THE DEEP END

The world stands out on either side

No wider than the heart is wide; 

Above the world is stretched the sky, —

No higher than the soul is high. 

The heart can push the sea and land 

Farther away on either hand; 

The soul can split the sky in two, 

And let the face of God shine through. 

But East and West will pinch the heart 

That cannot keep them pushed apart; 

And he whose soul is flat—the sky

Will cave in on him by and by.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

From Renascence (1912)

My month-long writer's residency at Millay Arts overlaps with the Jewish High Holidays. Rosh Hashanah falls on the Friday of my very first week. I haven’t made firm plans, as I am still learning the rhythms and routines of the residency—unstructured and self-directed, except for dinner. Every evening at 6:30 p.m., all six residents meet at the main house for a sit-down meal prepared in advance by the talented Chef Donna.

The dinners are long and leisurely, sometimes stretching past two hours. Over an unhurried meal, we tell our stories and fill in the missing pieces of the bios we submitted with our applications. A few revelations:

• I am the oldest in the group, but only by a few years. Phew! I had convinced myself I would be the Alpha Mom in a house full of Gen Zs.

• None of us is from New York. We hail from a mix of red and blue states: Kansas, Texas, Minnesota, California, Ohio, and Illinois.

• I am the only sober person—though barring the ghost of our hostess, party-girl poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, it doesn’t appear to be a hard-drinking bunch.

• I am the only Jew—a rare occurrence in my Upper West Side milieu.

So it is surreal, and a little sad, to be away for the High Holidays especially since the central spiritual focus is teshuvah—which literally means return. How strange to be on the family text chain with all its “Happy New Year!” and “What time is lunch?” and “Who’s bringing what?” messages and not respond. How lonely to live stream our synagogue’s service on my laptop instead of sitting next to my husband in Row O, Seat 113, behind our dear friends.

As Friday approaches, I feel a little homesick. Up here, Rosh Hashanah doesn't seem to be on anyone's radar, which makes total sense. Before I converted in 1996, I hadn't internalized the Jewish calendar either. In fact, there are still holidays I only know because of the NYC Alternate Side Parking schedule—that means you, Shemini Atzeret!  Besides, I hadn't brought it up, and with a name like Patty, it's entirely possible nobody realized I was Jewish.

Just as my writing is self-directed at Millay, I need to curate my own spiritual program up here. I have to make Rosh Hashanah work with this makeshift mishpucha.

And so, after dinner on Friday night, having watched the evening service online, I slipped into the kitchen to slice some local apples I'd bought at the Taste NY shop. I looked around the pantry and located a plastic jug of Price Chopper honey. This will do, I thought as I brought out the platter.

"Tonight is the first night of the Jewish New Year,” I announced to the group, “and it’s a tradition to eat apples and honey, if you’d like to join me."  

I passed the plate around the table as they enthusiastically dipped and crunched, punctuating bites with yums and thank-yous. The apples and honey were a hit.

"Here's to a sweet new year!," I said

One of the residents asked what else happens on Rosh Hashanah. I shared that we usually eat a round challah to represent the cycle of the year and we blow the shofar—a ram’s horn that serves as a sort of spiritual wake-up call.

“But my absolute favorite ritual is Tashlich,” I said, referring to the custom of tossing crumbs into a body of water to represent the habits, experiences, behaviors and anything else we don’t want to carry with us into the new year.

“I usually go to the Hudson River," I said, "but I'm sure I can find a lake around here tomorrow."

“Hey, what about the pool?” someone asked.

The pool?

Oh, right. How could I forget? We saw it during orientation on our first day. In the forest just across the road from the barn are the ruins of an outdoor bar and garden where "the flowers were watered with gin." The centerpiece is a spring-fed, in-ground swimming pool where guests would skinny dip during Millay's legendary summertime soirées.

Probably not Kosher, I thought. Okay definitely not Kosher. But creative and intriguing.

"I think that could work" I said. 

One intrepid and curious resident offered to join me. The following afternoon, we walked up the wooded trail lined with native wildflowers to the pool—a large concrete hole partially filled with a murky mix of spring and rainwater. We took in the ruins: century-old stone benches, a mud-coated birdbath, and a cherub statue looking like Puck perched among a dozen or so dead arborvitae trunks that stand as guardians of the garden's glory days.

At the edge of the pool my companion handed me a hunk of sourdough she’d bought that morning at the Hillsdale Farmers Market. We began tossing our crumbs, reciting what we wanted to let go of in the coming year:

Self doubt.
Fear.
Perfectionism.
Shame.

The irony of a sober woman performing a cleansing ritual like Tashlich at the epicenter of Millay’s booze-soaked revelry was not lost on me. But there was also something deeply meaningful about casting off the things that no longer served me—alcohol among them—in the very place where this talented poet drank herself to death. Having shed my own party-girl persona more than a decade ago, I hadn’t come here to celebrate Millay’s notorious excesses. I’d come to tap into her artistic spirit and connect with her creative life.

Dishonesty.
Envy.
People pleasing.
Anger.

And any comfort that is false and destructive —that means you, Trader Joe Snacky Clusters!

When we'd cast the last of our "sins" into the water, I pulled out my phone and read a secular prayer I found online:

Source of all Creation, I am ready to let go of all the ways I’ve missed the mark. Help me know that last year is over, and let those things that no longer serve me float away like crumbs in the current—or in this case, let them biodegrade into the ruins of this party pool.

Then we stood in silence, side by side in the golden glow of the waning light, as a red-tailed hawk swooped low and soared above us—a lapsed Catholic and a Jewish convert, strangers just days ago, now linked by a moment of quiet, unexpected grace.

NINE LIVES

 

I’m going back to school!  

OK, not really but it certainly feels like it. Low humidity. Cool temps. Day-after-Labor Day sweater weather. No parking spots on the block. A Jewish holiday at the end of the week. Yep, it’s fall. And like an awkward middle schooler stepping into high school, I'm going to be waaaay out of my comfort zone. I’m heading to a month-long artist residency in the Hudson Valley. A lifelong dream—or at least a two-decade fantasy. And it’s actually happening.  I’ve got all the back-to-school feels to prove it: excitement, eagerness, anticipation, pressure, anxiety...but mostly terror. Absolute terror.

“Stress is your body’s way of preparing you for success,” my husband said as we hugged goodbye.  

“I know,” I said. That was our mantra for our now-adult daughters whenever a new school year—or any nerve-wracking milestone—was on the horizon.

I also know from religiously reading the New York Times WELL newsletter that trying something new at age 60—especially when it triggers a bit of fear—is excellent for my brain health. That’s why I took Mahjongg lessons last winter.

Neuroplasticity - good.

Neuroticism - not so good. 

It was nearly 10am and I needed to be on the road no later than noon to make it to the 3pm orientation in time. Gotta go!

So I got a manicure.

I cleaned the house.

I emptied the dishwasher.

I stocked the freezer with my husband’s favorite Yasso pops. 

I called both kids to say goodbye.

I packed a snack bag - nuts and oranges and Splenda, oh my!

And finally, finally, finally, I hit the road just before 12.

Unfortunately, my Imposter Syndrome was riding shotgun.

Who do you think you are?

What are you doing?

What will you say when people ask you what you’re writing?

Is it a memoir?

Is it fiction?

Is it … wait, what is it? 

 

Not even New Wave ‘80s radio at full volume could quiet the voices. They were loud. They were mean.

About half way through the drive I stopped at the Taste of New York rest stop to pee. And to buy lunch. And by lunch I mean a turkey wrap, a local apple and a chocolate chip cookie. Oh and ten (yes 10!) large bags of BjornQorn Maple Popcorn. Never mind that the residency includes a fully stocked kitchen. I was spiraling.  I got back in the car and switched the station to Carpenters Radio hoping Karen’s soothing alto could calm me down. 

Turns out my savior was a grey-haired lady called Calliope.

 

“Welcome!” she said, bounding out of her office the moment I reached the campus, a dreamy mountaintop retreat flanked by fields of tall goldenrod.

Calliope is the Chief Operating Officer at Millay Arts.

Could that actually be her real name?

In Greek Mythology, Calliope is the muse of creative writing. She was considered the eldest, wisest, and chief among the nine Muses.  Ancient poets would invoke Calliope at the start of their works to grant them inspiration and artistic grace. Here she was welcoming me to my first-ever writer’s residency.

“We’ve been having some good creative mojo up here,” she said enthusiastically. “I hope we can keep it going!”

She probably sensed my panic.

- Nervous laugh - check. 

- Speed talking - check. 

- Bags of maple popcorn spilling out of the Subaru - check.  

 

But my terror quickly turned to wonder as she showed me my home for the next four weeks: a beautiful, black-and-white barn!

 
“It was built in the late 1920s from a Sears & Roebuck kit,” Calliope said as she showed me my modest yet comfortably appointed room. Then we headed upstairs to my writing studio.

“Wow,  it’s huge!” I said, marveling at the high ceilings, plush couch and oversize writing desk.  “I think it’s bigger than my first New York apartment.”

I felt a surge of pride.

This is my studio, I thought. Because I AM A WRITER. 

The next morning, my first full day at Millay, I flipped open my laptop, ready to write. It was exactly 9am. On September 9. 

9/9 at 9am.

Nine muses.

Nine lives.

The whole nine yards.

It felt like a sign. So I Googled “what’s the spiritual meaning of “9?” and here’s what I got: 

• Nine represents the end of a cycle or phase. It signifies that you have acquired the necessary wisdom from an experience and are ready to release the past to make room for new beginnings.

• Because it holds the energy of all the numbers that come before it (1 through 8), 9 symbolizes deep spiritual maturity, higher intelligence, and self-realization.

• Nine carries the vibration of cause and effect, encouraging individuals to live authentically and align with their soul's broader purpose.

Wow. 

Both of my daughters and my husband sent me lovely messages saying they hope my first day goes well and that they were proud of me. 

I am proud of me too.

In fact I’m on Cloud Nine.

Queen Mother

 

    On a balmy June evening during my first summer in New York City, I made my way across a crowded backyard party in the West Village. Our host, a gregarious art director named B.W. Honeycutt, had assembled a hodgepodge of hipsters to celebrate the solstice. As “Love Shack,” the new B52s song, blared over a loudspeaker I spotted her.  She was fabulous in her big blonde hair and giant sequin platform shoes. She batted her fake eyelashes as she flirted with B.W. and his date, a strapping young lad dressed in leather chaps and a white ribbed t-shirt. Towering over the rest of the party-goers, she was as easy to spot as an overgrown stalk of salvia in this garden of colorful characters.  I fluttered toward her like a butterfly thirsty for nectar.  

“Hi,” I said as I merged into the conversation cluster. Up close, her cascading Dusty Springfield-inspired wig, frosted lipstick, boobs popping out of her babydoll dress and long painted nails  looked astonishingly similar to the woman I’d left behind in San Francisco. 

“I just have to tell you,” I said a little wistfully, “You look just like my mother.”  

B.W. gasped.

The leather man screamed. 

The drag queen glared.

“Rude!” she shouted, before turning on her four-inch glitter heels and sashaying away.

“Welcome to New York, honey” B.W. said laughing.

“Welcome to my childhood, I said. 

Gus

Shortly after my dog passed away on July 1, 2020, his likeness appeared on a tree. I should say his licheness as a fungal version of our beloved family pet had mystically materialized onto the bark. It wasn’t like an algae blob that kind of looked like a dog shape if you squinted hard enough or closed one eye or looked through the phone camera. No, this was a canine apparition, a paranormal pooch so strikingly similar to our sweet pup it looked as if woodland nymphs had spray painted his portrait onto the dogwood. It was unmistakably, inexplicably, heartbreakingly Gus.

The summer of 2020 had already been a strange and surreal season. My husband and I decamped to upstate New York from the Upper West Side. We weren’t running toward the country so much as running away from the city. Renting a “Tranquility Barn” on Airbnb seemed like the ideal escape from the epicenter of the global pandemic. Before Covid, the owners of the barn had hosted yoga and meditation retreats there. Now they hosted a couple of anxious, middle-aged Manhattanites and our 12 ½ year-old Havanese.

We’d been in the barn a month when Gus passed away peacefully on a sunny summer morning. And I mean really peacefully. He collapsed on a pink meditation cushion and died suddenly after his off-leash trot along a quiet, tree-lined country road.

Without Gus, my husband and I continued to do our twice daily walks. It was a hard habit to break. One evening, as we ambled along Schoolhouse Road, the gravel crunching beneath our feet, I glanced at a group of trees and noticed a phantom pup staring back at me.

Gus?

The otherwise amorphous algae had transformed into a beautiful portrait of our dog on the trunk of a tree. I looked away at the road and then back at the tree to make sure I really saw it. Yep, Gus was still there.

My husband’s head was in his phone so he didn’t see it, and I was too stunned to say anything. Plus I was worried he wouldn’t see what I saw. In our partnership, I’ve always been the West Coast woo woo who believes in the power of vision boards, journaling and mantras. David is the practical, semi-agnostic former federal prosecutor who plays his cards closer to Blackjack than Tarot.

“My wife’s from California '' is a frequent refrain, and I was certain this would be another one of those eye rolling "California Crazy" moments. But it was too magical for him to miss.

“David,” I said, “Do you see anything on that tree?”

Without hesitation, my cynical, non-believing, rational husband yelled “Gus!” We ran over to the tree and wrapped our arms around its trunk. We patted Gus' lichen head, kissed his mossy paws and cried as we told him how much we missed him. And we began to heal that deep wound left by his sudden passing. I took lots of photos in case it really was a grief-induced hallucination, a mirage that would vanish with the setting summer sun. When we got back to the barn, I texted a photo of the Gus Tree to our Airbnb host and his simple reply said it all.

“Holy shit,” he wrote. “That’s a miracle”

NICE SHOES

My four-inch gladiator stilettos clicked unsteadily along the concrete walkway. It had been only ten minutes since my innocent feet had been locked into their expensive pedi-prisons and already a rebellion was brewing.

"Flip flops! Flip flops," my bunions screamed as arrows of pain shot through my toes.  A bead of sweat settled on my upper lip as a white-haired waiter dressed in black tie approached with a tray of cool relief.

"Sparkling water?" he asked. Instead of making eye contact, he was looking down toward my feet. I followed his gaze to make sure there wasn't a lizard or bug skittering under my towering heels.  

He looked up and said, "Nice shoes," which was an unexpected yet entirely appropriate welcome to the 2009 Footwear News CEO Summit, a sort of shoes-a-palooza for industry leaders. For the next 36 hours, several hundred attendees would mix and mingle at the pool, bar, beach, gym and grand ballroom of the Four Seasons Palm Beach to exchange ideas and information about every aspect of the footwear biz. From design and manufacturing to sales and marketing to cleaning and recycling and much, much more, it would be all shoes all the time. 

As Executive Director of Marketing for LUCKY, "the magazine about shopping," I had been invited to the Summit, along with the Publisher, to share proprietary research on "The Alpha Shoppers," a group of recession-proof consumers the magazine had been closely monitoring. We'd also be introducing and demonstrating a shoe-shopping app that LUCKY had recently launched. 

But first - theVIP cocktail party. 

Glass in hand and Tom Ford sunglasses on, I took a lap around the patio past clusters of well-dressed, well-heeled Summit-goers until I spotted a familiar face: Eran Cohen, the CMO of Payless Shoe Source and one of LUCKY's advertisers. He was chatting animatedly with an older, flame-haired woman wearing a black tank mini dress, spiked leather belt and chunky biker bracelet - definitely more East Village than West Palm. 

"Patty!" Eran said leaning in for an air kiss on both cheeks. "Do you know Pat? She's doing a collection for us this fall."

"Hello," I said trying to appear nonchalant as I realized this punk rock party guest was Patricia Fucking Field!!!! Style icon. Costume designer for Sex and The City and Devil Wears Prada. Former owner of a downtown boutique where I'd purchased my first wig in 1990 (during my Dee-Lite phase.) 

"Nice to meet you," she said cooly extending her hand adorned with an iPhone-sized cocktail ring. She gave me a quick, not-so-subtle, sunglasses-to-shoes once over as she took a sip of her drink.  I did the same and gasped audibly when my eyes reached her shoes.  

OMG! The Dior Extreme Gladiator Platform!  

This was not just footwear; it was art. This was the shoe that broke the internet, sparking millions of Google searches after SJP wore them throughout the first Sex & the City film and spawning dozens of knock-off versions (including the Calvin Klein pair I was regrettably wearing that night.)

Nice meeting you, I started to say but all that came out was "Nice shoes."  

The next morning, humbled by my defeat in the gladiator arena, I brought out the big guns - a pair of denim Azzedine Alaïa slingback, peep-toe platforms. At almost six-feet tall and rocking a white linen DVF pantsuit,  I felt invincible as I strode to the stage of the grand ballroom to deliver my presentation. The editor of Footwear News welcomed me to the podium and, as he stepped aside, he looked down and whispered, "Nice shoes." 

That evening, I came back down to Earth with a pair of jeweled, open-toe, low-heel Loeffler Randall sandals for a reception celebrating the 10th Anniversary of Zappos, the online shoe retailer whose slogan is "Happiness in a Box." In the elevator on the way to the party, I noticed a man checking me out below the knees. Here we go again, I thought as I waited for him to comment on my footwear.  Instead he commented on my foot. 

"You've got a serious bunion there," he said. "You should look into orthotics." 

On the final morning, I put on my "flying shoes" -  a worn-in pair of red Steve Madden ballet flats - since I'd be going straight to the airport after breakfast.  As I stood on the buffet line, I noticed a short man dressed in jeans and a baseball cap looking at my feet (as literally everyone else did during my stay in Palm Beach.) Then I recognized him from his picture in the Summit program - it was Steve Madden himself! 

"Nice shoes," he said with a proud smile. "Nice shoes."  

MAXI SKIRT MINI DRAMA

 

There’s a fabulous scene in the TV show Better Things, one of the best and most honest portrayals of an aging mom ever - where the fiftysomething Sam is tearing through her closet trying to find something to wear and nothing fits. She wriggles into her go-to jeans, forces on her patchwork leather jacket, unsuccessfully buttons up a silky blouse - none of it works as she’s sweating profusely and wondering What the f*ck happened to all my clothes?  

These days, it feels like that scene plays out in my own closet every time I get ready to go anywhere. 

So when my friend’s book party invitation arrived - an early evening summer cocktail party at Butterfly Lounge at the Sixty Soho hotel celebrating the launch of her essay collection, Tough Titties - I had two responses: Yes! and Ugh - what am I going to wear? 

Not to brag or boast or beat a dead clotheshorse but until recently finding the right outfit had always been my sartorial superpower. My closet is a treasure trove of styling triumphs: a red crepe Lisa Perry-for-Barneys trapeze dress I found last minute and on sale for a dinner at the TWA Hotel (very ‘60s stewardess!); a crinkled metallic silver Topshop mini dress for a Warhol opening at MoMA (sooo Factory Girl!); an $8.99 yellow vinyl clutch from Target worn with a black satin shift to New York Fashion Week. Legendary street style photographer Bill Cunningham spotted my cheap and chic bag and shot it for a New York Times Sunday Styles feature on the season’s colorful accessories.   

So what to wear to a book party? Should have been a softball question. Literally Google Patty Nasey and a photo of me at a downtown book party pops up (wearing a fabulous dress from Le Shack by Tracy Feith.)

But the 2020s ushered in a perfect storm of personal style challenges: the new “covid casual” dress code made it acceptable to wear athleisure to Broadway shows and cashmere hoodies to fancy restaurants and pajamas to the supermarket and sneakers, well, everywhere. Plus the onset of menopause completely changed my body (hello Eileen Fisher, I finally get it!)  And I was feeling especially self-conscious about what to wear to the Tough Titties party because I would be seeing a lot of former magazine colleagues, many of whom I hadn’t seen since before the Pandemic, before I let my hair go gray and before middle age took away my waistline and collagen. I wanted an outfit that said, I’m retired but not tired;  I’m trying, but not too hard; I may be out of the game but I can still play. 

I knew I had to wear my new denim maxi skirt.  

Egged on by breathless editors and influencers touting the denim maxi as a “must-have” item for the season, I impulsively bought one at Zara but had yet to wear it. I scrolled through Instagram and Vogue’s email newsletters for ideas on how to style it and decided to pair my long jean skirt with a plain white tee under a lightweight black sweatshirt, and wear my black and white Adidas Sambas. Casual, comfortable,  on-trend and youthful. The perfect look for a downtown book party!  

Or so I thought. 

The moment I arrived at the Butterfly Lounge, it was instantly clear that BarbieCore maximalism was the vibe, NOT the Torah Teacher aesthetic I was rocking. Everyone had apparently dressed to match the name of the venue. Butterflies everywhere!  It looked like the vivarium at The American Museum of Natural History. Women towered over me like tall flowers dressed in bright colors, cheerful patterns and tropical florals, with statement jewelry, and bold makeup.  It felt as hot as the vivarium too, and I was wrapped in a cocoon of denim. The influencers and editors pushing this essential wardrobe item failed to mention that a denim maxi is very heavy.  For a woman of a certain age who is still prone to hot flashes it was the worst possible item to wear to a crowded event.  It was a dress code red!  

I pushed toward the bar, feeling like a frumpy fiftysomething in a sea of Sex-and-the-City somethings, squeezing past a blonde glamazon wearing a pink sequined pantsuit with a shimmery pussy bow blouse and metallic gold stilettos and scooting by a willowy tan brunette in a jewel-tone one-shoulder satin jumpsuit with coordinating lipstick, earrings and nail polish. As I made my way through the crowd I knew I’d made a major miscalculation. It looked like a Bravo party for the Real Housewives. Only I was the only real housewife at the party. 

The bartender gave me a much-needed glass of ice cold water and I found a seat in the corner where I could cool down, hide out and flip through a copy of my friend’s book.  The good news about being an older woman at a younger person’s party is that nobody was looking at me or gave a shit about what I was wearing. The bad news is, well, nobody was looking at me or gave a shit about what I was wearing. I spotted one of my former colleagues (who is my age and, dammit, she was wearing an adorable flirty, floral dress and patent platform sandals - how did I miss the memo?!!) She said I looked cute but I didn’t believe her. I stayed for the toasts and by the time I said goodbye I was a sweaty, uncomfortable mess. As soon as I got home, I found the receipt for the denim maxi skirt and realized I still had two days to return it for a full refund. Yes I had worn it but I would definitely never wear it again.  Thank you, Zara!

I want to blame the maxi skirt for my mini drama. But I know my insecurity about aging is the real issue, this irrational fear that someone is going to think I’ve “let myself go” - whatever that means. Perhaps the joy of being middle aged is the thing I’ve feared the most - blending into the background and not being on display.  So what if I had a slight sartorial slip-up, a mild wardrobe misfire, a minor fashion emergency.  As my friend would say, Tough Titties! 

Farewell, Spaz

This summer I will travel 3,000 miles across the country and four decades back in time for my 40-year high school reunion. In the past few weeks since the date was announced my phone has been blowing up - Friend requests from former homecoming queens who are now grandmas (eek!); ‘80s nostalgia memes and Gen X GIFs; shared Spotify playlists (so much Journey!); Throwback Thursday prom pix and messages and comments from classmates calling me by my high school nickname: “Spaz.” 

In the fall of 1979, when I entered 9th grade, calling someone (me) “Spaz” was not considered bullying. Nor would it get a student suspended or an artist canceled. On the contrary, during my high school years “Spaz” and dorks in general were having a moment. On Saturday Night Live, Bill Murray and Gilda Radner played nerd couple Lisa Loopner and Todd DiLaMuca for three seasons with an occasional guest appearance by Steve Martin as “Chaz the Spaz.” The hit summer-camp comedy Meatballs featured a counselor named Spaz (Jack Blum). SJP played the adorkable Patty (!!!) on the TV show Square Pegs and a year later Revenge of the Nerds hit the big screen. 

So when I was anointed Spaz my freshman year, I laughed along, happy not to be invisible. In fact, I leaned into the moniker - the nickname became my identity.  I should note that I was not (and am not) a person with a disability. I was just a really gawky teen in the midst of an awkward pubescent growth spurt. I bounced around campus, my disproportionately long, skinny arms flapping chaotically like one of those inflatable men outside a car dealership. One of the youngest in my grade, I still had braces, a training bra and a guileless enthusiasm that was underappreciated by the too-cool-for-school girls who smoked in the bathroom and threatened to flush my hair down the toilet (a “swirlie.”)  Since I was clearly too geeky to be a cheerleader, I tried out to be the school mascot and won. I proudly wore my Miner costume on game days and took home the “Best Mascot” trophy at the league championships defeating the Placer Hillman, the Roseville Tiger, and the Elk Grove Thundering Herd!  I earned my varsity letter in Badminton, the ideal lightweight sport for a nerd like me with its wispy rackets and feathered shuttlecocks. I landed a part as a “Screaming Teen” in the school play, Bye Bye Birdie, where I played a slightly exaggerated version of myself. My best buddy and prom date Steve “Bunns'' Bunnell and I branded ourselves “Spaz ‘n Bunns” (precursor to Bennifer or Brangelina) and when I ran for class president senior year, my campaign slogan was SPAZ for PREZ. 

Forty years later, I cringe as I reflect on this derogatory sobriquet, wondering how we tossed around an ableist slur so casually. Feels like a Sixteen Candles situation - fun and funny then; horrifying and offensive now.  In December, The New York Times published a reader quiz called “You Can’t Say That (Or Can You?)” A whopping 72% of respondents said they would not use the word Spaz. And last summer Beyoncé and Lizzo made headlines when they each removed Spaz from their songs calling it a “harmful" word.”  Nevertheless, my nickname persists.

As the reunion approaches, I ask myself WWJD? (No, not Jesus…Janet Jackson!)  I'm pretty sure she’d tell her classmates, “No, my first name ain't Spaz. It's Patty... Ms. Nasey, if you're nasty.”  So on August 12 (and in the intervening days) that’s what I'll do. And it’s about damn time.