On Saturday I arrived on vacation without a book to read. Any book from the stack on my kitchen counter would have done nicely, sure, but for some reason I never threw one in my carry-on. Hard to believe. I was without a book on vacation. Harder to believe.

Nothing caught my eye in the airport. Mostly “Orange Man Bad” tomes. After I landed, I popped into the local Walgreens hoping to find a light memoir, maybe a biography. Nope. Just junk-food literature. You know, stuff by Nora Roberts and Danielle Steele and Robyn Carr, who by all rights shouldn’t be able to sleep at night, and who should be arrested for the petty crime of hooking lonely women on the mindless drivel that they pump out every thirteen weeks. While writers with real talent, those of us who understand real dialogue, and how real men and women speak and act, stand firmly beside our literary morals and watch these amateurs, these half-wits, rake in the big bucks.

But I digress.

I browsed the romance novels, just for fun. Sexually suggestive titles like Long, Hot Texas Summer, Virgin River, Laid Bare, and Beasting Beauty featured scantily-clad women in mid-embrace with tan, buff pec-blessed studs, implying that maybe the women gave in to their desires, maybe they didn’t.

Who knows and who cares?

One particularly insipid title, Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake made me so angry, I grabbed all five copies and placed them on a shelf in the gardening section. I hoped I at least gave someone a laugh for the day.

I have to have at least one book on vacation. I mean, when you wake up at 5:00 a.m. in someone else’s home, you’d better be able to entertain yourself for four to five hours. I’ve developed a routine here. I brew a cup of coffee from her Keurig, I pet her cat, I post on my blog, I pet her dog, I check my phone notifications, I pet her other dog, I brew another cup of coffee and then watch the desert sunrise from her back patio. Then I read. This routine has served me well.

(Wait, what do you read? You still don’t have a book!)

Oh, right. Thanks for reminding me.

When I arrived, my friend handed me a book she thought I would like, at least until she could get me to the local Barnes and Noble. It was a motivational book titled On Fire, by John O’Leary, who had been burned in a gasoline fire as a young boy. So ashamed of his deep scars, he wore long-sleeves and long pants, no matter what the weather, well into his twenties. Since his face hadn’t been burned, he did a pretty fair job at keeping his story a secret from anyone outside of his family and his close circle. He didn’t even date, in fear of being found out.

No nookie for John.

And while the story of his recovery was courageous and inspirational, it was a little too cheesy, a little too maudlin for my taste. I mean, the anecdote about the little girl with the red coat, who walks into the classroom, and throws her coat on the floor? Please.

Please pick it up, the teacher tells the little girl.

The little girl shook her head.

Pick your coat up, honey.

It’s not mine, the little girl answered.

I just saw you come in with it, the teacher answered. Please pick your red coat up off the ground and place it neatly in your cubby, the teacher admonished.

It’s not mine, the girl screamed.

We saw it, we saw it, we saw it on you, the other students screamed.

No, no, no, no, no, she screamed. It’s not mine!!!!!!!!

The point of the story?

Own it. If it’s yours, own it. You can’t just throw your shit on the ground, make everyone have to walk around it and step on it, and continue to pretend it didn’t happen. If it belongs to you, PICK YOUR SHIT UP.

Your life story, that is.

Oi, I thought, as I closed the book On Fire. Off to B&N.

After an hour of perusal, I picked up No Happy Endings by Nora McInerny. Nora’s widowed life parallels my own in that she is a widow, a writer, and a blogger. The description of her abject sorrow and frustration when a tricycle she had ordered for her young son arrives in a big box resonated with me deeply. She was so happy ordering that bike for her son. It had made her feel empowered, that she could take care of him herself, the way she had promised her husband she would. But when that box arrived, and she realized she would have to assemble it herself, she flopped down on her floor and wept. How can she do this herself? Her husband always did this stuff.

She wept as she opened the box. She wept as she read the instructions. She wept as she put the pieces together. She wept when she thought she was done, but then the handlebars fell off. But eventually you know what?

She did it. Herself. It took her eight hours, but when her son came home from school, there was a shiny blue tricycle sitting in the driveway. His joy at seeing that bike was the first time she ever thought, “Yes. I can do this myself.” And any widow can attest that this is both an empowering and sad moment. When you realize you are on your own, and you must figure things out on your own. And when you do, you feel pride. But you also feel sad that other women have men in their lives to help them with stuff. And you don’t.

(Brief pause for Pity Party……)

O.k., all done.

But something more struck me as I read Nora’s memoir.

She discusses her penchant, her attraction, to people with stories. People with miles on them, miles they wear proudly. People who have been through shit, tough shit, and who have emerged, stronger, wiser, kinder. People who have walked through the fire and come out smarter and cleaner. People who own their life stories, who wear them with pride, who…

Wait, fire? Recovery? Stories? Baggage?

Have you heard it yet? A lot like John O’Leary’s book, right? Turns out John O’Leary’s real healing didn’t start until he decided to show the world those scars. Until he started talking about the accident, his guilt, and his intense pain, he couldn’t even entertain the notion of loving or being loved. Once he owned up to his story, all good things began to happen.

Hm.

So if you will forgive my journalistic transgression of burying the lede so deeply in this post that it may be unforgivable, let me leave you to ponder the metaphor. And as I wrap up my week here, I think of O’Leary and McInerny’s messages and hope that with my blog posts, I do the best I can to own my stories. And that I wear my red coat with pride and dignity.

That’s the best I can do. Have a great weekend. You bet your ass I will.