Last week Toys R Us announced that it is going out of business. Today it kicks off its liquidation sale. Deep discounts are promised.
 
None of this matters to me. First and foremost: my kids are grown. The need for promising (read bribing) a trip to Toys R Us after getting shots at the doctor, or for good behavior in any of a number of situations has long past. And these days, any toys I need to acquire for grandkids or nephews are purchased either at Walmart or online. Walmart because it’s convenient and cheap and I buy some of my groceries there anyway. Where else could I toss a toy or box of crayons into the cart along with my milk and eggs? And online because, well, because I basically hate shopping in stores. Always have. And Toys R Us was a place I particularly hated to shop. Especially around the holidays. The parking lot. The crowds. Kids of all ages running hither and yon, up and down the isles.
 
So, I have absolutely no sentimental stirrings about the world’s biggest toy store closing. I never really wanted to be a Toys R Us kid. And Geoffrey the Giraffe. Don’t even get me started…
 
However, there is one thing. One memory. I took my middle son to Toys R Us for his tenth birthday. I gave him $50 and told him he could pick out whatever he wanted. He got his own cart and set out like a little man. I was not to follow him. I followed him, but at a respectable distance. He filled his cart with things that surprised me. Things to hang on his bedroom wall. Things that teetered on the edge of appealing more to teens. He didn't home in on any of the toys I figured he would have wanted. What struck me most though, was how seriously he took this shopping trip. The focus with which he selected each item. The way his face looked as he concentrated on adding up the prices as he kept a running tally. The way he carefully laid out each item at the cash register and then handed over the money and received his change.
 
Thank you Toys R Us.

​How weird would it be to attend the memorial service of a complete stranger? 

I am fascinated with obituaries and enjoy reading them. Since relocating from the DC area to the Eastern Shore, we don't get the paper delivered daily to our doorstep. But sometimes, especially on Sunday, my husband will go out to the local convenience store and buy one. After reading my favorite sections, I will then open the obituaries and scan the faces. Often it’s the picture of a young face that gets me. Or an elderly face with deep, expressive eyes. Other times I zero in on ones where the person’s age or birth year – prominently displayed in the header – is similar to mine. 

I’m interested in the cause of death (not always mentioned), the person’s loves, their people, their profession, their lives. There is such depth and richness even in the most ordinary of lives. I realize too, that the obituary medium itself  – bound by space and word-count – tells only the tiniest fraction of a sliver of the whole story. The messy, the real, the unmasked is rarely, if ever discussed in the ordinary person’s obituary. And we all have messy, real, and unmasked. 

Sometimes it’s the writing that jumps off the page and grabs me. Such as the opening sentence of an obituary that was accompanied by the picture of a round-faced, smiling man in his late fifties: “Husband, father, brother, mentor, ladies’ man, avid reader, sharp dresser, Redskins fan, and a notorious jokester…” 

Hmm. Husband and ladies’ man in the same sentence. Now that’s honest. 

The obituary went on to say that he had a “…life-long love affair with cars, ice cream, burritos, animals, and German chocolate cake.” A bit further down the obituary declared that there was "never a dull moment" when this man was around.

Wow. 

I wanted to attend the celebration of this stranger’s life. Stand in the background and watch. Mingle with the friends of the man who loved ice cream, burritos, and German chocolate cake. Step into the world where one can be a husband, a ladies’ man and a notorious jokester. A world where there was never a dull moment.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about distance. My husband and I are training for Ironman Maryland and the distances involved in all three aspects (swim, bike, and run) are daunting. Even though the race six months away, I find myself overwhelmed by all of the distance we will need to cover between now and then. I’m also thinking about distance in another way, as in putting distance between myself and the things that are dragging me down. Things like spending too much time addictively traipsing through the endless maze of my Facebook newsfeed. (Cute cat video anyone?)
 
Another thing about distance is that it's a valuable tool for buying reaction time. In driving, you simply can’t react fast enough in an emergency if you’re tailgating. Laws of physics. Simply demonstrated. Keeping your distance gives you more time to slam on the brakes or swerve out of the way if need be. Distance buys you the time to quickly make decisions that are sometimes the fine line between life and death. Distance buys reaction time.
 
When I taught women’s self-defense, we drilled this mantra into our students’ heads. Distance buys reaction time. It’s true in driving. And it’s true when it comes to defending yourself against a potential attack. 
 
Distance. Distance. Distance.
 
Picture this: Someone is approaching you on the street, or in a parking lot, or on a wooded trail. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your intuition tells you that something just isn’t right. Distance buys reaction time. With enough distance, you might be able to run to safety and/or plan what you will do next. 
 
Distance. Distance. Distance. 
 
I'm learning that distance also buys perspective. Because it’s only in distance that I can see clearly. Distancing myself from an issue or a period of blocked creativity often proves necessary in resolving the problem or letting ideas flow freely. Distance’s opposite – proximity – is a dangerous foe. It’s a complex dance as both Distance and Proximity fight to lead. In this dance, Proximity keeps stepping on Distance’s toes. Distance retreats a bit because Distance is too weak to fight Proximity’s power. Proximity is making the outline of a worry or fear come into focus, rendering it crisp and sharp. The colors that fill the outline of the worry are too vivid. The imagination starts doing its thing, in a bad way, and now the river where we’ll soon be swimming is filled with sea monsters and sharks. I need Distance to pull me away. Because Distance buys perspective. Distance buys reaction time.