"What Would You Do...?"

Home again, home again, jiggety jig.

Back from an overnight in NYC. Had a great time with Big. After the Ordeal by Refrigerator, I was hours later than I planned getting up there. Met up with Big at the Starbucks at 16th and 8th, and relaxed from my trip while we talked and watched the Chelsea boys on parade. Then, we took a walk down to the Leatherman. I got a phone call from the manager who reported that he had spoken to the folks at Wescos. My custom made boots were scheduled to ship on Tuesday or Wednesday of last week. If they shipped on Tuesday, it was possible that they'd be in on Friday. So, there was the distinct possibility that my Wescos were waiting for me, three weeks before my birthday. Wouldn't that be great.

No.

Nope.

No Wescos.

Ah well.

I'm not at all thrilled with the idea of taking a trip to NYC just to pick up a pair of boots either next weekend or the weekend afterwards, so they'll just have to wait until 40 year old me gets up there to collect them.

Anyways...

Dinner! Dinner with Big, and his host (the Ex of Donee on my softball team), and the hosts boyfriend. I stuck my neck out, proposing that I drive the four of us across the bridge to the borough of Brooklyn, there to dine at a really good restaurant I knew of.

Taking a chance?

Oh yeah.

For one thing, I haven't eaten at this place for about three years. I had no idea if it was still there. For another thing, luring Manhattanites off their cherished island is always dicey. It must be the state of Don't Think About That they need to constantly convince themselves that life elsewhere would be impossible, so they have to put up with the exhorbitant rents, the dense throngs that make even the simplest of everyday tasks all but impossible, and the fact that NYC is distinctly less fun than it used to be. And so, they're more than prepared to disparage the world beyond.

But I forged ahead. We collected them, they piled into my jeep, and we found our way without too much of a problem across the Brooklyn Bridge.

And there was the restaurant (Le Petite Crevette on Atlantic Avenue), and--get this--there was a parking space right out front! It was still there, and it was still as good as I remembered. It's run by an couple who sank their retirement savings into opening up a restaurant. The love fish, and they love to cook. The fish there is soooo fresh, and the cooking is soooo good. If'n you get there, try the fish stews. They're just amazing. Done to perfection, and served in a big bowl of fishy goodness.

Everybody was thrilled with what they were served, and I sure loved my lobster stew.

We did a quick driving tour of Cobble Hill and Boerum Hill, featuring my former abode at Dean and Bond Streets, then headed back to Manhattan. Sir and I dropped off our dining companions, and then headed to the Upper Upper West Side.

Ah, bliss! Curling up in my Sir's arms and dropping off to sleep. Man, I need that. I need those strong, comforting arms holding me close. Just about more than anything. I slept in this morning, not because I was particularly tired, but just because it was so nice there in bed with my Sir that I didn't want it to end.

But, we struggled out of bed, showered, and repaired to a local diner for brunch. Alas, just about time for me to hit the road and head back to Pennsylvania. We headed back down to the West Village and had coffee at Factory Cafe. (I guess I'm not boycotting it any more.) We said goodbye, which was hard, saying we looked forward to seeing one another in three weeks, when I fly out to SF for my 40th birthday.

The Holland Tunnel was more of a disaster than usual. It took me an hour to go three blocks from West Street to get into the Tunnel, but after that it was smooth sailing. Hunterdon County is awash in fall colors, the sky was beautiful, and farmstands are full of mums and pumpkins. Even though it portends the onset of winter and temperatures in the twenties and thirties, even I have to admit it's a nice time of year.

So I got home, checked in with my father, got laundry together, and sat to unwind for a few minutes.

I picked up this book that I'm grudgingly reading. It's called "Who Moved My Cheese?" It's this business self-help book. You know the genre. Printed in 18 point type. Conveying a simple idea that a decent writer would have trouble extending into a magazine article. And sitting at the top of the bestseller lists for week after week, ignored by most of us.

I'm reading it because the company president's husband at work gave it to me to read. In other words, it's sort of Required Reading if I want to stay in his good graces. And I do. So far it's been nothing. Just babble and self-promotion, lame attempts to make you feel Good and On The Ball for reading it.

Uh huh.

But spending some time with it this afternoon, I came upon one of the books (few) ideas that I have to admit I really, really like.

Simply this: "What would you do if you weren't afraid?"

I love that.

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Man.

For the kinky among us, that's sort of the big hurdle we all had to leap across at some point or another. Getting over our fear. And that question seems to me to be a good way of surmounting that.

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Why, I'd get out of this vanilla relationship that's killing me, delve into SM, walk the streets in broad daylight all leathered up, shave my head, grow a big bushy stache, and get a big heavy chain tattooed from my right ankle to my left wrist.

For starters.

So I'm a good ways out of the Forest of Fear at this point. But I think there's still work to be done here. And, as I approach this apex-of-the-parabola birthday, that is a good question to ask myself: What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Indeed.

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

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