During the High Holidays, I tend to get somewhat introspective. As the weather gets cooler, it somehow seems natural to pause and reflect over the past year and contemplate the year to come. According to Jewish faith, this is the week that seals your fate for the next year; you repent for your sins during the past year, and look towards improving your behavior in the upcoming year: What was good or bad about the past year? What changes to I want to make in my life? What are my goals for the upcoming year? How can I be a better person? As I've mentioned to some of you, I am trying (as usual) to slow down some. Conviently, my body is helping me out. I seem to need more sleep than I did a few years ago. Slowing down, to me, also means focusing on and savoring the present moment; less worring about the future or dwelling on the past. I have some lofty goals in place for the year to come; stay tuned. And Shana Tova to all — Jewish or not!!

Yet another interesting read this week: Parents of a Certain Age, from NY Mag, discussing the fact that advances in reproductive technology has resulted in first-time mothers in their late 40's and early 50's. But the question remains: is this good for the children of those mothers/parents?  I often think about the fact that my brother and sister, who are ten years younger than I, had a somewhat different childhood than I did, one factor being the age that my father was when we were born. My father was in his late 20's when I was born, which likely had some advantages, but he was in a better economic situation by the time they were born, when he was in his late 30's. If I had a child tomorrow, I would be 58 when he/she graduated from high school, and 70 when she/she turns 30.  Scary to consider . . .

Just food for thought. I promise I'm not having a child tomorrow.

This article in Sunday's Modern Love column truly spoke to me.* After having long term relationships in my 20's, since then I haven't had any relationship that lasted longer than 8 or 9 months. I have many friends in the same situation.  We feel defensive about it sometimes, like the woman in the article. We question: what is wrong with us? what could we do differently? do we repeatedly gravitate towards the wrong men? We try on different strategies: extreme dating, dating hiatus (or guy-atus), introspection. As time goes on, we grow more comfortable with our flaws, as they make us who we are. And, like the author of the article, we know in our hearts that the answer is simple:

"We just found the right guys. We found men who love us even though we’re still cranky and neurotic, haven’t got our careers together, and sometimes talk too loudly, drink too much and swear at the television news. We have gray hairs and unfashionable clothes and bad attitudes. They love us, anyway.

What’s wrong with me? Plenty. But that was never the point."

*That said, as @daisy17 astutely observed, the author can only write such an article now that she has gotten married. Had she not, she never would have done so.

And despite these gorgeous fall colors, I'm not there yet. Still summer in my book. I'm not ready for wool sweaters, closed toe shoes, boots and scarves. I'm still jonesing to wiggle my toes in the sand, to let my skin (protected with sunscreen, of course) soak up the sun, and have picnics and barbecues. Who's with me?

I lost a shoe a few weeks back. Yes, ONE shoe. No, I was not galavanting around town in one shoe, wondering what became of the other one. This is New York; we walk quite a bit. As some of you know, I have incredibly low tolerance for impractical or uncomfortable shoes, and I'm always looking for shoes that I think look great but are also comfortable. This led me to the shoes you see here. Love them. My favorites. Still, after a day of walking and an evening of standing, in these or any heels, I generally have to change into flats. When I get home, I take my shoes off near the door, empty whatever bag(s) I am carrying (which usually contains the heels I took off in exchange for flats; either a foldable shopping bag of sorts, with no zip closure, or more often my gym bag, which zips), and wind down for the evening. Every few days, I clean up the shoe pile and return the shoes to their home on the shoe rack in my closet. As I was doing this recently, I somehow found myself with one shoe — the lone beauty you see pictured. One. After retracing my steps, I inquired about the shoe at the three places I had been that night: Mother's Ruin, the Duane Reade nearby, and a taxi. No shoe. I went online looking for a replacement pair, but the bordeaux color I love is no longer available. I gave up, with a heavy heart.

Until Tuesday night. That night, I ran into T.J. from Mother's Ruin, who casually mentioned that he found my shoe. Last night, I went to retrieve it, and today, I'll wear them happily, and make sure they both make it safely home. That is, unless I have to wear galoshes again.