To Ted

I was about to start my yoga practice when the call came yesterday. That is to say, I was leaping and twirling around my room. Lately, I’ve been kicking off my practices by dancing wildly to a particular Fatboy Slim song. It’s surprising that I heard the phone at all.

Chitra sounded down – someone-died down – and I turned off the music the moment I heard her voice. Someone had died. Our friend and former editor Ted, dead of a heart attack at 55.

Ted didn’t look like a guy who would die of a heart attack. He was slim and shaggy-haired. He often wore cowboy boots and a screw-The-Man smirk. You could tell by looking at him that he’d had more fun than you in his youth. You could tell he had a better CD collection.

I met Ted when we worked together in New Jersey. We kept in touch after I transferred to LA. When I visited our East Coast offices, we’d grumble and gossip and grumble some more. He’d offer his house for a welcome-back bash. I quit in August. Ted stayed with the company; he had the house and a teen-age son and a sweet salary that kept him in shackles.

Because I’m so far away, his death doesn’t seem real. I picture Ted at his desk, not in a box. I won’t be there for the viewing or memorial service, so I asked a friend to bring a flower for me. Ted was into flora. And birds. He was really into birds.

I didn’t finish my dance number yesterday. I couldn’t bring myself to bop around. Instead, as I started my practice, I cranked up “Amo la Vida,” a Spanish song whose title means “love the life.” Because Ted did.