Turning 43 yesterday didn’t seem imposing or fretful in the least. Or it didn’t until shortly after lunch. It was around that time when a series of inconvenient truths managed to decry my optimism, undermine my celebratory notions and deflate the air of hope and expectation I held. Hey, I’m entitled. It was my birthday. So there I was going down in flames around 2:30 p.m. as life’s curve balls were gliding over home plate in rapid succession. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. I’m out.

It seemed unfair and underserving. I’ve paid some dues the past year. Or I thought I had. It’s been a challenge for me to be 42 years old for the past twelve months. More challenges and hurdles than I had planned on engaging became my close circle of friends. But I survived. And, as of late, promise and opportunity have crept into my soul’s nooks and crannies. Light seemed to be showing a low to medium wattage of illumination. So why such misery and despair on my birthday? Why me? Why today? (Just checking; did I forget to ask, “Why me?”) WHY ME?

My mind was racing to find a blessing beyond the everyday, often dismissed ones such as food, shelter, a home and family and friends who care for me and about me. Those go without saying so they really don’t count, right? I needed a blessing to counter such indulgent self pity. I needed an uber blessing. Something extreme. Something worthy of its own primetime reality show. How does Extreme Blessing sound? Or, Blessing Makeover? Blessings on a Dime? So You Wanna Be A Blessing? (Are you listening NBC, ABC or CBS? ) My mind, still functioning with relative ease and seamless discovery, even at 43, found one. A blessing, that is. A gift. A lesson.

I met a foster child this weekend. A six year old girl who, along with her two younger brothers, was spending the day at the beach. Softly spoken and with an unassuming presence, she had the unique ability to find things on the ground. She found a penny in the most obsure place. She found a thread hanging gently on the arm of a chair. Next came a sandspur burrowed in the carpet’s weave. And the exploration and discoveries continued all day. I could see a forensic pathology career waiting for her. An investigative mind was at work and on alert. What a knack she had for finding the proverbial needles in haystacks. I marveled at her skill and wondered out loud, “How does she do it?” Silently, the answer came to me: “Why wouldn’t she do it? She’s lived her short life with her head held down.”

Her eyes have witnessed the landscape upon which she walks more so than the landscape which hovers above. Shame, hurt, and fear have given rise to this so called talent that requires she look down. Of course she can find things on the ground. The ground has become her view of the world. She knows it better than most.

I found my blessing by looking into this child’s life. I hold my head up. Not downward. I see stars. I see clouds. I see the sun. I see the universe above and around me containing life’s mysteries and wonders. And blessings. By looking up, I can find hope. Possibility. Dreams. I’ve become more accustomed to these things as opposed to threads, crumbs, and particles of little significance or value. I’m not sure this little girl, with her chin held low, ever sees the same things I do. Soon, I hope she will. One day. She deserves to. And I’m gratefully reminded of what blessing is in front and around me everyday – life.

I found my blessing on a memorable birthday – a birthday that threatened its generous gifting of self pity. To that little girl and to myself, I say, “Chin Up!”

I feel like a Peeping-Tom. I feel dirty. My parents raised me better. My transgression? I invaded some lady’s privacy recently. I violated her private space. How? When? Where? HOW? I was in the check out line at a Wal-Mart Superstore. That’s right, the Wal-Mart Superstore Express check-out line. That gives you the when and where. The HOW? Answering involves a little more complexity and a lot more insight into how I process life.

The check out line has become a little intimate and personal if you ask me. Maybe I’m over reacting. Maybe I’m over thinking the whole stand-in-line and cruise-the-other-person’s-swag thing. But there’s just something a little uncomfortable about viewing someone’s acquisition of unmentionables, personal hygiene items and (dare I say?) household “paper” products. And what does it say about someone who buys these items in conjunction with tater tots? What does it say about my intrigue with the personal intimacies of others as they relate to express checkout?

I always perceived my purchases at the supermarket to be quite balanced and politically correct. (Can grocery carts be politically correct?) I would have pasta and cheeses along with red wines. My frozen entrees would be complimented with a nice assortment of appetizer snacks (i.e., Cheez-Its). And, there would most definitely be a sweet tooth item to lend the exclamation point. (Dessert is so “in.”) As well, my food items were customarily “balanced” with an assortment of household items including cleaners, disinfectants, and necessary paper products. For good measure, there was the occasional luxury of flowers and hot foods from the deli! (Yippee!) Talk about comprehensive. And on the occasion when I found it necessary to run to the market and grab last minute “pick ups,” (read: I ran out of toilet paper OR there’s noticeable trouble with indigestion) my potpourri of express lane items would easily grant me “grace under pressure” with the intentional inclusion of “support” items designed to lace my basket with diversion. What goes great with Pepto? Ben and Jerry’s! What compliments Charmin toilet paper? Seedless grapes and Coffee Mate! Such add-on shopping was designed for would be gawkers just salivating to judge my grocery assortment. How could I hold my head up in public if these strangers deciphered my pressing moment of peril and realized that I only needed toilet paper? After all, if you dash to the market ONLY for toilet paper, inquiring minds are forced to ponder if the need for paper products is PROACTIVE or REACTIVE. A reactive deduction could prompt looks of suspicion and avoidance. Again, perhaps I’m over thinking this whole thing.

Nevertheless, my paper product initiative would necessitate a can of Pledge, Sun Chips, Murphy’s Oil and seedless grapes. The seedless grapes are a slam dunk. They’ll throw off the nosiest of Gladys Kravitz’s.

So upon my discovery that the young woman in the express check out line was purchasing both Ore Ida tater tots and a red silken foundation garment, I was transfixed on the “WHY? I stared and glared trying to figure out which of the items was the “beard” (i.e., “cover”) for the other. Was she preparing a tater tot hot dish casserole for her betrothed? Was I to presume the lingerie was dessert? Was the red “nightie” a distraction created to purposely derail a line of thought that categorized the woman with some potato-trendy eating disorder? What was the motive behind her shopping collection? Lost in thought, I failed to realize I was staring at her newly acquired items of incongruency.Our eyes met and I knew instinctively that I had invaded her privacy. My face became red. The blood drained from her’s.

She collected her change from the cashier and scampered away into the super-sized parking lot. Did I mention that is was 8:47 a.m. and the morning after Halloween? Tater tots and lingerie? HUH?

I was next in line with discount Halloween candy. I threw in a greeting card for good measure. A perfect logical purchase wouldn’t you say?

Even if I say it three times, and tap the heels of my Kenneth Cole’s together, it won’t bring back the Ambassador Hotel. The Oz-like footwork and verbal mantra won’t and can’t whisk me away to the once legendary hotel and its (in)famous Cocoanut Grove nightclub. At the grand age of eighty-five years old, The Ambassador Hotel, was demolished by the Los Angeles Unified School District for the purpose of clearing space for a new elementary, middle and high school.

Senator Bobby Kennedy was assassinated at the hotel. Gone With the Wind swept the 5^th Annual Academy Awards at the Cocoanut Grove ballroom. The 521 room majestic fortress accommodated celebrities, birthed innuendo, harbored secrets and then w