

I wanted nothing to do with the idea, because there was nothing about it that felt organic or true to me. I never did enjoy going to a gym. Historically, I've found gyms mind-numbingly boring. I'm much more interested in finding engaging activities -- like biking and swimming and fencing and tennis -- that make fitness feel more like fun than drudgery.

In fact, one physical activity I've loved since childhood is rollerskating. As a teenager I frequented roller rinks the way oily Hustlers flocked to discos. Rinks were underage nightclubs with cardboard pizza and flat soda, where controversial romances took wing during "slow skates" and where New Wave girls like Dina Adams and me begged Flock of Seagulls requests at the DJ booth.

Rollerskating had been easy to learn in those days, and although I was certainly never a skating artist, I was more than capable of holding my own. I could join a racing pack like the best of them. And when the DJ started playing funk after 10 PM, I wasn't some stiff little white girl, ohhhhh no. This is where I could claim maybe a liiiiiittle artistry. Just a tad. But I'll let the Gap Band take most of the credit.

Rollerskating went the way of rug-hooking and making potholders on a lap loom, it seems. I'm not sure why. So for most of my adult life, I didn't get on a pair of skates.

But when my friend Jeffrey told me about a still-existing roller rink about a half-hour from my home, I got newly enthused. We drove to Jackson, NJ for $2 family skate night.

I couldn't wait to get those ratty, clammy rental skates on my feet. As I laced up, I watched as kids of all ages circled the shadowy rink to Lady Gaga, and couldn't wait to get back out there. I marveled at the number of mullets and stiffly sprayed bangs that showed up one night in 1983 and apparently never went home. I was amazed at the chubby little girls in pink legwarmers, jean jackets and side-ponytails and realized, wow, everything really does go 'round in circles.

Skates on, I leapt up from the carpeted bench and wobbled. Whoa, okay, I laughed. Must remember carpet does funny things under four wheels.

But soon enough, it became apparent: it wasn't the carpet. It was me.

I'd gotten...older.

And my rollerskating muscles were gone.

I pushed my legs forward on the polished rink floor and my ankles SCREAMED IN AGONY.

...WTF?

They were on FIRE.

I found myself reaching for the wall. I laughed again, but more of a panting-laugh this time. "You'd...you'd think I'd never skated before," I huffed to Jeffrey. "You...you go on and skate without me. I don't want to...hold you back."

Jeffrey did some kind of Olympic pirouet twenty feet into the air and as he landed, angels sang and he glided away in a pink mist.

I made it haltingly to the next "off-ramp" and collapsed onto a bench.

My knees were crying like orphaned babes. My butt was tensing up like it expected to be punched.

I looked at all the skating kids, all the skating grown-ups, my 50-something skating friend Jeffrey, and Methusela flying by in some lagenlook get-up and a cute pair of white low-risers with purple glitter wheels.

And I felt painfully frustrated.

I watched their bodies moving and I knew how to move like that. The muscle memory remained in my body, but my body just wouldn't go. It was how I imagined it must be to lose one's legs yet still remember how it feels to run -- wanting to propel one's self out of that chair and start pumping forward, but there are no legs to stand on. Just the phantom memory of muscles moving, feet springing away from the earth and landing again.

It was the first time in a long time that I felt physically incapable of doing something I wanted to do.

With a little practice on the carpet I was able to eventually get back on the skating floor and push myself pathetically around the rink, half a lap at a time before I had to sit and rest again. Every time I tried to push a foot out away from me, the way one would when skating, my leg parts said "uh-UH!" Instead of a fluid leg movement like tracing butterfly wings on the floor, I jerked forward, putting halting little bursts of power behind each foot.

"Oh man, and now they're playing Rick James!" I cried out wistfully to absolutely no one, determined to be determined, and not lame. I bit my lip, resolved not to shed a tear over my shocking new limitations, but to keep it positive and fight my way back to 1981-ish skating condition instead.

Yes, Jeffrey and I did return to the rink, but our visits aren't frequent enough for me to improve much. So in between, I've started going to the gym.

OH my GOD, it's TRUE! Kim Brittingham is going to a salty-smelling, musclehead GYM and doing things on machines that need to be wiped down afterwards, a gymmy-gym gym!

And I can scarcely believe I'm saying this myself, but -- I'm NOT HATING IT.

I'm not hating it for three very specific reasons.

1. It's an '80s theme gym that plays obscure, heavily synthesized music and teen angst movies. Can you say, "Kim's Gym"?

2. I'm starting very slow and gentle, on snort-worthy amounts of weight and at speeds that induce merely a "calorie-burning" heart rate (not the beefier "cardio"). Kiss my grits if you don't like it.

3. I have a definite PURPOSE. My goal is to SKATE AGAIN. To be able to carry my body around the rink multiple times without stopping, smoothly, gracefully, and with a modicum of style.

When Jeffrey jumps up excitedly from the bench and shouts like a seventh-grade girl, "I'm sorry, but I just have to skate to this!", then darts out into the rink away from me, I want to be able to dart right out behind him. Because I always knew I'd be eternally fourteen in spirit -- but with the foolishness of youth, I never believed it when they told me my body would stop keeping up.

Ghosts at the Merchants House Museum NYC, Somerton SEPTA Station

Did someone say ghosts? Ghosts at the Merchants House Museum? Check. Ghosts at the Somerton train station on Philadelphia' SEPTA? Check!

Someone on Facebook today asked, "Have you ever seen a ghost or experienced a haunting?" What a delicious question.

Maybe I have.

I'll let you be the judge.

The Mystery of the Merchant's House Smoker

First, a story about the Merchant's House Museum in New York, an exemplary antebellum house which has been on television for its alleged paranormal activity, most notably on "Ghost Hunters". I adore this place.

Some years back, I attended docent training at the Merchant's House Museum. Early on a Sunday morning we were having a docents' meeting, in the hours before the museum was open to the public. For a few minutes before we gathered in the basement kitchen, some of us early-bird volunteers killed time roaming through the house. A couple of women wanted to look at a new exhibit that had been assembled in one of the bedrooms. I wandered into the master bedroom at the front of the house and looked out the windows and into the street below.

Sniff, sniff.

Who's smoking?, I thought. There's no smoking allowed in here.

No paying visitors were in the house yet, so it couldn't be a guest's careless faux pas. And the staff certainly knew better than to light up.

I moved my face closer to the window pane and peered down to the sidewalk, expecting to see a lone smoker, or perhaps a pair or huddle of them, standing directly below. There was no one.

It was a strange sort of smoky smell, too. Not quite like cigarettes. More like the sweetish pipe tobacco an elderly relative used to smoke when I was a little girl. I think he was my father's uncle, a red-cheeked man with a model railroad running through a cardboard-and-plastic utopia in his basement. I hadn't seen or smelled anyone smoking a pipe since.

The smell was crisp and sharp at first, like tobacco just lit and repeatedly puffed to its fullest aroma in a quick sequence of dove-gray clouds. Then it faded, gradually and so gently. It was infuriating. The harder I sniffed, the less of it I smelled. It couldn't be traced, it couldn't be followed.

I have no explanation for it.

It's interesting to note, however, that I was standing in what had been the bedroom of Seabury Tredwell, owner of the house from 1835 until his death, after which his daughter Gertrude inhabited it until her death at ninety-something years of age. Might Mr. Tredwell have been a pipe smoker? Was this what they call evidence of a "residual haunting", an olfactory recording of a moment in the distant past, in replay?

Phantom Girl of Somerton Train Station

It was a bitter cold Saturday night in the late '80s. This time of year, if I'm not mistaken -- January, February. My friend Kurt picked me up at my parents' house to go see a movie.

In those days, we lived near the Somerton train station on the R3 West Trenton Line of SEPTA, Philadelphia's commuter rail system. There's a short stretch of road that runs parallel to the tracks at one point. Then the road veers off to the left and the tracks disappear into a short tunnel under an overpass.

Kurt's car sailed around a curve in the road and we briefly rode alongside the tracks before they were out of sight. We came to a red light at Bustleton Avenue. We were silent for a moment when Kurt turned to me and said,

"Did you just see what I saw?"

I met his eyes.

"You mean the girl standing on the train tracks who totally doesn't look like she belongs there?"

His eyes widened. "Uh-huh."

"Kurt," I whispered, urgently. "We need to go back around there. Right now. Hurry!"

The girl we'd both seen had hair hanging below her shoulders, and she was wearing one of those straw boater hats with a red-white-and-blue striped ribbon around it. The cheap kind you might see at a political rally. She was holding a balloon, and standing in the middle of the train tracks. Not on the platform, not on the side of the road. Just standing there, completely serene, with her feet planted firmly between the railroad ties. And despite what had to be temperatures in the teens or twenties at best, she was wearing 1970s-style short-shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and knee socks.

Kurt glanced quickly into the rear-view mirror and over his left shoulder, then put the car in reverse and turned around.

We drove past the station again, slowly. He rolled down his window. We craned our necks in every direction looking for her.

He inched the car alongside the tracks a little further, and we squinted through the darkness. We looked back through the tunnel opening, we studied the shadows around the little train station building that was still standing back then, but has since been demolished.

The girl, whose appearance didn't make sense in the first place, had vanished.


Kurt rolled his window back up, sealing out the unforgiving winter air. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" My voice was the only sound above the whoosh of heated air blowing from the dashboard vents. Kurt's eyes were open so wide, his dark brown irises were like two drops of ink at the center of white salad plates. He nodded slowly.

"Let's get out of here," he said simply, and we did.

I always said I would eventually do some digging; try to find out if a girl was killed on those tracks. Maybe you know a librarian or research guru who'll find this mystery irresistible.

You'll let me know if you learn anything, won't you? Be sure to get in touch if you had a similar paranormal experience or ghost encounter at the Somerton train station or the Merchants House Museum!

Body Odor Etiquette: When Your Friend Smells. BAD.

Body odor and etiquette are the topic of the day here at Kim Brittingham's blog, yes indeedy.

So, you've got a friend with offensive body odor. What are you supposed to do?

Should you inform them of the situation, gently, so they can do something about it? Or should you keep your trap shut, to avoid hurting their feelings? What's the kindest possible move?

Well don't ask me. See, I used to have this friend, a woman I'll call Rita. When I first met Rita I noticed a slight unpleasant odor about her person, but I didn't think much about it.

It's easy for me to dismiss and forgive these smallish, smelly social infractions because I have a paranoid belief in my own stinkyness, the seeds of which were planted in the 8th grade when a mean little girl named Dana told me I had B.O. Back then, I probably did. No one taught me how to use deodorant; I had to figure it out for myself (it was the next thing I did after asking my mother what "B.O." stood for). But since that day, I've asked many an intimate companion to "smell me, just smell me. Tell me honestly, do I smell?" I try very hard to keep personal odor in check.

So anyway, my unfortunate 8th grade incident and that resulting hypervigilence have made me more readily forgiving of others who do stink a little. I always think, "that could just as easily be me!"

But eventually, Rita's odor required no hypervigilence. It got a little worse each time I saw her, until it was a bold, sour cloud traveling with and around her. And I wasn't the only one noticing anymore.

One day Rita and I decided to scare up some cash by sharing a table at a local flea market. She asked if she could sleep on my sofa bed the night before, so we could get an earlier start together in the morning. I told her no. I lied. I made a lame excuse, and felt like a jerk about it. I'm just not that kind of lie-teller, game-player, y'know? I'd rather just shoot straight. But I didn't want to hurt Rita's feelings, and I didn't want my one decent piece of living room furniture contaminated with that awful smell -- and it was awful. It made me think of rotting vegetables, and the smell of certain varieties of baby food my mom used to serve to my siblings when they were infants -- peas, maybe. Like peas and milk that's turned. No, not inside my sofa bed. I just didn't have the confidence Febreze could handle it.

The morning of the flea market, I loaded my sellables into the back of Rita's van and took the co-pilot's seat beside her up front. I'd never been inside Rita's vehicle before.

The stench was nauseating. And I mean this literally. Rita's bad smell filled the space of the van, in concentrate. The second I sat down, I could feel it crowding around me like a lecherous ghost, clinging and stifling, licking at me, laying upon my skin. I wondered if I'd carry it with me into the flea market, wondered if people would smell it and think it was me. I felt the urge to vomit rising from those deep pink trenches under my tongue, and I swallowed hard. The market was only three minutes away -- I could hold it.

At the market, I tried not to sit too near Rita, without seeming to be avoiding her. I took walks to "exercise my legs", went to the bathroom often, browsed at nearby tables. Every time someone came to our table and just casually touched a finger to something Rita was selling, she shot up from her chair and hustled over to them to be of saleswomanly service, and each time she stood, the stench wafted anew into the air -- a knock-out bullhorn of odor. I watched with a heavy heart as some people made contorted, sickened faces as they walked away from her.

At this rate, I didn't think I could tolerate being around Rita again. She suggested subsequent get-togethers, meeting for coffee. I made more dishonest excuses, and couldn't bear doing it.

I talked the situation over with others.

"If I tell her she smells bad, her feelings are going to be hurt. There's just no way they won't be," I said. "But if I don't tell her, and she continues to go around smelling like that, it could be really bad for her. She hasn't made a lot of friends in this area yet, she's only lived here a few months. She wants to make more connections, she wants a job. But is she turning people off and she's not aware of it?"

"You have to tell her," everyone agreed. "It won't be pleasant for her to hear, but she has to know."

"I'm kinda worried about her too," I said. "I've heard some diseases can cause foul body odors. She's had a lot of health issues in the past. What if something's wrong internally?"

"Even more reason to tell her," they told me.

Besides the fact that almost nobody likes to smell bad, I thought Rita might be especially sensitive to the issue, because she's a very fat woman. She was already self-conscious about the size and shape of her body -- I didn't want to add another layer of shame. And it's hard enough to win acceptance when you're obese; almost impossible when you're obese and have an alienating issue like body odor.

"But if anybody can tell her in a kind and gentle way, Kim, it's you," my friend Stephanie said. "Who better?"

So I did. It took me several weeks to get up the nerve, but what finally pushed me to act was the picture of Rita in my mind, wondering what she'd said or done to make me upset, wondering why I was ignoring her. That was unacceptable to me. I didn't want to be responsible for making her feel so unceremoniously rejected, and besides, I wanted Rita for a friend. It was the smell alone I couldn't stand.

I was too big a coward to call her on the phone. I didn't want to hear any hurt that might be in her voice. If she cried, I didn't want to hear it.

So I sent the kindest, most diplomatic e-mail my heart could compose. I told her I couldn't stand the thought of hurting her feelings, and how hard it had been for me to broach the subject. I told her I was worried that the odor might be a symptom of something internal gone awry. I reminded her that as a fellow fat woman, I was mindful of keeping certain fleshy places clean and dry, powdering under breasts and bellies and such, and that I understood how some places on the body might be difficult to reach if you were apple-shaped like she was. I offered her links to web sites that offered extra-long back brushes and other grooming products for large people . I reminded her that I wanted her for my friend. I told her I wanted her to have every opportunity for friendship and employment in her new community, and that I would hate to imagine anyone being distracted from her wonderful qualities by a mere odor that might be easy to take care of.

Rita did not take it well. She said she felt humiliated. She even remarked that it was ironic I should say these things to her, considering I did so much fat-positive writing. That comment, I didn't quite understand. Fat or thin, if you smell unbearably unpleasant, I'm going to tell you so I don't have to lie about why I'm not hanging around with you anymore. I guess it was the hurt talking.

"You couldn't possibly have said it better," friends told me. "She'll come around some day."

But she hasn't, and I don't think she ever will.

Several months later, I posted a Facebook status update for the singular amusement of my friend Stephanie. She was coming over to write with me, and I warned her I was a mess and I didn't plan on showering for her, either, so she'd better be prepared to take me as I was. I think the Facebook status read, "A true friend will come over and tolerate your unshowered STANK." Rita, whom I hadn't heard from since the "you smell" e-mail, saw it, and simply commented:

"Nice."

That made Stephanie angry. "Unfriend her now! Unfriend her!" she raged from my dining room table. "I felt sorry for her before, but not anymore. Okay, so the news was hard for her to take at first. But now she's giving you 'TUDE? Look bitch, we're all fat around here, but I'd sure as hell want to know if I was choking people everywhere I went, so I could DO something about it. Unfriend her, Kim, unfriend her today!"

I did unfriend Rita, mainly so she wouldn't have to see any future comments that might be hurtful to her. And frankly, I felt I could live without her sarcastic comments, too. And Stephanie's tirade made me think maybe Rita was being ungrateful after all. Sure, I might be really embarrassed if someone told me I smelled. But if they delivered the message as kindly as I had, I imagine I'd eventually get over it and be able to face my friend again. I hope I'd at least refrain from being snippy.

Is this one of those things that can never be taken well? Are we damned if we do, damned if we don't, no matter who we're dealing with? If you don't tell a person they smell, then they're left to think poorly of you when you suddenly stop spending time with them. If you do tell them, they're left to think poorly of you for embarrassing them.

It seems like a no-win situation, but there is one potential positive outcome. If the message was heard, and Rita has started doing things to eliminate her odor problem, then she wins in the long run. Unfortunately for me, the messenger gets demonized either way.

Welcoming feedback and other anecdotes on dealing with a friend who has body odor. What's your advice on body odor etiquette? Do you deal differently with a friend who has body odor and also happens to be fat?

What's Gourd-geous: Life Lessons from the Pumpkin Patch

Every autumn I make a visit to my favorite farm in Colt's Neck, New Jersey. I am never alone. The company changes from year to year, always some joyful, chaotic combination of friends; some with children, from wobbly, chubby-cheeked toddlers to aloof college freshmen who'll gladly sacrifice their cool for the irresistible innocence of this ritual.

The farm is popping with pumpkins of every variety, butternut and acorn squash, rows of apple trees dropping their cheerful fruit onto the lush carpet of grass below. In spite of muddy fields, sunburnt noses, and poopy diapers, everyone enjoys themselves here. And everyone gets to take a little of the day's magic home with them, to carve and set proudly alight on Halloween night, or to cook up for dinner.

Pumpkins and produce aside, however, it seems everyone gets a special kick out of choosing their very own gourd.

Gourd selection is big fun, at any age. I know, I've witnessed this. Grown-ups and children alike know exactly what they want when they see it -- thee gourd to grace the ledge of their cubicle, or to set in the center of the kitchen table and vocally distinguish to anyone who'll listen, "That one's mine! No, not those two, those are my brothers'. That one right there, I picked out that one, it's mine!"

This past Sunday was my annual pumpkin farm n' orchard day. The weather was brilliant, crisp and sunny, the fields smelled like heaven. I strolled slowly around the perimeter of the farm, noticed an old white clapboard farmhouse I'd overlooked in years past, and picked three varieities of apples I'd never tasted before.

And as we were leaving, I paused with my girlfriend beside an old wooden flat-bed wagon resplendent with little gourds. Adults and children were crowded around its perimeter, pawing enthusiastically through the pile of greens, golds, and shades of fire.

There were gourds shaped like geese with long, curling necks and beak-like stems. Some gourds looked uncannily like oranges and eggs. Some took smooth shapes, pleasing to the hand, like droplets with tapered handles, like maracas; others had flanges like hardened wings or fins, like a child had pinched their flesh like Play-Doh and pulled it outward. Some looked like spaceships; others like cauldrons burping foam. Some gourds were pinstriped. There were gourds that were hilariously phallic, balls-and-all. Other gourds looked like they were so happy to be gourds that their joy was erupting from beneath their skin in knobby, popcorn-like clusters, as though the meat of the gourd itself were giggling. I wanted them all.

On the opposite side of the wagon, a little boy of about six had found his gourd. "Mom, I want this one!" he declared with complete confidence. I smiled to myself.

His mother took a quick look at her son's gourd and in two seconds, determined it was not the right gourd for him; that it wasn't the kind of gourd he should want.

"Ew, no honey, it's warty. These here," she waved a hand over a small section of giggling gourds, "These are all too warty. You want to pick one with pretty colors, see." Prid-dee CULL-lerrrrs, she emphasized.

"See, like maybe this one," Mommy said, picking up a style of gourd she deemed acceptable. She showed it to the little boy, made sure he saw it and understood which aesthetic should please him. "Yes, this one is -- oh, wait, no..." she stopped and threw the gourd back into the pile. "Not that one. That gourd had an imperfection," she said sourly. Let's keep looking."

The woman's teenage daughter chose a gourd and sought her mother's approval. "Ma, Ma, how 'bout this one?"

"Yes, see Jonathan?" The mother took her daughter's approved gourd in-hand and showed it to the boy. "Prid-dee CULL-lerrrrs."

As they drew away from the wagon, the father and husband of the group, who'd been hanging back, leaned in for a lazy look over the gourds. Like a beaten, exhausted man, in zombie-like monotone, he droned, "The perfect gourd. The perfect gourd." Then he too withdrew.

And the boy, who would one day be a man, perhaps a man capable of love, perhaps a man with the potential to choose a partner based on the mysterious urgings of his heart, walked away from the pumpkin farm with the gourd his mother chose for him.

The gourd he truly wanted, a gourd "too warty", less than "perfect", was left behind.

The Only Thing I've Ever Stolen.

When I was in eighth grade, my friends and I went to the mall almost every weekend. There wasn't much else for a thirteen-year-old girl to do in Bristol, Tennessee, at least not in the early '80s.

We had a nice big Rite Aid in our mall, and it was a required stop on the teen mall train. There was a rack of magazines right inside the door, and each week a portion of my five-dollar allowance went towards one of those bubbly teen celebrity magazines, like Bop, Superteen, 16, Seventeen, etc. (I was a "Duranie", you see -- that's pop culture slang for "Duran Duran fanatic" -- and I couldn't miss a single issue of any of the aforementioned publications. Because Duran Duran was in all of them in those days. How else could I keep up with John's favorite colors [red and black] and Simon's nickname [Charlie] and Nick's favorite kind of weather [gray and rainy]?)

Boy, y'know, it's amazing. I could stretch a five-dollar bill from one end of the mall to the other in those days. I remember paying $1.25 to get into the movies. Then maybe $1.25 for the magazine. That still left half my money for hair styling products, a treat from Orange Julius, or a couple of 45 records.

Anyway, so one day my friend Charlene and I were walking through the Rite Aid, and suddenly a rack of mascara packets fell on top of me. It was one of those spinning racks, and some genius had placed it perilously high atop a tall display case. Bubble packets of pink-and-green mascara tubes on cardboard backs rained down on my head as the rack tipped over. A Rite Aid sales associate rushed over to put the rack upright and slide the packages back on their skinny aluminum display rods. Charlene bought herself a flatulent can of fluffy hair mousse. We went back to my house and played with our hair.

As I was about to remove my white blazer with the big patch pockets (almost identical to the one Duran Duran's John Taylor wore in their famous all-white photo session), I noticed one of the pockets was weightier than it should have been. I put my hand in, and pulled out a brand new package of mascara.

"Oh my god!" I shreiked. "Charlene, look! This must've fallen into my pocket when that rack fell over!"

"Woo-hoo!" she cheered. "Free mascara for you!"

But I was horrified. I held it tentatively in my hand, out away from my body, like it was a gun.

"I can't believe I walked out of Rite Aid with this in my pocket. What if somebody had stopped me! They could've arrested me for shoplifting! And I didn't even notice it was there!"

As odd as it may sound, I felt something akin to survivor's guilt. Or like a woman who'd murdered for the joy of it and who remained twenty years unsuspected and unpunished.

I couldn't even bring myself to use the thing.

"Here, take this," I said to Charlene. "You use it. Take it home with you."

As if by keeping it I'd be cursing myself to a peculiar sort of transparency that only the employees of Rite Aid could detect. I'd innocently step inside the doorway for a look at the latest Bop and a girl in the signature blue apron would point and scream,

"Thief! Mascara thief! I see it written on her brain!"

Jealousy-Proof

I just don't get jealous.

Seriously. And I know it’s a perfectly normal human reaction. I also know jealousy and envy can be destructive.

So I was wondering what it is that makes me so different in this regard, so in case anyone wants to become jealousy-proof, maybe I can lend a hand and share my secret.

All I can tell you is this:

If I see that somebody has something I want, two things happen.

One, I feel elated for that person. And it’s an elation in two parts.

In the first part, I’m living vicariously through that person’s gain; I feel their thrill. In the second part, I recognize that if Wonderful Thing X can happen to them, it could also happen to me. This other person’s good fortune has proven to me that the dream is possible. And I love possibility.

Two: the inevitable. I acknowledge that this person now possesses that which I wish to possess. But this is a purely intellectual observation. I don’t "feel" anything black or stormy or sickening. I know what jealousy and envy feel like; I have memories of those sensations in my body. But these emotions haven’t been a part of my life since I was a teenager. My reaction these days is pretty bland and practical. I just shrug and think,

"Well, if I’d wanted Wonderful Thing X badly enough, I could’ve given it higher priority, could’ve worked harder. But I didn’t. I guess my focus has been elsewhere."

If I don’t have what you have, I only have myself to blame.

And I believe anything’s possible. I believe I can make anything possible.

So can you.

But it’s up to you where you choose to apply your energy. You’re the captain of your life. You can go anywhere you want, or you can stay in port and go nowhere. But if you are going to lift anchor, you need to pick a destination and map your route. I don’t know about you, but I absolutely thrive on plotting adventures.

I guess on some level, deep beneath the day-to-day frenzy of getting things done, beyond the wild whirring of my imagination, there’s a quiet, steadfast faith that my day will come. That all my many days will come, as I make each dream happen in time. It just takes effort. Movement. Purposeful movement, one step at a time.

And if you give up along the way, one thing is guaranteed: you’ll never get where you were going. But if you keep moving, eventually, you’ll find yourself someplace new.

My ships do come in, and they’ll continue to. Sometimes they’re brightly-painted rowboats I’ve been watching from the shore since they were distant specks on the seas of my imagination.

Sometimes they’re puttering little bathtub boats that arrive unexpectedly and make me giddy for a day.

Sometimes they’re messages in bottles I almost miss in the froth if I’m not watching closely.

Other times they’re bigger vessels I’ve had to tow into shore myself, with a rope thrown over one shoulder -- heave, ho! Heave, ho! Heave, ho! -- laborious, exhausting tugs on rope that leaves my skin raw. And the sweat is always worth it.

And every now and then, the Queen Mary appears on the horizon -- I can just barely see her! -- and I look forward to the day when she finally responds to my winking signals from shore, and rolls on in.

I can’t be jealous of anyone else. I can only be frustrated with myself. And even that’s wasted energy. I’m workin’ on it.

Playing Hooky

When I was sixteen, I lived in an uninspired 'burb about two hours outside of New York City. I was getting panic attacks in Biology class, plotting a future in which I dressed like a rock star, and working nights and weekends at the Ponderosa Steakhouse where I scooped chocolate pudding out of huge institutional vats and into parfait glasses. I also played hooky from high school as often as possible.

But I wasn't a bad kid. I wasn't banging the entire football team or sitting in the open lot under the transformer tower smoking weed. No. When I played hooky, I went to M_A_N_H_A_T_T_A_N -- for me, The Emerald City – and wandered through the medieval wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I dipped my eager hands into the "British Imports" bin at Tower Records to see if they had any Nik Kershaw 12-inch extended remixes. (Our local mall was too provincial for that.) I sauntered down Madison Avenue in my dad's vintage houndstooth trench coat and a pair of "Risky Business" sunglasses, pretending I belonged. And I was doing it in style – with a chauffeur-driven limousine at my beck and call. That's right. I spent my crusty-brown-apron-wearing wages on a private phone line for my bedroom and the occasional car and driver from the White Star Limousine Service.

I managed to pull off an excursion into The Big City three or four times a month. Each trip cost me everything I'd earned the previous week, but to my mind, nothing could have been more worth it. Even those nights at the old Ponderosa when I got stuck with the universally-dreaded tedium of disassembling the frozen yogurt machine – a task which kept its victim extra late into the night, meticulously washing dozens of miniscule silvery parts and nestling them into their corresponding niches in a slab of white Styrofoam. To me, it just meant more glamour time.

My parents weren't big on taking advantage of our proximity to New York City. They didn't use the commuter rail line like other Long Islanders did, going into the city for shows and museum exhibitions on a regular basis. My mother seemed to think New York was a place where crafty Hispanic men waited around every corner for a chance to slip a hand up your skirt. The whole thing frustrated me. Why did every weekend in our family include a visit to a strip mall, or some home improvement project that was only being done for the benefit of the people who'd eventually buy the house when we moved again anyway? I decided to take charge of my own cultural education.

In the morning, I had to walk to the school bus stop, which was inside a nearby housing development called University Heights. It was impossible to see the bus stop from the front door of our house, so after I disappeared around the corner, my mother could only assume I'd gone off the school as usual.

I timed it so the limousine arrived for me at least five minutes before the school bus came shuddering along. I didn't want to chance having the bus driver see me getting into a long dark car and report it to somebody. The other kids at the stop – well, I wasn't worried about them. They didn't even know my name, and I'm not so sure anyone in a position of authority would have listened to them anyway. The kids from University Heights always struck me as a tad rough. They knew what the inside of the Assistant Principal's office looked like. They were always just a half-step behind the fashion trends, but belligerently so, still flying Farrah Fawcett and Shaun Cassidy wings rebelliously in the face of progress and carrying curvaceous oversized combs in their back pockets like some sort of identifying badge.

They looked on, slack-jawed, as George (my regular driver), a towering, aging black man with sharp knees and elbows and a gentle face with sleepy brown eyelids, swept me into the velvety shadows of the limo's back seat with a tip of his cap. Me -- the quiet, no-name girl with the strawberry-blond bob and liquid black eyeliner, swimming in a quarterback's overcoat.

I used to love making the car reservations from the pink plastic telephone on my nightstand: "Ms. Brittingham, hello!" the White Star lady would sing. "Will you be needing George this week?" God, I loved the way she asked that. I felt like I was on Dynasty on something.

The limousines all had those brick-like car phones (such a glam novelty back then) and I placed a call to school on my way to NYC, affecting my mother's nasal Philadelphia drawl and smoker's hack, telling them that my daughter was throwing up or going to "a specialist" or blah-blah-blah. See, the school had a very clear policy: they would only call your parents to report your absence if your parents didn't call them by 10:00 AM. I simply headed them off.

It was a huge school, and someone like me who hardly said boo, didn't bother to make waves or put forth special effort to be recognized or remembered, was easily lost in their pokey, paper-laden system.

In spite of the dreary landscape of Long Island highway, my limousine rides into the city were alive with a dancing electricity of anticipation, of liberty, of all that was possible, of victory against all odds. And as the smoky angles of the skyline first emerged in the distance, as overpasses and highway signage first began to flaunt their scrawls of graffiti like nothing we'd ever see out in historic Stony Brook, my heart would leap. We were getting close now! We were passing through the outermost rings of the big, grand, golden aura that enveloped this magical place.

On those days when George arrived behind the wheel of a sedan, I would roll down my tinted back window as we approached the city, and craning my head into the wind, I threw all my giddiness forward from my fevered brow. The speed of things happening, of minds churning and millions of lives thundering forward in a collective, wanton spirit of progression roared past my ears and whipped my hair about in wild locks like a bacchanalia of dancers.

On those special days when George showed up in a stretch limousine (which sometimes happened, because a stretch might be the last car available), I'd open the car's sun roof to the raw air, and stand with my head and shoulders rising out of the rectangular hatch. Those beacons of steel – the twin towers of the World Trade Center like benevolent guardians, the triumphant torch of the Empire State Building, the swank point of the Chrysler Building -- beckoned to me. Sailing ahead with the car galloping beneath me, I felt like Boudica leading her charge of seventy thousand men. I felt like the Statue of Liberty herself. I felt like the diminutive but determined Fanny Brice at the helm of her tugboat:

Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter

Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter

Don't bring around a cloud, don't rain on my parade…

Only once, early in our relationship, did George ask me where I was going in Manhattan and why. I brushed some cockamamie story off my cuff about being an artist and going into the city to "have my portfolio reviewed". Damned if I know what that was supposed to mean, but I often carried my real art class portfolio with me, my oversized sketch pad tucked within. I always hoped to do some casual urban charcoal sketches, posing as a local bohemian, hoping tourists would find me fascinating and that locals would recognize themselves in me and nod in cool, knowing artiness. But that only happened once or twice. Usually, I just carried the portfolio around for effect – and for short intervals. When it got cumbersome, I left it in the back seat of the car.

George waited for me everywhere I went. If I planned to go walking around for a while, he'd find a legal place to park and reassure me he'd be right there, napping when I returned. "Take your time, young lady," he'd say. And he was always right where I left him.

I often went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on these trips. The Met is a huge, daunting but glorious place. You could easily spend a year of days seeing and appreciating everything inside, so one visit was never enough. The entrance fee, if you look closely at the sign, is a "suggested donation", which means they may ask you for eight bucks, but you can literally pay them a penny if you want and still get your little metal "M" entrance badge. I always paid a dime for my admission, because I spent so much on the limo that I had very little left over. Exactly one dime. It was what I paid on my very first visit, and afterwards I just made it a tradition.

I especially loved the Costume Institute in the basement of the museum. I could stand before a faceless, minimalist mannequin in a sumptuous 18th century gown and get lost in my own stupefaction. It blew my mind to realize someone actually wore this thing in the time of Marie Antoinette! It was actually worn against the warm, living, breathing body of someone who existed in that time. And I couldn't believe something of such detail and beauty, more beautiful even than the things we could manufacture in our times, with the benefits of our technology, could exist and be owned and enjoyed by someone back then. I think I assumed that everyone before 1895 walked around in animal skins with faces smeared in their own filth, and then, with the turn of a calendar page, they all suddenly jerked themselves upright and started waltzing, constructing bustles, whittling marionettes and waxing their moustaches.

There were rooms in the Met where I simply liked to sit and ponder where I was, smack-dab in the middle of New York on a school day. The cavernous room of the Temple of Dendur, the reconstructed Japanese garden, the Frank Lloyd Wright room -- all superb for maximum dramatic impact. I'd think about all the suckers back at school, and all the confining classrooms I was free of for the moment. Classrooms, those boxy little traps, the worst of them without windows. Teachers and their lectures, as nice as those teachers might be, still terrifying because they were the wardens and I was at their mercy. There were hallways where I'd panicked once, so now they seemed too long, it might take forever to get to the end of them. I avoided places where I'd felt scared before. The list of places in the school building where I felt safe grew shorter all the time.

Sometimes, in my favorite rooms of the museum, I'd imagine myself traveling back in time, to ancient Egypt or feudal Japan. I wondered if there was a formula one could follow, a specific set of steps, like thoughts combined with counting or breathing and performed in certain places, while smelling certain smells, that would transport a person back to another time and place. I wondered how many pointless attempts had been made at building time machines, when all we probably needed were our own minds – but no one had discovered the magic steps yet. I imagined a second-hand book shop in some shadowy corner of London where a musty diary with crumbling, tissue-like pages sat at the bottom of a pile, holding the secret to time travel, if only someone would bother to dig it out and read it. I just knew the world was full of wondrous things to be discovered.

The future was my favorite thing to think about – the inevitable SuperLife that awaited me at the end of this teenage thing. The future was here in New York, in a house that still had its old servant's bells in the kitchen, with a pink sectional sofa in the living room, ferns like green fireworks in the windows, and a room for my wardrobe with a motorized remote-controlled rack and a fainting couch like Faye Dunaway's in "Mommie Dearest" where I could recline for hours, perversely admiring the longer, slimmer legs I would definitely have by then. In the future I'd be a famous writer and artist, too good at both things to choose just one. Life would be a social whirlwind. British pop idols Duran Duran would be steeped in scandal, for two of its founding members would fight one another viciously for the privilege of marrying me. I liked contemplating their confessions of love, over and over again. Sometimes I made myself weep.

Outside the museums and department stores were the streets of New York themselves. The cheapest ride in the amusement park is often the best. Merely walking around New York made me feel like hot shit. I could be content to do nothing else. In fact, sometimes having too many destinations and keeping myself holed up inside places left me feeling dissatisfied. I needed to know I really had been in New York, and to do that, spending a certain minimum of time out in it was crucial.

What I wore to New York was an important consideration. I didn't want to look like some suburban rube in tell-tale snow white mall-walking sneakers and equally white socks, or some ski jacket or windbreaker or worse than that, anything in a pastel that screamed "cul-de-sac". I'd discovered my dad's vintage ankle-length coat in the back of his closet and thought it was really hip. It was absurdly voluminous on me, and I had to roll up the sleeves (which I thought was all the more cool, because it revealed the coat's black satin lining). I wore that coat everywhere, not only to New York but to school, every day, all day, to every class. Never left it behind in my locker no matter how warm the weather. I lived in it. I pinned a cluster of rhinestone broaches on one lapel, and the blunt, angled haircut I maintained completed my overall look. I fancied myself like one of those cool kids Amy Miles and I had seen in Bloomingdale's that one Saturday afternoon in 9th grade.

/>Amy and I both wanted to live in New York City when we grew up. Maybe we'd even share an apartment together! There was no cooler place on earth, except maybe London. The best of everything was in the city. And it warmed the cockles of my heart to be with someone who deeply, sincerely understood and shared my feelings about the place. So when Amy's dad suggested a Saturday pilgrimage by train, just the three of us, Amy and I were beside ourselves. It was the first time I'd actually been to Manhattan.

It was late autumn of 1984, and the New York I remember from that day is one of edgy autumn air, pink and blue neon, red pumps and red fingerless gloves; respectable women in fishnet stockings; people standing in line for things: celebrity appearances, book signings, tickets, tables. Scarves with piano keyboards knitted into them for sale on every corner, Z-100 on the radio in every store; a glaring window display filled with television monitors framing the faces of "Apollonia 6", and the thumping, naughty whimsy of their one-hit wonder "Sex Shooter". Piss and saxophone music steamed up through subway gratings. Big Brown Bags bobbed from cold pink hands. Every now and then, we'd pass a whiff of a Calvin Klein fragrance and The Definitive New York Smell…is it roasted chestnuts, burnt pretzels, or a combination of the two? I'm still not sure, but it emanates from vendor carts and says, "You're in New York, for real!" I always wanted to bottle that smell and bring it back to suburbia with me.

Inside Bloomingdale's, Amy and I marveled at how much hipper the girls' clothes were there than in our local mall on Long Island. I remember taking in the people around me, trying to fix the details of them in my mind so I could emulate the look of them later on. There was one threesome of girls I'll never forget: they went skipping and giggling arm-in-arm through the teen section of Bloomie's, like the muses of '80s style, and Amy and I stood back and watched them in hick-like wonder. They wore ankle-length black wool coats and extra long scarves in solid neon colors – garish lime, screaming fuchsia, blinding danger yellow. One girl wore a length of her scarf tossed glamorously over one shoulder; the others had their scarves bunched around their necks in funky ascot variations I knew I could never copy. They wore scrunchy suede boots with decorative buckles, or patent leather jazz shoes with neon socks that matched their scarves. Most notable and impressive were their haircuts – all of them smooth and sleek and geometric. One side shorter than the other, ends flipped expertly under, swooping lengths obscuring one eye, tidy buzzed sections over an ear or at the nape of a neck.

The three of us – Amy, her father and I, actually froze in place to watch them gallop by, and they were so arresting that even Amy's father felt moved to comment:

"Their fathers probably own the store."

* * *

Bloomingdale's would ever-after remain a favorite destination on hooky days. Its heady aroma of perfumes and retail newness, the chic black deco facade of its Lexington Avenue entrance, were iconic to me. On as many trips as possible, I tried to squeeze in at least a promenade across the cosmetics floor.

"Hey George, I want to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Bloomingdale's. Do you think we have time for both? You know we absolutely have to be back on the road by one o' clock."

Time was always of the essence. My school day was only about seven hours long. It took two hours to get to Manhattan and two hours back. That meant I needed a clear agenda in order to get the most out of my time. And I always did.

George had my trust and confidence. In my naivete, I actually believed the guy gave a shit about my truancy, so I tipped him well to "keep him quiet". And I felt my worldly gesture was working, because trip after trip went off without a hitch. The hammer never came down -- George never called my parents or the school; and in fact, I sensed he was getting a kick out of the whole thing. I'd like to think he went home to his wife (Amelia) and told her about this pip of a kid who dove into his backseat from the cracked curb of a weedy subdivision and kept him circling midtown blocks while she looked for the townhouse where Holly Golightly was supposed to have lived. After a while I'm sure he felt like more of a participant than a hired hand. I think I sensed it when, during our routine stops at the drive-thru window of a Long Island McDonald's, he ordered lunch for himself too. I always ate on the road going home, because I didn't want to waste one of my short and precious New York City hours merely eating.

Coming home required a different routine from the morning's pick-up. Unlike the morning school bus, which picked me up away from home, the afternoon bus dropped me off directly in front of our house. I had to get on the homeward-bound bus at school, because my mother would be watching from the living room window, waiting for me to climb off.

George and I always timed things with delicious precision. That very first time, as we turned into the driveway of school, I made a point of laying out the plan.

"George?" I said, curling a hand around the opening in the privacy partition between the front and back seats and poking my face through, "I'm kind of in a hurry. If you just pull up behind that row of school buses on the side there, I'll jump right out and you can be on your way. Oh! In fact, here."

I pulled a wad of bills out of my coat pocket – his tip, forty dollars, stashed away so I wouldn't spend it – and handed it to him through the partition. He glanced quickly at my hand hovering near his ear and smiled as he took the money from my hand.

"Thank you very much, miss. Now where are we going – here?"

I looked nervously up at the school's facade, at the second story classrooms where some windows hung open a crack. I felt like the whole world was watching. Some liberal-minded history teacher was letting his seniors sit casually on the radiator covers next to the windows, and I glimpsed a bent blue-jean-covered leg, a shaggy mullet and an exposed t-shirt tag, too close to the windowpane for my comfort. A sway, a shifting, a turning head, just on the other side of that thin, transparent glass. Oh God, don't let anybody look this way and see a big black limousine in the parking lot. I had to turn away. I feared they'd feel my eyes on them and turn around.

"Yes George, right behind the buses. Just where that little brown door is on the side of the building. Do you see it?"

George pulled up to the sidewalk near the entrance closest to the girl's bathroom. I was ready to disembark, bottom two coat buttons securely fastened, canvas tote bag strapped across my chest, and the black plastic handle of my art portfolio squirming in my sweaty hand. I checked my watch. The car finally stopped.

I clicked instantly into a necessary headspace where I was convinced of my own invisibility. It wasn't so much a mantra I used, not audible, visual, imaginable words across my mind, like, "please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me"; not like that. Instinctively, I knew there was something about thinking "don't see me" that would jinx me, make the entire disciplinary staff of the school do just that. The principal, the assistant principal, the gruff gym teacher who presided over detention, all would stride right out of that inconspicuous side door at the exact inopportune moment and the game would be all over.

Instead, I "willed" myself invisible. I imagined myself being completely unnoticeable, as familiar and bland and unworthy of note as the grayish-green spits of grass between the school building and the curb of its vast parking lot, or the dulled asphalt itself.

I opened the car door and bailed out, swiftly, but being careful not to slam it shut behind me. I moved with quick, robotic purpose toward the windowless steel door, shoulders and neck bent forward, head down, trusting, trusting that I was invisible, that the world was not looking right here, right now, at this precise moment. I pulled the door open. A glimpse of a glinting, empty hallway. The girl's bathroom was inches away. I didn't hesitate, just kept moving, a train, ever forward, directly into the lavatory and then into a stall where I spun around and closed the door and pushed the latch into place. I waited and breathed. From somewhere, everywhere, a sphere of noises around me -- the echo of a shrill didactic voice, the creaking of metal desks beneath the weight of restless bodies. Air whined through a pipe. A ribbon of controlled laughter pulled low across a buffed floor.

There was just enough time to pee, flush with the dismissal bell, and sail back out that side door along with everyone else. I let myself get lost in the cattle drive where I'm sure nobody noticed the slow smile of triumph spreading across my face.

When I stepped off the bus, my mother, ironing my father's work shirts in the family room, looked out the picture window and watched me be-bopping across the lawn like nothing unusual happened. It was beautiful.

From that day on, I was emboldened. I hired George as often as I could for those final three months of my last year of high school. I was never caught – my secret remained safe.

I got pretty good at keeping secrets. I was born into a family of experts, so it's no wonder.

I told my mother about my adventures in limousine hooky years later, when I was in my 20s. I thought she'd get a kick out of it. But she just wouldn't believe me.

I thought about pulling out my high school scrapbook, and opening to the page where I pasted a souvenir napkin from one of George's stretch limos, one with a bar in the back. It was a square white cocktail napkin, with "White Star Limousine" embossed in metallic blue. But I left the scrapbook alone. After all, what point was there in owning up to the truth now? My mother could look at a nickel and still swear it was a dime, as long as it served her.

Besides. For me to know the truth was enough.

- Kim Brittingham