Investing 101100010101110001.0

I haven’t written in a long, long time but I felt the urge to put something on digital paper to share my thoughts.

By now you would have heard about bitcoin, blockchain, distributed ledger technology. If you haven’t it’s not too late … Google is your friend. Google the heck out of these words and then hold on for the ride of your life. I’m serious. This stuff is serious. Life is serious – well maybe life shouldn’t be serious. But that’s a topic for another blog.

Three months ago, I knew nothing about these topics, I knew they were important but I didn’t know what they meant and how they pertained to me. Then I had to write something significant about it for work. So, I did what you are going to do. One evening I sat at my dining room table with a glass of wine, some music in the background and started Googling. First I went to YouTube, sometimes watching a seven minute video is the fastest way to learn. Then I started jumping from site to site, page to page, learning as much as possible as quickly as possible. 

This is exciting stuff!

So now that I am semi-fluent in blockchain technology. I want a digital wallet. Then I want to make an investment, because you know, ‘there’s gold in them tha hills!’ My first (well to be honest – my seventh) attempt to open an exchange account hasn’t borne fruit just yet. I keep doing something wrong. You have to scan a QPR code, you have to write down a 16 alphanumeric passcode and then catch six numbers that last for 30 seconds. If you don’t do all of these things in the exact order and within the timeframe dictated, your digital life may not be worth living. 

That being said, I’m going back in. I’m not going to be head off at the (digital) pass (see how watching those old Westerns is finally paying dividends). Speaking of dividends, I will open a Binance account, I will get a digital wallet and I will make gazillions. I just have to figure out the 30 second passcode. 

Join me in the blockchain/bitcoin/etherium learning adventure. Together we will go places.

Today at 50

I woke up early on May 25. I climbed out of bed and moved to the outside balcony so I could contemplate my life. I honestly expected a lightening bolt to strike me with sudden wisdom and I didn’t want my roommate, Frances, to become collateral damage.

While I sat outside in the early dawn I thought – this is it. I am now 50 years old. I am in an amazing hotel in the middle of Ubud, Bali in Indonesia. I am exactly where I wanted to be when I started planning this trip some 18 months ago.

Part of my journey was to discover myself at 50. My plan was to travel around; me, my journal and my camera. In the end I found that in reality it was just me. The other things were accessories and not absolutely needed for the trip.

I am currently sitting on the flight from LAX to Miami, en route home. I wanted to return with the wisdom of Yoda, the lyrics of Khalil Gibran and the story telling ability of Maya Angelou (who passed away while I was travelling). Instead, I have been imbued with the knowledge that I am still who I am, no matter what part of the world I happen to be in.

I am truly grateful for the fact that I have been able to take advantage of the opportunities that came my way. I have also learned that regardless of where I am, I still have to be able to face myself, look at myself in the mirror and meet my eyes and like the person I am, the person I am becoming and forgive myself for any perceived missteps or short comings.

Part of my goal for this trip was to be open to whatever happened, whatever came up.

One of the more random things I did was travel to a place called Yogyakarta with Frances. Before the trip, I had never heard of the place and we were going to be there for less than 24 hours. But what the heck -

Later in Melaka, I randomly stopped to taste the wares of a street vendor. I sat at the only table with an empty seat. There was a lady beside me and we started talking. She was from Singapore and told me about the research she was conducting for her Masters thesis. She asked me if I have been to the museum. I hadn’t, so decided to accompany her to the museum.

Initially I didn’t want to take the guided tour but in the end I took it. I’m happy I did. I learned a great deal about the Baban and Nyongo (need to check the spelling) – these are the descendants of Chinese men who came to Malayasia and married Malay women.

I am eternally grateful to the women who joined me in Bali to kick start the celebrations. Frances traveled from Bermuda, Sharon from Singapore, Mariam and Fatima came from Bahrain. There is something special about women gathering. We all come from different backgrounds and perspectives. We came with open hearts and a willingness to be together and experience Ubud.

All I can say, is I had a fabulous time. I learned from them. I laughed with them. I appreciated them. They each helped to define this journey.

So what did I learn? Everything and nothing. Everything I need to know is already inside of I and I don’t have to travel to the other side of the world to discover it. I can sit on the front porch of my house and know all I need to know about myself. However sometimes you have to make the journey in order to absorb the knowledge and rest assured that you really aren’t missing anything.

As I reflect on the last three weeks I am left with a profound sense of gratitude. I am still teary – I have been assured the tears are a process of going through menopause. I have also been told that I am still at the start of the process. I’m not deeply into it yet. Yay! I have that to look forward to!

My closing thoughts? 50! Wow! What a feeling! 

Along the way ... the journey at 50

 So I went to Indonesia, Malaysia and Singapore. So much happened, I don’t know where to start. I had many wonderful experiences.

When Frances Marshall and I landed in Bali, it was scorching hot and humid. At the end of our time together, Frances reminded me that my first comment was, “Great, I brought the right clothes.” You have to admit, there is nothing worse than being on vacation and not having the right clothes for the temperature.

Frances and I were roommates during our time together (Bali, Jakarta and Yogyakarta). We had a huge bathtub in the bathroom at our hotel at Junjungan, Bali. When I say huge, it was the size of a small room. It was so large you had to step into it to reach the taps – a minor design flaw, the taps should have been on the nearside of the tub. Needless to say, I enjoyed many baths in that tub. I think I will miss it.

One word about jetlag - it sucks – okay two words.

En route to Bali we flew over, or maybe through, the International Date Line. That was incredible, well it would have been if I had known exactly when it happened. I was probably asleep during that momentous occasion. Obviously I’ll have to do it again in order to make sure I’m wide awake to experience it.

The exchange rate in Bali is something like 10 ringetts or 11 ringetts to a US$. While out shopping we found a store that was selling a dress for 1,000,000 ringetts. I looked at the price tag. The dress was beautiful. My friends assured it me was only US$100. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that it was a 1,000,000 and I couldn't see myself paying 1million anything for a dress. It stayed on the hanger.

I learned that not all airports are created equal. The airport in Yogyakarta was quite casual. You get off the plane and walk to the terminal. Nothing unusual there, except we had to dodge rolling planes and speeding airport vehicles. I learned that culture might dictate how you get off the plane. I expected the rows to empty into the aisle in an orderly fashion, where you wait until the folks in the row in front of you move off before taking your turn. This isn’t always the process. You don’t stop or wait, otherwise you will never get off the plane. As soon as the plane holts, you make a mad grab for your carry on and then you get off the plane as quickly as possible, the best way possible.

In Jakarta I found out that I'm no photojournalist. The morning of our only full day in the city, we caught a cab from the hotel to the mall. After a few hours I had fulfilled my mall roaming quota for the city and decided to venture out and take pictures of the environs. We did notice a large number of police officers on the streets en route to the mall. I didn’t give it a lot of thought, I didn’t know if this was a usual occurrence or if something was happening that day. While wandering around I found out there was a demonstration taking place in the city.

As I walked around I noticed about two blocks away there were police in front of a huge mob. I took a few pictures until a security guard from a nearby building came over and said to be careful, it could be dangerous.

I had to make a snap decision. Was I going to take my photography to the next level or run scared and return to the cool safety of the mall? Needless to say within a few minutes, I found myself inside of H&M contemplating the red shirt or the blue?

One comment about the cab drivers in Jakarta – none of them knew where our hotel was located. The driver of the cab we took from the airport spent an hour driving around in circles looking for the Morrissey. He would occasionally get out to ask for directions. It took us longer to find the hotel than it did to fly from Bali to Jakarta.

By the end of the ride, we all got out of the cab with the view of making sure we all got directions, despite the fact that we didn’t know the language or where in the world we were. Needless to say, we were extremely happy to finally get to the hotel. An experience, I’m sure, none of us will forget.

Have you ever been through the airport in Kuala Lumpur? OMG! It is brand spanking new and very sexy, if airports can be sexy. Once I cleared immigration and was walking towards ground transportation I felt as though I was in a James Bond or Jason Bourne movie. I lie to you not, I started thinking like a spy. I gave myself the name James Bourne or was it Jason Bond. I looked around for my contact and sports car while planning how I was going to nab my prey. I was cracking myself up at my overactive imagination and would have laughed out loud as I walked through the airport if I thought it wouldn’t get me arrested and put on international stop lists. How do you rationally explain to an airport official that you were laughing because you aren’t really an international spy!

The whole spy thing stayed with much for much of my time in Kuala Lumpur. Whenever I was out alone, I scoped out hiding places of my imaginary nemeses and determined how I was blending in with the local folks. Keeping in mind most of the people are Malay, Chinese or Indian. Since I am none of these ethnic groups I didn’t blend in well. Perhaps I should ask M for a West African country assignment.

Lost taxi drivers, spying in Malaysia and Bali belly (yes, my stomach did not act right the entire time I was in Bali) aside, I could never have anticipated the adventures, camaraderie and fun that highlighted my birthday celebrations. I encourage everyone to turn 50 at least once in their life!

Sports Related Injury

As you may know by now, I will be 50 years old on May 25. In my attempt to be 50 and fine as fux, I have revisited my exercise regime. This renewed interest in my muscles began a few months ago when I was challenged by my childhood friend, Janice, to join her job’s weight incentive program. It seemed like a no brainer, eat right, drink lots of water, exercise and get weighed every week.

Janice and I had a side competition between us. Given my do or die attitude towards all things competitive, I was right there. I even went out and purchased a trophy that was claimed by the week’s weight loss winner.

The realization that my strategy of eating everything with no exercise wasn’t helping my weight loss campaign, I decided to step up my game. I figured actually getting sweaty through prolonged vigorous activity would help my cause.

Early morning exercising doesn’t work for me. I have to have coffee to start my day, check on clients and get work out the door. I started walking in the evenings, leaving my house and following my usual routes. Given that I have done this on and off over the years (I’ve lived in my house for 20 years) I know every possible street within a five mile radius of my house. I thought I would try something new. Each afternoon I would drive into the city and drop the car off for Mark and then walk home.

After the first couple of days I realized a direct route was too short. I started finding circuitous ways home. This worked! I usually arrived home just after Mark so I knew I was onto something.

On this particular day, everything was going well. I had found a new route, some steps to run up and down (had to increase my heart rate) and was making good time. I was seven minutes from home, enjoying the feel of my muscles, listening to some slamming tunes and soaking in the fresh air. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a car had slowed down and it was Mark. I couldn’t hear his comments but he was smiling at me. In turn, I waved widely and wildly as he drove by. Next thing I knew I was sliding across the side walk.

What. Just. Happened? How was I laid flat out on my stomach in the middle of the street? I lay there for a few moments, stunned. I took stock of my position. I began searching around frantically for my glasses. I couldn’t find them. I had to make sure I didn’t tread on them as I stood. All this while traffic whizzed by. One lady stopped to ask if I was okay. Gathering my dignity, I replied in the affirmative. As I looked across the street at her, I realized I could see her clearly. I put my hand to my face and found my glasses. With my glasses no longer in danger, I gingerly rose to my feet.

As I took stock of my injuries, I found a huge gash on my left hand where it had glided gracelessly over the surface of the pavement. I considered looking around for the lost skin but thought better of it and started the injured woman’s hobble home.

I walked in the kitchen door calling for Mark to provide me with medical attention. He came down to see what all the fuss was about. Sure enough he ran off to gather the antibiotic and band aids. I have no idea where these items came from, I didn’t even know we owned such things.

Wounds and pride bandaged, I went to lie down to recover from the trauma of my unexpected trip. Over the following few days I was asked repeatedly about the damage to my hand. Not wanting to provide embarrassing details of my publicly humiliating fall, I would look the person in the eye and answer with a shrug, “it’s a sports related injury.” End of discussion.

Pausing

This long overdue entry is not for the faint-hearted, women, children or men. It is however for those who, like me, didn’t have a clue that menopause starts when women are in their 40s.

This essay will explore and explode the myths around women ‘of a certain age’ and the physiological changes they go through.

The myth

For many women menopause apparently starts when they are in their 40s. For me it started when I was 48 but I didn’t have a name for it until I was 49. I thought I would get unusually hot because I was drinking coffee, walking down the street, sleeping too much (and by too much, I mean three hours) or standing still too long. 

My best friend Jackie alerted me to the fact that I may be in menopause. She asked me a few insightful questions and like a ton of bricks it quickly became apparent, I was in the throes of menopause.

Following a number of discussions with women who are also ‘of a certain age’ I came to understand that I am indeed old enough to experience the joys of menopause.

Bloody bleeding

One of the things I didn’t know was that you get periods for days and days and days and days on end. It is times like this that only well placed expletives are absolutely appropriate. Who the fuck has a period that lasts for two fucking weeks? Where is the sanity in that? WHAT THE FUCK?!

Taking a deep cleansing breath, I am refocusing on the task at hand. Yes, ladies, your periods become erratic and you have no idea when it will start or how long it will last. Feels like I’m 12 years old all over again.

I remember asking a doctor how I could get rid of my periods. She said, it’s called a hysterectomy.  My immediate response was, okay thanks. Don’t need that.

Who needs sleep?

Another wonderful side effect of menopause is the lack of sleep. Who needs sleep anyway? I find myself waking at odd times of the night wondering what just happened and why am I wide awake? Since I am unable to fall asleep I spend my time wisely, reading mindless erotica and trolling Facebook to see who else is awake.

Hot flashing

One minute you are normal and the next you want to get naked. There is no in between mode. The most frightening hot flash experience I had was on a flight from Johannesburg to London. I usually dress warm and comfortably for long flights. About three hours into the flight, after the meals had been served and the lights dimmed, I settled in to read my book while listening to music. Suddenly the plane caught on fire. I jumped up from my seat – or at least attempted to but was restrained by my seat belt. I turned to see where the flames were leaping from since my back was experiencing intense heat. There were no flames. I looked at my neighbor to see if she was experiencing this unusual heat wave. Nothing. I looked around. It seemed as though everyone else was either sleeping or riveted by the movie before them.

I came to the sad conclusion that it was only me going through the agonizing, excruciating heat. I couldn’t disrobe because I only had on a sweater. I have since learned to dress in layers. Layers are my friend.

Exploding brain cells

I also experienced, which I will lay at the feet of menopause, not being able to think. I had to provide a client with a complex project plan that had lots of moving parts. I was in the process of finalizing the document when it dawned on me that I had spent three hours on one section and could not figure out how to make it all work. I was running out of time. I had a meeting to present the final plan to a larger group. I had to bring my game face. Luckily I had told my client of my issues and the fact that I COULD NOT THINK today. She very smoothly stepped in to provide assistance.

It was scary not being able to access that one important brain cell when I needed it.

Envy

I will start to wrap up this soliloquy with my salute to women who no longer have periods. For the last eight months or so, I have been speaking to women about my menopause issues. I have been greeted with open arms and welcomed into the fold. I have heard many stories about how others have handled all of the above issues. Many have gleefully told me, they no longer have periods and they are living in bliss (until it comes back unexpectedly after a year or so).

The surprise

My greatest surprise in all of this is my husband. I sat with him one day and told him I was starting to experience menopause. He took it all in stride and asked me a number of probing questions and offered his support. I thought that was the end of it, until he came home one day with a list of remedies. I asked how he got it. He said he was talking with one of the ladies at work … hold the presses. He was having conversations about this outside of our home? Who knew?! Anyway, he seems very comfortable addressing this topic. He often asks, how is the menopause?

I live in hope that this exciting stage of my life will yield many lessons and add to my increasing wisdom bank. As I said, well placed expletives help. FUCK!

Kill or be bitten

Wow! Mozambique. I did not see this opportunity coming at all.

Over the last three years, I have been giving my volunteer hours to Transforming Lives, Fighting Poverty, a Bermuda registered charity that works primarily in Beira, Mozambique. The organization is affiliated with the African Methodist Episcopal Church. Mrs. Joan Simmons is the Chair and heart of the organization. She has a real passion for the work being undertaken in the various communities the charity is serving.

Like I said, if you had asked me at the beginning of August when I was planning my next trip to the African continent, I would have probably said in quite a vague fashion, next year, maybe.

Joan emailed and asked me to help with the interview of a possible country project manager she was thinking about hiring. We talked and felt it would be advantageous to go the Beira to interview and meet Neli. We could also visit the projects that are currently under way.

I kept thinking to myself, can I really do this? Just jump up and travel to Mozambique? Oh yeah, where exactly is Mozambique? I knew it neighbored Zimbabwe, other than that I couldn’t give any more details. After a quick Google search I gleaned a little more about this impoverished nation and its neighbors.

To make a long story short, Joan and I agreed to head on out to Mozambique and check up on things! How do you get to Beira, Mozambique? you might ask. Bermuda – London – Johannesburg – Beira. Something like 21 hours of flying, this does not include the down time at airports. It took two days to get there.

Once we arrived, I was in total awe, as I usually am whenever I land in a new country with a completely different culture.

Our first order of business, secure our luggage and the deal with Immigration. It seems as though we by-passed a number of folks waiting in the hall to be processed. We were escorted to the immigration room where we were given our visas. Pretty painless. Next on the agenda, meet the program manager. She was right there inside the Immigration terminal waiting for us.

Yes, inside the Immigration terminal. Can you imagine? I was floored but nevertheless happy to see and meet her. I’m sure she made our arrival in Beira that much easier given the many, many people she knows.

There were lots of things that happened while in Mozambique. I can talk about meeting Bishop White of the 18^th District. I can mention the various conference events we attended. The people we met and got to know.

I want to jump straight into the adventure of being stranded out in the countryside. We had a rental jeep. We should have known there was a possibility of being stranded when it refused to start on the first night we were there. I wasn’t sure where we were that first night but I remember looking around thinking, this isn’t a good place to be stranded.

Luckily, the rental car mechanic came quickly and we were soon on our way. We figured the car was fixed because we didn’t have any other major problems getting it started until we went out to the land where the farm was being developed.

We arrived. Met the staff, looked around the property. Had a couple of meetings. I was busy documenting everything with my camera, so I was happy.

Just as dusk arrived, we decided it was time to head back to the hotel. With the sun setting, the temperature dropped. I happily jumped into the car and burrowed into my corner beside the door, bracing myself for the bumpy ride out to the main road.

Everyone was in and ready. Neli, who was driving, turned the key. The car engine started but didn’t catch. Try again. Same thing. She gave it a few more minutes and tried again. I remember thinking, this can’t be good!

We sat still for a few more minutes and Neli tried again. This time nothing. We figured it was the battery. Some men (and children) materialized from nowhere, I could have sworn there weren’t any houses nearby. Nevertheless, they were there to push. YAY! We would soon be on our way. Given that the car was a gear shift, I knew it could be done. I told Neli to put the car into first gear and then let out the clutch as we started moving. She didn’t know how to do it. I said, I would do it. So we switched places.

I was now in the driving seat and eagerly looking forward to getting us out of dodge. Push. Push. Push. We weren’t on a road just a dirt track. Despite the pushing, it didn’t start. When that didn’t work the helpers went on their merry way. The kids stayed, I guess for the entertainment value of our predicament.

I climbed back into my warm space in the back of the car and did what any red-blooded woman in my situation would do. I reached into my bag and pulled out my Kindle and started reading. Who needs to be rescued when you have a great book to curl up with?

After a few minutes it dawned on me that we might be stranded for a while. I checked the other passengers to see what provisions we had. A grand total of one protein bar, a small bottle of water – half full (or half empty depending on your point of view) and some chewing gum. Not enough to feed us all. How do I share a small protein bar with others? What about the water? Do we use the bottle top to pour out the water rations?

As the gravity of our situation settled in, I tried not to freak out about the wild animals that could be nearby! What about snakes? Realization dawned on me, we were in a kill or be bitten environment. Just as that thought entered my mind, it seemed as though the attack began.

I went into flight or fight mode. I became hyper aware of my surroundings and I zeroed in on our attacker. No one else seemed to sense what I did. No one else seemed concerned, based on the level of conversation taking place. I knew I didn’t have much time and even more I didn’t want to upset the car dwellers unnecessarily. I sprang into action and the stalkee became the stalker. The monster had found us by scent and I was determined to make sure it didn’t smell my fear.

While the others were talking happily, I went into action mode. I tracked the attacker with my eyes and didn’t let it out of my sight. Then just as I thought it would strike, I sprang into action. I tackled it and brought it down!

My fellow passengers stopped their chatter and stared at me. I could hear their thoughts – what the heck?

Taking a calming breath, I told them we had been sharing the car with a mosquito and I had just save their lives. After a beat, they went back to their various conversations. I know they were secretly happy I had saved them – the fact that they didn’t mention it suggests to me they were totally overwhelmed by my bravery!

Anyway, I went back to obsessing about our food and water situation while looking the epitome of calm as I read my book. I tried to remember exactly where the main road was and how long it would take to walk there. I wondered if they would send a helicopter to search for us when we didn’t check in at the hotel that night and the police were called in.

By my calculation seven hours later we heard the sound of a car. (Apparently by everyone else’s watch it was only 45 minutes). Unbeknowst to me, Neli had called in the infantry in the form of the rental car company. They sent a mechanic to fix our vehicle. Essentially, we were saved! YAY! Just as I was putting a plan of action in place to have us air lifted out of the country side.

Anyway, once the car started I took the wheel, and drove to the main road and back to the city of Beira. Come to find out we were no more than about five miles from our hotel. If felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, especially considering there were no street lights and I was able to glimpse fires at various compounds we passed along the way.

In case you are wondering, I still have the protein bar.

Note to self, carry protein bars when venturing off the beaten track in Mozambique.

The entire trip was fabulous and we were able to accomplish so much in the short week we were there.

So, where will I be next month?

The day my car caught on fire

So I followed my regular morning routine.

Got up and thought about exercising as I shuffled into the kitchen to ingest my morning plasma – coffee. I got a lot of work done and was able to get dressed in record time as I wanted to make sure I wasn’t the reason my husband was late for work, again.

Today was a very rainy day – the heavens started leaking from about 5:00am and continued for most of the morning. I performed my wifely duties and took my husband to work (no that isn’t code for other wifely duties – I literally drove him to work).

Upon my return home, I happened to sit in the car for a few minutes while I finished a phone call. Absent-mindedly looking through the windshield at the rain beating down on the car hood, I noticed what I thought was smoke emanating from under the hood. I quickly ended my conversation and stepped out and touched the car. It wasn’t hot, so why was there smoke?

As I sat back in the car I tried to think of the best course of action. Should I call the Bermuda Fire and Rescue Service, my husband Mark, whom I had just deposited at work or my mechanic?

It was a tough decision but I went with the mechanic. I called his number, and luckily he answered. I explained that I thought the car might be on fire. He listened. As I was talking, I got a little nervous because I thought, if the car is going to explode, why am I still sitting here? I gathered my belongings; purse, camera bag; shoes; rain coat; box of tissues; coffee cup. As I reached for the grocery bags, I figured we could get new recycled bags, if need be. I dashed into the house and dropped everything on the floor because I now had to focus on what the mechanic was telling me.

“Ma’am. Open the hood.”

“Um, do you remember where the opening thing is? I can’t remember.”

“Look in the glove compartment.”

“Oh, I see it. Okay, it is open. What do I do next?”

“Do you see flames?”

“Um. No.”

“Ma’am, can you start the car for me.”

“Okay.”

“Have you started the car?”

“Yes.”

“Now, walk around to the front of the car. Do you see flames yet?”

“Um. No.”

“Ma’am. Your car is not on fire. You can close the hood.”

“Um. Thank you. I just wanted to be sure because I saw the smoke, or it could have been steam or condensation.”

“That’s fine, miss. Have a great day.”

“Thank you.”

So, technically, the car wasn’t on fire, but it could have been. I next called my husband and left him a message about the fire and what the mechanic said. Mark returned my call to make sure he understood the situation.

Another tough conversation:

“What did the mechanic say?”

“He said the car isn’t on fire.”

“You mentioned the fire department in your voicemail.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I thought I might have to call them but the car wasn’t on fire.”

“I see.”

“Well, bye then.”

“Bye, Aderonke.”

I am happy to report that no fire fighters were contacted at all during this emergency situation.

Paintings

Mark and I made the decision to renovate our kitchen last summer. It was like pulling on a hanging thread of a sweater. You think if you give the thread a quick yank it will come out but after you pull a few times you realize that the sweater is unraveling and you aren’t sure when to stop. If you keep going will there be more damage or will it resolve itself. So you keep pulling.

That is somewhat like how the work at our house began by yanking out the kitchen, the unraveling started. We moved on to the dining room and then the front room. I would like to state – everything and everyone worked well together. I was complimented on how organized it was and everyone showed up when they were scheduled. Did I mention the painter?

When the new kitchen island was put in I was excited. It was almost twice the size as the old one and truly a work of art. There was only one thing that had to be fixed – the color of the wall that had been painted the same color as the rest of the kitchen. It sits between the kitchen and the dining room and it had to be perfect. As we all know, perfection takes a while to accomplish.

After lengthy discussions about possible color options, to speed up the process, the painter went to the paint store and bought back 17 books of color charts. I’m sure he was thinking to himself, I would pick a color, any color, so he could finish this job and move on. From the color charts, I selected the perfect shade. Once it was on the wall, it made the space look extremely blah. Not quite the effect I was going for.

Back to the drawing board. The painter with extreme patience went to a different paint shop for more color options. I selected another beautiful color, he gladly painted the wall. I came home and my immediate reaction was – where did this color come from? He reminded me, while speaking ve-r-r-ry slowly that I had selected it, only this morning. I said, oh, I didn’t realize it was brrrr-o-wwwwn. I can speak slowly too.

I assured him I would go out the next day and look for the right color. I will skip the next three conversations and wall color changes because I must protect the innocent and guilty alike.

I am sure the painter was as tired as I was with the number of changes that had taken place thus far. Undeterred, I kept up my search for the perfect color. I eventually found it and rather than call the painter, I decided to paint the wall myself. By now, I had seen him do this small piece of wall many times. How hard could it be?

I had all the tools I needed and so painted the wall. The end product wasn’t quite what I was looking for but I now had the right color but too shiny. I returned to the shop, they knew me by name and I’m sure were taking bets on the color I would get this time. I ignored the sniggering and purchased my paint with my head held high.

While I was in this elevated space, I decided to call the painter and let him know I now had the correct color and all our problems were over. All he had to do was return to the house and do one last cover-up and our painting nightmares were over. I coaxed a reluctant agreement from him and I’m pretty sure I heard a stifled scream as he hung up the phone but it could have been background noise.

He came to the house and immediately asked who had butchered the wall. I was indignant but didn’t want to get into an argument with the man who would make my wall beautiful, so I said, ‘I painted it.’ He said, ‘Ma’am, this is a job for professionals.” Swallowing my response, I left him to correct the tragedy that had become my island wall.

I am pleased to say, the wall is beautiful and the perfect balance between the kitchen and dining room. I would like to add that the accent wall in my front room was a breeze. All I will admit is that it was painted only nine times by the same long-suffering painter.

Who knew walls could be so difficult?

Examined!

The good news is that I am a recently minted and polished Project Management Professional. I would like to say I passed the exam on the first try. Unfortunately it took me two attempts, lots of soul searching and ego mending to get it together.

I’m a person who takes exams and studying seriously. I love school! I am the student who will sit in the front of the class, so I can make clear eye contact with the teacher and raise my hand high to indicate that I know the answer or have a very clever, insightful question to ask. These attributes don’t necessarily make me the teacher’s pet, nor, now that I think of it, a favorite classmate. Note to self – work on these areas for the next course.

The PMP exam was challenging (read hard). I feel somewhat vindicated when my best friend from college often mentions lots people don’t pass on their first attempt – I however think, I’m not most people.

I learned of my non-success just before Christmas. Talk about a knock on the head. I was in shock. How could this happen? Did they get the right booklet? Was my name on it clearly? Who graded these papers anyway? I looked at the score and immediately contacted the organization administering the exam and carefully explained that I had passed four of the six parts of the exam, which, in the real world, means I passed. However, in the PMP world that does not constitute a pass. Totally dissatisfied I demanded to speak with the President of the United States but they didn’t have his number.

As I quietly accepted defeat, I had to start telling people because I was extremely loud when I let people I was taking the exam. They now wanted to know the results. I whispered the outcome to a few people. One of them being a lady, Delight, who, took the exam when I did, and laughed when I told her an answer I had selected. Needless to say, she was forced to do the same soul searching I did.

Christmas got a little ugly for me last year. Between my brothers laughing at my discomfort and my husband trying to help me see the silver lining, I was determined to re-sit and pass this darn exam.

Delight, to her credit, found a class for us to take in the US and started the ball rolling. We got to Viriginia in mid-April. The teacher, who explained things in detail before the class, stated that we had to be committed, focused and motivated to pass the exam. I knew I was in the right place. He also added that we only needed to study for 45 minutes each evening and we would be ready.

I’m not sure which planet he lives on but 45 minutes turned into four hours of study each night for me. I had to be able to go over the stuff he taught each day, make sure I understood what he was talking about and then prepare for the next day. Sleep became a luxury that week. I am not sure if I was coming or going most of the time.

I know the night before the exam, I was dreaming (in color) of the difference between quality control and quality assurance. I had formulas floating around in my head and I knew my inputs, outputs, tools and techniques without looking. I was ready.

As I sat in the exam room with a bank of computers and others taking all sorts of exams, I confidently clicked on the first question and read it. My heart sank. I couldn’t understand the question, much less figure out the answer. I wanted to cry but there were no tissues nearby and I didn’t dare stand so, I dabbed by eyes with my shirt sleeve and went to the next question. After the fourth question, I realized I was at the wrong computer, taking the wrong exam. Just as I was about to leave, I decided to look at the title screen – it definitely said Project Management Institute – Project Management Professional Exam.

That sealed it, I was in the correct place, at the correct time, taking the correct exam. Having firmly established this I figured I was losing my mind and had to get a grip. I used all the techniques at my disposal – deep breathing, shoulder relaxation and prayer.

I was now ready – the next four hours were a blur. I know as I clicked on ‘submit’ I was prepared for whatever response the computer spit out. I’m pretty sure I waited three hours for the results but the administrator assured me it was less than five minutes.

Success! I had passed and to add to the accomplishment Delight passed as well. Let me just say for the record, if you ever need a study partner, Delight is your girl. I'm sure she is ready for the next challenge. Yours truly is contemplating a Ph.D. so I can be called Dr. Bademosi Wilson (not sure that is a good enough reason) but I feel that is my next academic hurdle. Yes, you can look for me in the front of the class, I’ll be the one asking the teacher deep and meaningful questions.