Every time my life is due for a change, I’m petrified. Case in point, my operation, scheduled for March 23rd. That gives me a few weeks left to freak out before my old life gets the boot.

Alex reminds me this same scenario has happened quite frequently in our marriage.

• leaving Philly (okay, this was before his time)
• getting married (even if he was a great guy)
• moving out of NYC (even if we were building a house)
• watching Alex’s parents move back to Bolivia (we have to be together)
• having Skylar (Alexandra didn’t cause the same angst)
• moving back to Philly (even though we got to be closer to my parents).

It’s like I have to break up with the old me each time change occurs until I can get comfortable enough with the new me.

But we’re talking about boots today, and these boots were made for talking. Right?

A Stool With Boots: We have to backtrack to 2003 when Alex and I built our dream house in the suburbs of NY. It was our pride and joy since we didn’t have kids yet. And when life put Philadelphia back on the map nine years later, we had to sell our baby. I was devastated (change worse than changing a nasty diaper of someone else’s kid).

We had promised some of the furniture in the sale of the house, but I got cold feet about our powder room bathroom stool. It was just a stool, it wasn’t the cost, and it wasn’t even an antique; supposedly, a friend said they sold them on every street corner in Chinatown.

But emotionally, I couldn’t part with my stool (constipated, in other words). It meant the world to me. Alex called the realtor and asked if we could take it. The buyers said we could have it, but they would have to take all our deck furniture. The stool was going through a bidding war.w

So moving day, Alex and I were going to show them. We took a photo of the stool and drove to Chinatown in NYC to hunt down a replica. We had the whole story plotted out. We’d buy the Chinatown replica, switch out the stools, and the buyers would never know how smart we were. It was a brilliant plan.

We got to Chinatown, whipped out the camera screen like detectives on a missing person case to reveal the photo, and showed it to every passerby. No one had ever seen a stool like that. (They got a kick out of it, though).

But that was just the diversion I needed. Three hours later, driving back to say our final goodbye to the house, to New York, all that seemed so tragic, we returned as the movers loaded the last piece of furniture.

We couldn’t tell the movers the critical failed mission we had been on. We had to keep from laughing–all that drama over a stool. If only I had thought to hide the stool in the closet. Now that would have been funny.

Holly Gets the Boots:  Another brilliant idea I had was to buy Holly booties to put on her paws so she wouldn’t get frostbite. The manufacturer recommended putting them on in the house first, or maybe that was Alex; he’s forever skeptical of my “brilliant ideas.” And why should he be?

You’ll have to believe me on this; Holly skirted and flopped her legs around on the funniest video you’ve ever seen. (If only Alex could find that video to back up my claim.)

NYC Boot Camp: Back to our wild stool chase, Alex and I went to NYC just a few weeks ago on another excursion. I needed a second, or third, okay, fifth opinion about my upcoming operation.

Did I mention I hate change? When we didn’t have kids, my sister found it humorous to offer her child as a practice zone for us to learn how to change diapers. We didn’t have YouTube to show us what she could do with that dirty diaper.

I know. Changing diapers has nothing to do with the change I’m talking about, but what the heck?

I needed someone to be strict with me–push me into the deep end. Not tell me the choice is mine.

Anyway, the doctor did what any New Yorker would do. She told me like it is. I have no choice but to get a bilateral mastectomy, or else I would be practicing malpractice on myself. Um, that seemed to clear up any confusions I had there.

I was grateful to receive the tough-love approach that only a New Yorker can provide. Plus, our trip brought back fond memories as goofy as hunting down that stool.

Maybe going to boot camp was another diversion–necessary to help take my mind off of what’s making me sad otherwise.

Leaving the doctor’s appointment, I needed to switch from my indoor beanie to my outside hat. I hadn’t thought to do it in the bathroom (and there was no phone booth to run into the way Superman would have done), but I changed hats in the entrance to the hospital. Right in front of this man. If only I had a picture of his shocked face. He was not expecting me to be a chia pet underneath it all.

So hats off to chia pets, boots, and laughter to give us the kick in the pants we need to get through the hard parts of life. But first, I had to apologize for giving him such a shock at a hospital of all places. No more hair-brained ideas from me.

Aren’t we all looking for those funny diversions to forget the fear and get a boot out of life?