Really, it is. In fact, there will be times when your gut instinct pulls at your miles of intestine and says – Hey…DON’T DO IT! Just say no.

Ever have one of those times? I keep running into them like a little bulldozer in an appointment-only, China shop. You’d think by my age, I’d listen to my inner voice, but nope. I clearly don’t. At least, until I made a pact and promise to myself after this past weekend slapped me in the face with a nice car accident while trying to be kind and help someone.

I just had to say ‘no’. If I had, he’d have been fine with it and all would be well. It’s my pleaser-self that seems to force me to do what I really don’t want to do even if the Universe screams at me not to. This isn’t the first time, either.

Now…finally…after doing this over and over and wondering why the hell bad things happen to me when I’m trying to be nice – I’ve learned my lesson. Oh, I’ll still be nice but when the warning bells go off like those midnight car alarms, I’m going to listen and say – NO.

Funny…that was my very first word as a baby. Does anyone see the irony, here?

Remember: N O .

Have you ever had one of those situations where someone at your work (usually your boss…or your boss’s boss or a friend of your boss’s boss, etc.) who’s decided that for some unknowable reason that they have a major hate-on for you?

Maybe you’re a little too outspoken; perhaps you stuck up for yourself when they picked on you – even though it’s normal to defend yourself in an outright attack. If you’re in this boat, I can empathise as I’ve been there too and this is what I’ve learned about it.

The person who is all over you like white on rice for every little nit-picky thing on the planet is usually in the line of fire, themselves. As we all know, shit rolls downhill and if you happen to be standing in the way of said rolling shit – you’ll get the whole pile right on top of you.

What it usually boils down to is this: this person has royally fucked up.  In order to deflect the shit being thrown at them…they’re looking down that hill and low and behold…there you are! Of course you’ve got your back turned as you’re being a good little worker bee and can’t see what’s coming.

This person, we’ll call them ‘your boss’…is in big trouble and needs to get out of it quick! One way to do this is point the finger at someone else, get yourself out of that hot seat and let someone else (some unsuspecting person) sit in it, instead. Yup, that would be you, sucker!

Sometimes it’s all at once, the shit that falls on you, and sometimes it’s a little at a time to wind you up until you explode. Of course, once you’ve blown up and there’s pieces of you everywhere, that’s when the fun really begins. Because then, my friend, you’ve exposed yourself and  you’ve given them a reason. It may be a small insignificant reason but it’s a reason nonetheless to point that finger YOUR way.

So now what do you do? They’re sitting back (not in the hot seat, that’s where you are) all smug and smirking while your ass is on the line. You can do one of two things. You can fight it and most likely lose the battle and your job, or – you can take charge, get your little butt out of that situation altogether and win the war by ending it before it ever began.

It’s always easier to find a job when you’ve already got one. Yes, it is. It’s time to get on that train and get moving; no one is going save you, help you or take that shit for you. You’re on your own, baby, the whistle has blown and it’s time to board or get off the tracks.

I was chatting with a colleague today about relationships…why some fail and some succeed. He’s quite a bit younger than me and it’s interesting to get his perspective on how he thinks women all behave.  To put things into a better scope, he’s only had three girlfriends (the last just became his wife) in his life.  So… some of what he’s saying, I gather, is what others have told him and things he’s read, etc.

I had to laugh a little as it was very stereotypical and after, I won’t say how many years, I’ve discovered that only a very small percentage of people adhere to the stereotypes we’ve all heard about. I corrected him on a few things such as: it’s not a bossy thing for a woman to let her man know what pleases her in the bedroom.

Yes….we had quite the chat!

He didn’t really get it, insisting that all men needed to lead when it came to sex. I, for one, have met many men who like it the other way around. I believe if either partner wants to be successfully satisfied, communication is essential and there’s nothing wrong with letting him or her know what’s good and what’s not in a loving, fun and sexy way.

It certainly doesn’t need to be bossy.

He also thought that all women want to change up the house to ‘their’ liking the second they move in. Personally, I’ve never been this way; I suspect it’s because I was always ‘told’ that the layout wasn’t going to change, no matter what….or I’d ask if it was ok to do this or that. It’s called respect and compromise.

I think the older I get the more I’m coming to realise that it’s really a wondrous thing that we do have all of these differences, it’s magical and we should celebrate it. I love being a ‘girl’ and I want my man to be a MAN. Equality in job pay is one thing…becoming an androgynous race is another.

Call me old-fashioned but – let girls be girls….and boys be boys. We’re perfect just the way we are.

Isn’t it interesting how by saying absolutely nothing…we say so much? How the lack of words or acknowledgment sometimes speaks volumes.

As I squeezed past a sea of bodies, ever so tenderly, onto the evening train, I braced my heeled feet firmly on the platform, ready to counter the jostling start of the familiar jerking motion. I clung to the bit of bar rail that I claimed as mine, for dear life as we lurched forward and homeward. Much to my pleasant surprise, a few stops later, a seat presented itself. How could I possibly say no to such an invitation?

So I sat squished and pinned between two fellow travelers and resigned myself to faraway daydreams and my iPod. It wasn’t long before said daydreams were scattered like a universe of dandelion seeds in a cosmic windstorm and all hope of oblivious thought yanked itself from under me. She strolled on like she owned the joint and couldn’t have been more than 25 all said and done. In tow, right behind her, were her two little girls, decked out in shocking pink running shoes with a matching dress and a vibrant summer number complete with a faux black leather jacket ensemble.

I was instantly hooked, transfixed and hypnotized.

The young woman’s eyes were lined with tar black make-up that circled ‘round as if protecting them from some unseen force; a gateway to another world lurked there…I just know it. Glitter adorned her cheeks, striped blue leg warmers – much more like ankle warmers from where they sat, kissed her ballet black flats and a sparkling rhinestone tiara sat royally atop her small head. The girls, no more than perhaps four and six years of age, snuggled in beside her and amused themselves while to my astonishment, the ‘bedroom eyes’ were not near complete; in fact they were only just beginning to take shape.

I watched in stunned silence as the train shook and rumbled along, stop after stop as she pulled out coal-coloured mascara and proceeded to gingerly add several thick layers onto her long lashes. When I thought surely the finished presentation of those eyes were ready for the world she further shocked me by rooting through her large magic bag of beauty aids and pulled out a box of luscious fake eyelashes.

Completely fascinated, I watched her tenderly paint them with the tar-like substance she must have used for outlining her eyes and attach them to her upper lid, just so. I waited. Was this it? Were those flashy vampire lookers ready for their debut? No, they were not! Out came the little jar of tar once again to overlay yet another layer of the blackest black to further extend the illusion. I’d never seen anything like it.

Finally ready for her evening glamour show, it was time to deal with the little ones who were busy fussing over a pink hat and incessantly cleaning a pair of eyeglasses with ample spit and a large deposit of thumb grease. From deep down inside the magic sack came a massive hairbrush which the woman angrily plowed through curly tangles of matted bleached hair that had been wind-whipped, snarled and possibly used to store bubble gum several hours earlier. The six-year old sat rigid and stoic as if this ritual were repeated several times a day. It probably was. The brush disappeared and from the bottomless void she produced a large bottle of hairspray to make damn sure there would be no misunderstandings of where each hair needed to be.

Now it was time for the littlest princess. The evil brush reappeared as if from thin air and she braced herself for the thrashing; clearly she was used to such torture but complete defeat was yet a few years away along with accepting that resistance was absolutely futile. Screwing up her face she complained and when the bottle of hair glue found its way out of the sack once more, she promptly shut her eyes tight and pinched her little nose with chubby fingers that ended in dirty cherub fingernails. But the wicked woman wasn’t near finished. Out came yet another bottle of substance called “Frizz Be Gone!” and the poor soul was showered yet again with wet stickiness. I desperately wanted to hand her my umbrella.

She was then crowned with a black ribbon headband and finally – they were all complete. And just in time for their stop, too. A cold electronic voice announced the next stop as ‘Braid’ and as the dynamic trio made their way off to whatever fantasy they were destined for, I froze.

Braid? BRAID?? I don’t remember a stop called ‘BRAID’!!

Not only had I missed getting off where I should have – so mesmerized by this fabulous show – but I’d completely gotten on the wrong train.

Now think what I would have missed had I stepped onto the right one.

Now before you launch into your best Christopher Cross impression, that’s not quite what I mean. However, after a little thought, perhaps it could be considered less literal and more symbolic. When I was little, I had this handkerchief. It had a little sailboat on it with a patched up sail. If memory serves me, it also had a duck in the boat – much like Donald Duck…but not quite.

Now I had it folded up neatly in my drawer amongst my girl things for years and years. I never once used it to blow my nose; I liked it too much. I thought a lot about that little boat nestled in among the reeds at a softly drawn shoreline. I wondered what it would be like to take that boat out past those reeds and beyond the handkerchief. I imagined all sorts of things and in a way, it represented freedom for me as I had a difficult childhood and one of the ways I escaped was into my imagination.

I still do that, by the way, I day-dream constantly.

Anyway, that scene on that little piece of square cotton always had me wondering what it would be like elsewhere and I often wished I could simply pick up and wander off into an adventure. Now that I’m no longer 9 years old, I realize that I can do that. I have the means and the ability – I just lack the confidence to make the choices that I need to.

I’ll make those choices soon and although there is no wind in my sail, I can see the windline from where I sit, the genoa is luffing and the sheets are loose. I am minding the boom. My rudder is pointed east; all I have to do is hoist up the anchor and get past those reeds.

Soon. Very soon I will set sail – head to wind.

I believe in fate but I also believe I am able to write my own. There is this strange winding staircase that I am on in my mind and up, up I go. I’ve been here before but I’ve always stopped to glance back and ponder. Not now. I turn my gaze towards the next step and I don’t care what is behind me. I never should have in the first place; I wonder if it has been what’s always held me back – that penchant to re-examine my past.

What ‘was’, is no longer viable and important. It’s the stair that I am on and the next one I tenderly place my size 6 upon that holds me captive. I want to know what’s at the top yet even as I think on what it could be…I am writing out the script.

I’ve got many possible storylines and they pile around me and fall backwards down the stairs and into the past if I decide they just won’t do. I keep on writing and imagining until it feels right. Scenes take form and shape; I colour them with vibrant shades of love, hope and positive outcomes with a few struggles thrown in along the way to make it interesting. People enter into the story and I frantically implore dialogue. Chapter after chapter is scribbled out and before I know it, it’s happening around me.

It’s a live movie; there are takes and re-takes, re-writes and I play them over and over until I’m satisfied it may just work.  I am conducting my future on imaginary paper while taking it step-by-step to where I need to be. When I finally get to the top, my path will be written and published.

Only then will I be able to actually begin it.

I’m in a mood, one that allows me to trip over and lose myself in countless possibilities. I’m aiming high these days, I’ve mounted a set of stairs and they stop in the clouds. I don’t want to climb down. My head lives there, my heart….I think she went on a vacation to Fantasy Island, but that’s ok. She’ll come back to earth soon enough.

There’s no harm done , make-believe can be a Godsend when the alternative is mass confusion.  It’s only my little world of the life I’d really like to live. I’ll get there. I’ll climb those stairs to the top, oh yes I will. I’ll just stay in my little head for a while until the dust settles enough so that I can sweep up the mess and finally clean house.

It’s long over due.