A friend and I recently got into a pseudo-heated debate about what five albums (yes, I said albums…I used to have albums so I’m allowed) we would choose if we could only listen to those five albums for the rest of our lives.

His first choice was The White Album. Or, maybe it was Abbey Road. Wait, no. It was Sgt. Pepper’s. So, yeah…you get the idea.

Here’s the deal. I love The Beatles, really I do. I acknowledge their place as numero uno and that none of the amazing artists that I love today would exist without them. Well they would exist, but their music wouldn’t.

But, hello? I need to be able to sing these songs if I’m going to listen to them forever and there is only so much “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” that a girl can hear without her head popping off. Though, it’s possible that I could listen to Blackbird for a really, really long time.

I said that my first pick would be Joni Mitchell’s, Blue and my friend laughed at me. What he doesn’t know is that when there is a full moon, I turn into a long-haired hippie who plays a mean dulcimer and sings falsetto. My friend also, apparently, doesn’t realize that Rolling Stone named Blue as #30 on the list of 500 greatest albums of all time. Holla!

Sure, those three Beatles albums I mentioned were in the top 15 and Sgt. Pepper’s was #1. What. Ever. I want to sing.

That’s why my #2 album would be Aretha’s Gold. Because if I’m not a long-haired, Caucasian, Canadian in my dreams, then I’m an African-American soul singer. Actually, I’m pretty much the Queen of Soul. Just ask me.

From there, things get fuzzy. I blame the fact that this conversation took place at an Irish Pub, but honestly I don’t know where I would turn past those first two albums.  Probably Zeppelin, or Michael Jackson, or Pearl Jam, or Justin Timberlake.

I’m proud of the fact that my musical tastes are all over the place, because it shows I don’t lack diversity. Take that, Beatles. Ho-hum. I want to hear what people would pick OTHER than The Beatles.

So, I’ll stop my list right there and ask you, boys and girls. What would be the first two albums on your list?

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The first time it happened I was cutting the grass.

I made a sharp turn with our completely, non-self-propelled lawn mower, my foot slipped off of the curb, rolled under itself and just like that, I had a broken foot. Not sprained, broken. Because, if I’m going to go for it, I go for it all.

The second time I broke it was the most glamorous incident. I was skiing. You know, with those boots that don’t even let you BEND your ankle? Yeah, those. But, it was on a mountain! Okay, not really. It was a hill. In Ohio. Did I mention the boots?

The third time? It was when my daughter was a toddler and I was using an ottoman to block a doorway. If anyone knows ANYTHING about toddlers, it’s that they can’t climb over ottomans! Apparently, some adults can’t either.

The phone rang one day and instead of stepping over my barricade I decided to go all HURDLER on it. My enormous foot didn’t quite clear it and as I fell to the tile floor, I heard a snap. Then there were noises that sounded very much like someone was actually sticking a knife into my foot…via my ears.

The fourth time may have been tonight when I…wait for it…walked out of my back door. See incident #1 again. Roll, snap, elevate, repeat.

I am nothing, if not graceful.

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I sat down at my keyboard this morning ready to type a lighthearted post. I am pressed for time (what else is new?) and looked down at the clock on my monitor to note it and keep myself to a strict 20 minute limit. Then I saw the date.

9/9/2011

And, I completely erased what I had started.

There is nothing lighthearted about being two days away from the 10th anniversary of the attacks. It is a date, 10 years old, that feels like yesterday; the images so clear that I am sure a decade could not have possibly passed.

Seeing the calendar takes me away from this still, quiet room. My mind, instantly, sees the Trade Center with smoke billowing from the sides. It sees faces looking up in terror, thousands of people walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and it imagines what it was like to be on one of those planes.

I can’t see a clear blue sky without thinking of that day. I can’t hear planes flying overhead and think nothing of it. That day changed every bit of normal that I ever felt.

I think about these people.

I wonder how to explain to my children that there are people who are, inexplicably, evil, or why they have had three cousins fight in Iraq and Afghanistan. One of our nephews is over there now. He was the ring bearer in my wedding 14 years ago; young enough to be called a kid…though, undoubtedly, now a man.

I see lives lost, lives changed and I see the world in an entirely different light. A light dimmed by my own skepticism and worry.

Next week, I will come back to this new normal and write again without consideration of the date. I will find humor in the mundane and laughter in the everyday.

But, I will never, ever forget.

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What is your natural instinct when something scares you? Do you cover your eyes? Scream? Run? Fight?

I hate being scared and my knee-jerk reactions prove it. Last year at the Boy Scouts’ haunted forest when the boys jumped out from behind the trees, I grabbed my daughter and used her as a human shield.

But, that wasn’t when she first learned about my impulsiveness. The poor girl once made the mistake of standing behind my bedroom door, underneath a white sheet and when I least expected it, she jumped out at me and screamed. I screamed too. I also hit her in the face.

Last week, my husband had just climbed the steps when I entered the dark hallway right in front of him. He said…something…who knows what it was…and it scared me because I expected the dark hallway to be empty. I hit him so hard in the chest that I thought, for a second, he was going to fall down the stairs.

Fair warning, if I hear something go bump in the night, I’m going to shoot it. Just sayin’. I can’t help the way I react.

This has never been more evident than a few weeks ago on a trip to Lake Erie. My family and I were taking a tour of a one-room cave. I was shoved up against the back wall with a large crowd between me and the only exit. My head was about six inches from the ceiling.

I looked down at my son who was staring at something above me when he said, very nonchalantly, “Mom, there’s a bat.”

I was sure I misunderstood.

“What, buddy?”

Again, he looked just past my head and calmly said, “There’s a bat.”

I turned around to see a mouse-like, winged creature within inches of my face.

I can only describe what happened next as half slow-motion, half George Constanza. I nearly trampled my own kids so I could get out of there.

What can I say? My motherly instincts are pretty awesome.

But, as I was getting ready to throw people to the side, the tour guide said, “It’s okay! It’s fake!”

The picture is so blurry because I was still shaking. You know, because of a Beanie Baby.

But, on the upside, I didn’t knock anyone out.

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