SELF

Don’t Let ’em See You Sweat

Even great (memoir) queens are human

Author photo. Most recent posted selfie you’ll ever see. Dirty silver-blonde hair, double chin, warts, and all. But totally what I was doing in the moment.

Yesterday, we packed up the dogs and traveled up to Big Bear, where family friends have a cabin in the mountains.

I’ve not been in the best place, and I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect when I got here. I am still working, and have had a lot of recent pressure with work changes keeping me much busier than normal.

I feel the tickle of pine in my throat, but there is one thing I didn’t expect from this trip. The overwhelming rush of relaxation from this environment in a way that feels very much like home. Home meaning — where I was born and raised in the Adirondack Mountains of New York.

Home has been a theme for me recently. What is home? Where is home? Who is home? What does it all mean?

I’ve never missed home. Home in the typical sense.

Decades I spent running. Hiding. And even enjoying and preferring suburban life far away in warm Southern California — surrounded by palm trees, beaches, and fellow democrats. (Oh, I’m sorry, fellow “those damn dems.”)

Maybe it’s because my soul needed this. In a way, I wish I had taken the week off of work, but even working outside on the deck in the gentle breeze overlooking the trees is giving me the solitude I…