Here we go:

Heat 3 tablespoons vegetable oil in a wok. Toss in:

• 1 very finely sliced onion, medium size
• 3 finely chopped garlic cloves (big ones!)
• 1 finely chopped piece fresh ginger (think 2 of your thumbs)

After 3 minutes of frying the stuff, add:

• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 2 teaspoons ground coriander
• 1 teaspoon turmeric (ideally organic)
• 1 teaspoon ground chili
• 2 teaspoons garam masala powder

After another 3 minutes of stirring this intoxicating mixture around (warning: your hair will likely smell of all these spices, which is not an entirely terrible thing), lower heat a bit and stir in:

• 500g thick chunks of boneless, skinless fish (I usually go for a mixture: salmon + tuna + cod or monk fish, or any fish that doesn’t flake)
• 1 can (400g) peeled, diced tomatoes (with the liquid)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon brown sugar

Within 10 minutes max the fish should be cooked through, reduce heat for another 5 minutes to let sauce thicken. You can add a little bit of hot water at this stage, very gradually, to create more sauce. Dish out immediately onto individual plates with sticky or basmati rice (which I like to mold individually, using desert ramequins for a neat and stylish effect) sprinkle with generous amounts of fresh, very roughly chopped coriander leaves and a lemon wedge, on the side.

You’ll be making this dish more than once.

We hadn’t spoken all summer and our ritual catch-up had quickly veered to health breakdowns.“My daughter helps me dress, undress and go to the bathroom, and I need to step out of the car to retrieve the stub when I enter a parking lot. At least I can drive, even though I can’t sleep. So no, you won’t be seeing me at Pilates this week.”

What struck me more than the dizzying transitions from frantic humor to anger in her tone—and more than the fact that one of the most stoic women I know (last winter she weathered 4 months of tennis elbow and barely winced) was unabashedly confessing her pain—was the scary realization that this was the fourth time in less than 24 hours that a close friend, roughly my age, was wailing about her physical deterioration.

Hours before, I listened astonished as S (super fit, grounded, self-aware yoga teacher, 45) related the saga of a blasted sacro-iliac (a what? Yeah, I hadn’t heard of this ligament either) that ruined the better part of her summer. Even earlier that day, over in London, J was sighing over the need to put high heels on hold (not ideal when you love heels AND you’re in the shoe business) to manage chronic hip & knee pain, which also put Bikram yoga on pause. And just the day before, I’d watched M (who likes to kick box and is seriously fit too) limp elegantly beside me. What’s with the leg, I asked, semi-alarmed semi-curious. Knee, she sighed, always the knee. Must have done something to it. Again.

Yesterday, when a fifth friend suddenly launched into an impromptu aches and pains diatribe, I interrupted her brutally and asked “aren’t we too young to be winging about ailments?” She looked at me quizzically while I rolled the Arnica granules pensively in my mouth, swallowed and added, “isn’t this all supposed to hit in a decade or two? Aren’t we too young to be ailing?”

I believe in life-long self-improvement. I believe in continuously growing our self-awareness, practicing mindfulness and prioritizing what’s important to us (yes, that includes health and fitness, big time) so that we can remain resistant, resilient and resourceful in the face of pretty much anything. But now, this business of 40 plus women falling apart all over the place has me wondering: what could I be missing? What are so many of us not getting?

Important to mention that the link between these colorful gals, besides their connection to me (they are of multiple nationalities, working in different fields) is that they all are strong, fit, vibrant, and have the means, wisdom and knowledge (or even all three) to truly take care of themselves. And I’m not just talking hair and make-up but heart and mind and even soul. They are for the most part in happy relationships too, in case you’re wondering.

It wouldn’t be fair to hide, as I ramble on about others, that I too am experiencing a new brand of muscular fatigue of late. This week was the first time I even entertained the notion that it could be wear and tear. I’m fervently hoping it’s linked to the intense (and wildly satisfying because, no doubt, massively endorphin-creating) boot camp training I picked up again in the park after a 2-month hiatus. Witnesses under my roof will readily tell you that I moan waaaayy more than I used too the day after I work out, and that I wail to the maximus about my aching gluteus, and also stink up the atmosphere with my arnica oil rubdowns (fleeting relief, at best). I’m also hoping this is merely part and parcel of getting stronger (not older) and that “taking my fitness to the next level” naturally involves new forms of pain that can only be temporary, ? RIGHT?

Dunno. For now, I can still take my bra off alone.

I am utterly surrounded, at the moment, by people (friends, clients) who are boldly stepping out into new adventures, taking risks, redesigning their lives, their relationships, expanding themselves, dancing outside their comfort zone and seizing their future by the horns. Even though it can in some instances be scary, really hard, messy. It is exhilarating to be alongside them as they move into a new future and inspiring–and yes intensely moving–to watch them fly, soar, grow. I came across this photo today and felt it had to be shared immediately. Hopefully, you will find inspiration or resonance, or both, among these words too!

Let’s see if 10 hours of animal documentaries will cure or kill me, she vaguely muttered, flopping back on the couch with duvet, hot lemon juice and Strepsils. I joined her a few hours into it, in time to discover the rock-climbing goby, a fish which I (or you, I bet) had never heard of.

This thumb-size goby swims upriver from the sea (nothing new so far) until the foot of a waterfall. Then, amazingly, as if auditioning for a far-fetched Jackie Chan film (sorry, is that a redundant statement?), hurls itself out of the water and, almost comically, attaches itself to the vertical rock face. Using its “pelvic fin” that works like a mini suction cup and its powerful lips, it proceeds to inch, ever so slowly, upwards, while the violent waterfall pounds down all around it, with Mother Nature’s fullest force.

It literally climbs… for several hundred feet.

I cannot tell you how painstaking this looks. Richard Attenborough’s pithy comments and the dramatic music make it all the more compelling. Many gobies don’t make it: they simply fly off and die. Others pause in whatever crevices they can find to rest. Your heart goes out to the little guys.

Eventually, some make it to the top where warm, shallow pools await. This is fish kingdom spa central—warm, nutrition-filled, pressure-free, peaceful. “Here the goby will feed and breed and eventually die,” emotes Attenborough, “while newly spawned fish will wash out to sea, so that the cycle may begin again.”

The poignancy of it all is the sobering parallel with us humans. I mean, truly: how many people do you know who approach their entire life this way: struggle, determination, stubbornness with only one objective in mind: to reach that nirvana, that someday place, no matter what.

And what, what is that warm, blessed pool? The day you can’t swim any more? Retirement? The day you have more than enough money? The day you buy a country house? And how hard will you work to climb that waterfall? Until Nature knocks you off?

All around me, I still see people doggedly going for it—zero fulfillment, zero joy, and less than zero awareness that they’re even fighting a waterfall upwards. It makes me want to (and sometimes, especially with  clients, I really do) grab them by the shoulders and shout: “Why are you swimming so hard upstream? Where are you going? And do you even remember why?”

Life is already so riddled with challenges, tough decisions, adversity (aka “opportunities” or “learnings” in coaching jargon) and there is always plenty to fight for and against. Do you really want a lifetime of convincing yourself to do something you don’t enjoy doing but… keep doing it anyways?

Luckily, you can think more independently than a goby, and you don’t actually have to climb waterfalls.

I practice octane-fueled word-of-mouth all the time, especially when someone I love or admire (or both) launches a successful venture, takes a creative leap or publishes a book. In this case, it’s the latter.

My amazing, bubbly, beyond-inspirational friend Nancy Coste was recently commissioned to shoot the artwork for a cookbook based on Belgium and Holland’s pet-biscuit, the beloved speculoos. Nancy is an inordinately talented photographer who hails from New York. She has lived in Paris, Santiago, Rome and now, as fate would have it, in Brussels, right around the corner from me.

For the book, Nancy was to schlep around the country and shoot an array of dishes (mostly deserts) integrating speculoos in some form or another, including some oeuvres created by major Belgian chefs. The publisher held her to a tight budget which was barely enough to pay for her food stylist (flown in special from Italy) and Nancy was worried about the cost of renting interesting plates and platters for the shoot. I volunteered the use of all my vintage dishes, cake stands and canisters and, voila, no more budgetary headaches!

The book came out just before Christmas and, beyond delighting in Nancy’s beeeyyyoootiful photos, I derive no end of pleasure admiring my babies shown to great advantage in so many delicious pages. All my platters, cake stands, cocktail glasses come from a decade of scanning flea markets and churchyard sales. Not one piece cost more than €5, most set me back less than €1. Ironically, I have a soft spot for cake stands, despite the fact that I really don’t bake.

And so for the plug. If you are a speculoos fan, buy Nancy’s book now (you’ll get to see my vintage dishes)! And if you’ve never heard of speculoos, time to come and sample them in Belgium.

The seen-it-all-attendant manning the receiving dock waddled over wearily and helped me first. With brisk, irreverent movements, we transferred my eclectic wares into industrial sorting bins: vacuum cleaners (2 of them), fried cable boxes, punctured basket balls, VHS tapes, rusty wok, broken hockey stick, jammed desk chairs, Paleolithic printer, Neolithic computer… With every hurled piece of junk came unexpected physical elation. Next stop: the local salvation army, where the earnest staff (all former convicts) whisked salvageable items (toys, bicycle, skates, aerosol machine for toddlers…) out of my car, thanking me enthusiastically as if their life depended on these random donations (later sold for peanuts), when I should have been thanking them, so amazing did it feel to be rid of the stuff.

In this season of plenty where compulsion to buy comes at us from all sides, where supermarket shelves heave with Pannetone, blinis and foie gras in every variation, where we’re constantly tripping over Christmas trees piled on the sidewalk or pyramids of champagne cases at the end of aisles, I’ve become a proponent of dumping vs. acquiring. Chances are, I too will ultimately succumb to the latter to some extent (gifts, inevitably), but I’m convinced that year-end naturally beckons a purge. Why else would I get such a high from clearing out the garage and offloading at the dump and local charity?

As we round the 2011 corner, what, might I ask, have you got rid of this year?

In my immediate circle, I have witnessed male and female friends successfully dump (in no particular order):

• Guilt-driven behavior
• Victim-like attitudes
• Petty resentments (the ones that cost more to self than to the person being resented)
• Attempts to “fix” a spouse
• The drive to analyse or rationalise everything
• The exhausting striving for incremental improvements
• Relentless attempts to control everything
• Over-committing tendencies
• Relationships that were poisoning their existence
• People that were sucking away their soul or their bank account
• And many combinations thereof

Among my amazing clients I have also seen people get rid of:

• Old grudges
• Needing to be right all costs
• Wanting to have the last word at every meeting
• Needing to be in the limelight at all times
• Pleasing others all the time
• Craving validation
• Needing to win
• Needing to be perfect

I have watched them dump all sorts of fears and shed limiting beliefs, and I have enjoyed best-seat-in-the-house vantage point over what unfurls (personally and professionally) when such “stuff” is cleared out.

The New Year, invariably, is all about starting afresh—new resolve, new exercise regimens, new commitments, and all sorts of new beginnings. I will argue that, in order to increase the chances of all this newness actually sticking, we owe it to ourselves to ditch some of the old. Not all of it of course—some of our old trappings have and will continue to hold us in good stead—but certainly the dysfunctional bits. The desk chair that won’t rise or pivot properly, the ball that won’t bounce, the printer that will only ever semi-print, the VHS tapes that no one will ever convert to DVD.

I returned from my drop-off mission with filthy hands and a spring in my step, feeling inexplicably lighter, energized yet serene. Definitely something to do more often.

Typically, my daughter will drift towards colorful displays of unaffordable eye shadows and experiment with exciting new shades of navy and silver. I wander towards the promise-filled face creams and begin to sample 120euro serums, exorbitant Swiss eye-gels (to prep for the wear and tear of the flight) and squirt assorted wrinkle-relieving potions onto my fast-aging-but-coping-ok-for-now face. Note: I rarely buy anything at this experimentation phase and generally shop for cosmetics in American drugstores, discount French pharmacies and the occasional WholeFoods, whenever I get to one.

On my last Spazierung through duty-free cosmetics, I paused in front of yet another display of cutting-edge serum where the copy loudly whispered: Youth is in your genes. Reactivate it. Discover the skin you were born to have.

I have to admit, that simplicity struck a chord.

Despite solid copy writing experience (it was my profession once) I am unusually un-cynical around clever copy. My husband laughs at my capacity to buy banal products (and pay premium) out of sheer elation with the back-story crafted on the label. The delightful Innocent Juices—one of my favourite and possibly the most brilliant British inventions—are such a product.

But back to reactivating my youth. I dabbed some of the clear, shiny liquid on my temples (using the lab-like glass pipette) and mused…Hmm, I have youth in my DNA, it is inside me all the time and…it’s just up to me to activate it. I mean, honestly, isn’t it my human right to reclaim the skin I was meant to have?!

There’s a science fiction dimension in there somewhere…like an X-man being activated from within while, on the surface, he/she is in the skin of an ordinary citizen.

I am cynical enough to realise (at least for now) that these miraculous drops (did I mention $78 an ounce?) will not make me look instantaneously younger and start me reversing, à la Benjamin Button but…I had lost sight of the fact that there are plenty of easy ways to feel young, remain young, be young, breath young.

Or at least: younger.

Or young-ish, as the case may be.

Which begs the question: what else lies within our cells that we can simply, with the touch of a finger (and the subliminal support of some silky serum), magically activate?

Enhanced, de-puffed, smoothed, re-pulped and scented, I realised I was late for boarding and hustled my young self and my eye-linered-to-the-hilt-young lady to the gate (no purchases). Dry, obscenely circulated air, 10 hours of it, acute dehydration, cabin pressure, HA! Bring it on! I am undaunted: I have the power to reactivate my youth, and much more besides.

It has taken me this long to calm down enough to collect my thoughts and, even now, as I attempt to post something about this, I’m already seizing up with the same rush of rage and bewilderment.

This “discovery” is the result of a study at the VU University hospital in Amsterdam, which “measured” the medical cost of 5,500 adults diagnosed with a range of mental illnesses, calculated days they were absent from work, and drew some damning conclusions. Reuters disseminated the results of the study (would be interesting to find out what the study itself cost) and dozens of papers across the world blindly reprinted it.

The head-shaking, tut-tutting, dismayed hand-on-hip-tone of the article is not just astounding, it’s scary. Throwing around the term “neurotics” in such a vague, unassuming yet loaded manner is pretty shocking too.

Am I overreacting?

Could it be that, in our evolved, 21st century Europe, there is still a publicly-held belief that mainstreamed mindsets, normalcy-uber-ales, and don’t-rock-the-boat-behaviors are what one should be striving for? That having less neurotics (whatever that means) will make society a better place?

I mean really, think of how much simpler, easier and convenient life would be if we didn’t have these neurotics plaguing our workplace and public health systems? While we’re at it: why do we need people with bad eyesight, people who eat too much, drive badly or use too many adjectives? And what about the physically disabled, the infertile, those that are slow at arithmetic? Don’t you shudder to think of the cost of them?!

To calm myself down I surfed over to the AMA website to see how they defined neurotic. It’s worth knowing, for the record, that “the word neurosis means ‘nerve disorder,’ and was first coined in the late eighteenth century by William Cullen, a Scottish physician. Cullen’s concept of neurosis encompassed those nervous disorders and symptoms that do not have a clear organic cause. Sigmund Freud later used the term anxiety neurosis to describe mental illness or distress with extreme anxiety as a defining feature. There is a difference of opinion over the clinical use of the term neurosis today. It is not generally used as a diagnostic category by American psychologists and psychiatrists any longer, and was removed from the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders in 1980.”

The night before my banana-dropping episode I had dinner with a Dutch friend who told me his daughter had been diagnosed with borderline personality disorrder. In Holland, he explained, this is a social stigma that can hang like a billboard on your back, condemning you to a lifetime of alienation and disapproval. I was stunned. In New York City everyone is borderline. Being even-keeled and emotionally stable is highly abnormal. In fact, it will scare the hell out of most people.

And now, astonished at the international recognition received by this you-see-how-awful-they-really-are-and-someone-really-should-do-something-about-it study, I realised what he was talking about: being normal is key!

I defy anyone out there to define normal.

I toyed briefly with writing to the authors of the study (and the two Reuters journalists who made this “news”) to ask them if our world would indeed be better off without (among others) Albert Einstein, Abraham Lincoln, Charles Dickens, Walt Whitman, Marcel Proust, Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde, Woody Allen and of course Van Gogh, that neurotic Dutchman.

I spent my university years studying some of the greatest British and French neurotics. Their genius is a huge part of what made me the person I am. The works of many neurotics (including dozens of borderline people) continue to expand my mind, soul and heart. I hope my children and many generations to come will be able to enjoy the immense wealth that “neurotics” contribute to society. Call me crazy.

In life too.

Early this morning, the stunning, perfectly fit men, sporting chic sunglasses, photogenic miniature dogs (typically crossbreeds between Yorkshires, Poodles, Bichons and other adorable throw pillows) and 2-seater vintage cars—Alfa spiders, MG’s, early 70’s Karmann Ghia’s—were out on 2-Mile Hollow beach. Most were lovingly toweling the sand off their Yorkoodles, or engaging in impromptu banter with other gorgeous men. This New Yorker cartoon-worthy scene on one of my favorite beaches always makes me gleeful. Don’t ask me why, maybe because it’s an apt reminder that we should all just play more in life.

Accustomed to being one of the rare women on the scene, I politely hello’d my way by, trotting towards the waterline to run on the edge of the beach.

There is a specific band of sand at the water’s edge that’s ideal for running—not too mushy and just firm enough. The jogger’s challenge is staying on this strip while avoiding the waves lapping at one’s shoes. It is a constant dance, away from the water towards the softer sand, which is at a slight incline, and back again. With today’s erratic waves, I negotiated an elegant zigzag, requiring dozens of nimble, real-time, ad-hoc adjustments.

Just as in life.

In such moments, no one can advise you. You alone must gauge where the edge of the wave will rise, how quickly to sprint sideways, or whether you can accelerate forward in time to miss the wave’s reach.

It occurred to me that we need to exercise this subtle combination of flash-prediction, intuition and dexterity, in so many domains (and in real time!): office politics, relationships, investments, even child-rearing challenges. What’s too much, too little, too fast, too slow, too soon or too late?

There are times, like today, when glancing at a seagull halved my concentration and I was suddenly, jarringly, ankle deep in cold water. I let out something of a damsel-in-distress yelp, which hopefully only the seagull heard, and bounced onto higher, drier ground. There was now water trapped in my socks, squishy and annoying and… I carried on. Definitely not so comfortable running with seawater in my shoes but, ultimately, manageable. I knew the water would evaporate as soon as I’d put the shoes in the sun, and they’d be dry by tomorrow, no biggie.

Life is full of split-second decisions. Instances where you just need to think without thinking, as Malcolm Gladwell puts it. Sometimes you make a decision that hits the nail on the head, sometimes you miss the mark. Welcome to the human race. In moments when you “take your eye off the ball,” there’s obviously a chance something could happen, and yes, something you cannot control and…So what? Who said you can’t run with wet socks?

Only you can make your decisions, call those shots, cauz’ no one will ever know better than you whether they are right or wrong. What matters is: you’ll know whether they are the right ones for you.

Except (!!) in the 6 months since I launched this blog I never once mentioned any apps so please indulge me, just this once, because it’s an app that so completely captures a universal need.

The application’s tagline goes “Lovin’ that tune? Shazam lets you discover, buy and share the song that is playing.”

For less than $2 I installed and promptly forgot I had Shazam. Until recently, when my son reminded me. We’d bounded off the couch to groove to a cool song accompanying the credits of a film we’d just watched and I said “this is such a great song, I wonder who sings it?” Without skipping a beat he exclaimed “Mommy! Shazam it!” to my perplexed expression he practically shouted “Shazam it! Shazam it!” and grabbed the iPhone (to hand, sadly) and pointed it towards the source of the music (in this case the TV). Within 2 seconds the name of the song and the band appeared on the screen, within 3 we were directed to an iTunes window allowing immediate purchase of the song. Done, dusted, loaded. The next morning I was running to it. And no, I’m not revealing what song.

Turns out Shazam can truly identify EVERYTHING, even early 1950’s Cuban music from an unheard of album (yes, I own such a thing), like magic. It unfailingly spits out the name of the song and artist.

Jogging happily to my newly downloaded song, I tried to pinpoint where my enthusiasm for this gizmo sprang from, and suddenly, it was clear as day: the joy of capturing a fleeting feeling or moment (in this case: a tune) and holding on to it, forever. Whatever the song evokes, you can reach out and grab it, without any restriction, permission or tedium. In nanoseconds, you can satisfy the primal “gimme some of that” urge, best embodied by babies swiping at an older child’s cotton candy or reaching, with every yearning ounce of strength and willpower for those juicy cherries or a shiny toy. If only we allowed ourselves to be more like that, with more things in life, more of the time! You want it? Shazam it! And you too can have it.

Hmmm, so much for not waxing lyrical.