Call NASA

So there are a ton of quizzes being circulated via Facebook these days. In about 13 clicks, you can find out which Disney princess you are (Aurora), which decade you should have grown up in (the 80s, go figure), which city you should live in (Rio? Really?) and which musical you should star in (Rent. Yes, ma'am).

But the one that puzzles me most is one that purports to assign your ideal career. I answered the questions honestly, and I got ...

Astronaut.

What. The. Fuck.

I've been called a space cadet, and I've been accused (on more than one occasion) of being from another planet, but I have never, ever considered anything science. Don't get me wrong, I loved the subject ... I was just never particularly gifted at it. But this quiz result has me thinking.

When you take the idea of space out of the equation (I know, I know, you really can't; bear with me) what you have left, essentially, is explorer. And that, I believe, is exactly what I am. Not in the traditional Magellan-esque sense, but in the "she does crazy things and brings others along for the ride" sense, yeah, that's what I am.

I've always believed I was a little bit Marion Ravenwood (and if you don't know who that is, I'm sad but Google). A little bit Pocahontas. And yeah, a little bit Sally Ride. A modern-day explorer, if you will. I'm an idea person, to be sure, but after the idea comes action, and I always want to be part of the action.

I think we have to tap into our own sense of wonder, and I think that's what the space program does. It causes us to look beyond, to wonder what's up there, and to learn about it. It's that spirit that took over when I registered for my first race, went on my first blind date, and walked into court back in the divorce days. I feel it whenever I ask myself to do something I've never done before, and it's the best feeling in the world.

Is it a career option? No, not really. It's more who I am than what I do, really. But for what it's worth, it really is who I am. Not the space part, but the real, day-to-day, earth-bound part. Because I have to have a "what's next?" and I hope I will always be exploring.

All that aside, I guess I do have a bit of space nerd in my soul. At least, if you consider this post, from August 2013. 

Perfect moments

I am hard on myself. I have high expectations of everyone, and higher still of myself. Most of the time, when I do things - really, anything - I debrief with myself about what I could have done better.

Races, could've run faster.

Workouts, could've given more.

Meals, could've been more balanced.

And songs sung? Every time - whether its's in Showcase or a musical or karaoke - I think I could've done better. Been more relaxed, held pitch better, connected with the audience more.

So imagine my surprise when I went to karaoke last Friday night to celebrate my friend Millie's birthday, and experience musical perfection at the end of the night.

We were having an absolute blast. Great women, great singers, supporting each other and just having a blast. Kathleen brought the house down with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Sherry did an incredible rendition of "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me." Heidi wowed us with "My Immortal" and the birthday girl herself took no prisoners with "At Last." We aren't a competitive bunch; it's all good fun, to be honest, so it was really lovely to see everyone enjoying each others' performances. And that's what gave me the courage to sing Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love."

It's a tough song, and it was the end of the night - crapshoot time for me, because I was warmed up but might have been a little horse. But it didn't matter, because I was among friends. If it tanked, it would still be met with cheers.

It didn't tank.

I stood there, singing to the karaoke track, knowing I was experiencing lightening in a bottle. I was in this little bubble of rightness, letting the song flow from me in a way that was so real, so natural ... I almost made myself cry. I wasn't singing, I wasn't performing. I was simply feeing the song.

That's not to say that it was perfect. But the moment? The moment was. As I stood there, all my friends watching me, seeing heads turn at the bar, I knew I had something special.

And as quickly as it came, it was over ... but it's still part of me. This little corner of my soul, reserved for that moment, that song, those friends. That perfect moment when everything came together and music poured forth.

Anew

I love that word, "anew." It means to do something again, in a different way. To make fresh something that is ... well ... not so. And so today, we begin anew.

Yesterday, being New Year's Eve, I contemplated falling apart. All the failed attempts of a year, all the mistakes, all the wrong turns. All the trust broken, goals not reached. All the loss. But New Year's Eve also brings with it a tradition that makes it hard to hold on to bitterness: the Salsa/Funk Jam. You cannot sit on your pity pot and dance at the same time.

So 10:45 a.m. found me in Studio 1 with some of the best people I know, poised to usher out the old year with thumping bass and Latin rhythms, sashays, turns and opportunities to fly for a fraction of a second. At the end of that 90-minute class, my heart was light. My mind was at peace. The perfect way to begin the day.

By the time nightfall approached, a fresh layer of snow had fallen and I thought it might be wise to just stay home. But music - good music - beckoned me out. My friends Kathleen and Shawn were hosting an open mic-style party with a house band loaded with the best musicians I know. Stay home, when I could hear them? I think not.

And am I ever glad I went. One after another, great songs were played. Original works by Kathleen and our mutual friend Eric, and great covers of everything from Billy Joel to The Beatles, Pink Floyd to Don Henley. It was awesome. I love my talented friends. Midnight rolled around and we toasted one another while the band played Auld Lang Syne. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Laughter ensued. The night began to draw to a close.

At around 12:30, I made my way to the car. The previous fresh layer of snow had been coated with a new one, and the world was white. Quiet. Perfect.

It was as if earth itself was reminding me to begin anew.

From here, right now, today, it doesn't matter what happened yesterday. It doesn't matter who you let down, or who let you down, or how you let yourself down. It doesn't matter because as of today, you are on the first page of an empty book with exactly 365 pages. It's time to begin.

Approximately the ninth fresh layer of snow. The world paints itself anew.