One of my first jobs was at a not-for-profit think tank.  I figured out pretty damn quick that I needed profit to live in New York City.  I also noticed that at 23 I was too easily distract–oooh, something shiny!–ed to do much of the thinking thing.  So, wisely, I went to work in publishing.  I mean, I read walking down the street, surely I would really focus if it was my job.

After two years of crappy little cubbies and second hand office chairs, the bright new world of book publishing was a shock to the system.  On my first business trip, I got up early so I could find a coffee shop.  No $25 cup of joe for me.  I ran into my biggedy-big boss who saw my little bag-o-breakfast.  He informed me that room service was available at the hotel as were phones to call home and color TV.  I was used to less-fine things.  Anyway what he said to me stuck: “It’s all part of the care and feeding of our people.”

I shouldn’t have been so surprised.  I am all about the care and feeding of my people.  And, I married a guy who, from the age of 19, made me feel cared for and fed.  We may call my husband “Cabana Boy” because of his easy ability to make everyone around him feel comfortable, but the truth is he makes us feel safe.  When you’re safe–in yourself–as the Brits say, you have all kinds of time to take chances.

About a year ago my family went skiing without me.  Believe me when I tell you that I would rather hack off my arm with a butter knife than ski.  I am that uncoordinated.  As my daughter headed out the door she asked, “What will you do while we’re gone?”  I said I’d faff about and fiddle and putter.  But Emma wanted more.  “What would you do if you could do anything?” she asked.  “What would you do if you couldn’t mess up?”  If I couldn’t fail, I thought.  What would I do?  “I’d write a novel,” I said.  “So, can I read it when we get back?” she asked.

Emma was so sure I could do it.  So, I did.  The messing up part is yet to be determined.  That’s what feeling safe does for you. Thanks Emma, and thanks Cabana Boy–he’s the one in the picture, preparing to care and feed, natch.