September — with its fading days and its slide into fall — is a bittersweet month for me. Almost exactly 30 years ago, during my senior year of high school, my parents’ marriage imploded. As a child, your parents’ divorce seems like one of those remote possibilities offered by history: the collapse of a banking system or the overthrow of a government or the violent demise of a beloved institution. Yes, these things happen, and yes, there may be some speculation and foreshadowing, but these things don’t happen to you. Unfortunately, they do, even though you have absolutely no understanding of the how or the why. (As an adult, the how and the why become far too clear, especially in the inevitable rough patches that accompany any long-term relationship — the hopefully fleeting moments when you feel like you are whistling past the graveyard of your own marriage.)

As a 16 year-old, knowing both everything and nothing, I charted the only sensible course: I vowed never to get married or have children. I found comfort in “This Be the Verse,” a poem by a peculiar Englishman with an interesting personal life who took his own advice. (I will warn you here: “This Be the Verse” detonates the f-bomb twice, which is hardly anything if you are a  Merchant Marine or a lawyer. But if you are a more genteel reader, it may offend.) Of course, life is one big ha-ha moment after another, so I married my college sweetheart, who seemed altogether fine with not having children.

And then — almost exactly 18 years ago — I had a bad day at work.

We have all had bad days. Last Monday, I had a spectacularly bad one: a monsoon, calls with the tax authorities, an overturned display at a supermarket, an umbrella opened onto my face, safety recalls on two of our cars, an after hours client crisis. But I remember little about the bad day at work 18 years ago other than it involved 38 phone calls, my screwing something up, a lot of yelling, acid running through my veins, and an eerie moment of clarity: there had to be more to my life than this. I wanted children. We will celebrate my son’s 17th birthday in 25 days.

To be fair, I tried to fight it: I first got a puppy, who was adorable and came with worms and ate a wing chair and needed constant attention. Over the years, I have been overwhelmed by it, like six weeks after our daughter was born and I hid in the garage, sobbing. Recently, with two teenagers, I have been tried and amused by it in equal measures, enjoying how genuinely funny my children are while trying not to feel hurt with doors shut and stingy hugs. And I marvel at it: how they, too, know everything and nothing, yet I know little to nothing at all — a perception shared by them and by me.

The constant presence of the living and breathing reminders of my spectacularly bad day at work 18 years ago has helped to improve my relationship with September. It has turned into an eventful month for me. Five years ago, I left a safe, well-paying, coveted job to venture into the choppy seas of self-employment — a decision that I have regretted little, if at all. Twelve days ago, after breakfast with my friend Dorothe, I decided to start this blog. I had always wanted to write, but to sit down and write a book seemed so daunting. Sitting down and writing for a few minutes, and having the courage to show others what I write, seemed like steps in the right direction.

I try to claim at least a small victory every September. Because kicking and screaming, life moves on.

ALC

As I was getting dressed for a party last night, I held briefly in my right hand a lovely black dress. My mother would have been so proud: It was elegant and demure and altogether proper. It was that type of party. But I am not that type of girl, so I wore instead

• a one-sleeved bright orange sweater,
• a sunshine yellow skirt,
• bright blue beads on my wrist and in my ears,
• a patent leather kelly green clutch, and
• sedately — and perhaps disappointingly — black tights and shoes.

I will be the first to admit: It bordered on looking like an explosion in the produce section (subtitle: when citrus goes bad!). And it continued my current style of dressing, which I term (affectionately) as Explosion at the Skittles Factory, as Imagined by a Deranged Eight Year-Old.

A few years ago, I took a good look at my closet and came to this realization: I was ready, and seemingly on-call, for 365 days of funerals. Everything was black. Dresses. Pants. Sweaters. Shoes. Casual. Work. Formal. Gym. An unremitting sea of sober dark clothes, broken up at times (just for the heck of it) by something as dicey as grey or navy. It didn’t show dirt, and it all made my butt look smaller, and it was all very well and good.

But it really wasn’t me. I laugh a lot, and I am slightly loud, and I sing, and I dance — none of which you could tell by my closet. And more to the point, dear reader, I was getting older, and all of these dark clothes made me look drawn and pale and wan. So I started buying clothes whose primary function (other than providing coverage) was to make me happy.

I have learned a few things along the way. Apparently, in my heart of hearts, I am a Miami Dolphins superfan: coral and turquoise is a frequent combination. I have an overwhelming preference for all things bright pink. (Curse you, Barbie!)  I cannot own enough orange. Or bright blue. Or yellow. Or citron. Red is my new black, and leopard print is a neutral. Much like a racoon at a campsite, I gravitate to the shiny. As my friend Jerry calls me, I am the Fighting Highlighter. As I wade through waves of tasteful neutrals and sedate colors, I feel like an exclamation point.

What is my biggest sartorial surprise? How others react. I have a job where I deal with people in terribly stressful times in their lives, and clients frequently tell me that my clothes make them feel calm, cheery, and hopeful. People smile at me more on the street, and I smile back. In line at McDonald’s, I had an engaging talk with a young male construction worker about costume jewelry. A homeless man stopped me on the streets of Asheville; he did not want to ask me for money, he said, because he wanted to talk to me about my shoes. (I gave him money anyway.)

And at the drink station at a Chipotle, when I was wearing a turquoise polka-dotted skirt, a coral top, a brightly patterned scarf, and neon yellow Chuck Taylors, a stranger hugged me soundly because my clothes made her happy. She said she he wished that she could dress like I did, so I told her my pretty unremarkable secrets: She had to buy only what made her feel good, suspend most notions of what actually matched, and become genuinely comfortable in what she was wearing. (Her horrified husband simply stared at me like I was some deranged eight year-old. Go figure.)

Listen, we go around only once. We all connect with ourselves and others in different ways. Clothing may not be your thing — believe it or not, I get that — but the desire for joy is universal. I had to have something to cover my form, and I have never regretted my decision to phase out the widow’s weeds. After a sometimes hard-fought struggle, I am happy; I might as well look happy; and I might as well make strangers happy, even if only for a moment.

ALC

Chris and I went to see a movie tonight. That is hardly a surprise: Over 29 years, we have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of movies. One of the small regrets of the relationship is that neither of us kept a list of the movies we’ve seen together — a list that (undoubtedly) would have chronicled our life as a couple. “Rocky Horror Picture Show” was the first movie I remember seeing with him. He was genuinely horrified during the Star Wars trilogy by my love of the Ewoks. As a young married couple, flush with time and money, we saw movies almost indiscriminately — especially in the summer of 1997, when I was hugely pregnant and the movie theater was the only place that was cold. When the children came, we progressed from animation to Harry Potter to the teen market to now sitting alone again, side by side, hands brushing in the popcorn bucket.

Tonight we saw “The One I Love.” The reviews were good but light on details, and now I see why: I cannot tell you much here without ruining the movie. I feel comfortable telling you only that it was about a couple on the verge of divorce, and that it was very, very weird, but very, very good — and thought-provoking. At times in a long-term relationship, it is perhaps tempting to choke up on the reins and slide into not the very best version of yourself. The couple’s struggles in the movie highlighted the benefits of forgiveness and ease and tenderness and compassion — all against a very odd backdrop. It made for interesting fodder at dinner.

But the reminder to loosen the reins made for fun. Right before we turned onto our street, with the top down on the car, the music a little loud, and the evening weather a soft warm blanket, I asked Chris if we could keep driving. We did, singing and laughing and enjoying the ease.

When I told a friend the name of my new blog, she replied, “Should there be a dash or space after the A? Ha ha!” Ha, ha indeed. My attempts to convince people that I am only slightly Type A are akin to attempts to convince people that one is only slightly pregnant: futile, possibly cute, and all together ignoring the obvious. One look at my furtive border collie eyes, my twitchy energy, my overscheduled time, and my sense of go-go-go betrays me in an instant. (Et tu, Type A?)

But what happens when a Type A has a midlife crisis, realizes the extent of her gloom and despair, and vows to be happy? She becomes a Type ALC: a person who applies her relentless energy, ambition, and striving to have a more joyous, more fulfilling life. Her days become a veritable war on happiness. She becomes a Zen god, but only in the sense of the proverbial duck: smooth on the surface, paddling like hell underneath.

So in that spirit, I bring you this blog. Damn the happiness torpedoes and see what happens.

ALC