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The 7 words that are killing me

May 24, 2018

Me and my best friend Cathy sat toward the front of a big, dark theater, a box of Lemonheads and gigantic soda between us, and waited impatiently for the previews to end. We’d been begging to do this for weeks. Finally, with our matching New Kids on the Block t-shirts and stirrup pants, we looked on as the scenes unfolded on the giant screen before us, lighting up our tiny, freshly freckled faces. I was 9 years old. The movie was the incomparable, the phenomenal, “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead” starring none other than the angelic Christina Applegate.

Stop me if you’ve heard this profound and thought-provoking plot before. Three siblings – a preppy teen, her stoner brother and their tomboy little sister – were left alone while their mom went to explore the Australian outback, as most single moms do. Whilst she was away, the mother hired a 99-year-old babysitter to look after the children. After she, as the title might suggest, passed away, the siblings did as any teenagers would do; They drastically matured. Kenny, the weed-loving brother learned to cook gourmet meals and keep a neat household, while Swell, the oldest sister, took an entry level job as an assistant at a high-profile fashion apparel company.

With her cigarettes, tight french braids, fire engine red lips, and teen gal insights about uniforms, Swell climbed the ranks in just weeks before it inevitably all went to crap when their mom came home to find a raging fashion show playing out in their backyard. Such silly shenanigans!

This walk down memory lane has a point, I promise, and it is this … 7 words, one line. One line that has followed me for 26 years: “I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

There’s this scene in the movie, after Swell first gets the job with Rose, the Senior Vice President of Operations with shoulder pads you could sleep on, where Rose is taking like 5 minutes to onboard her new hire. As a final directive, she tells Swell, “And one more thing, and this is so important … Whenever we’re not alone or I’m on the phone and I ask you something, no matter what it is, you always say, ‘I’m right on top of that, Rose!’ [in a peppy tone] OK?”

via GIPHY

Every single day, in every situation, I am the Rose and the Swell.

I tell both myself and everyone around me that everything is under control, even when I’ve spent all the hypothetical petty cash and I have to clean the happy fat vats. I do it because it’s too paralyzing to stop and assess how I’m really doing. Do I really want to know how far behind I am? How depleted? How frazzled?

“I’m right on top of that, Rose!” is no different than, “Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming,” or “Smile and wave, boys”. These fake-it-till-ya-make-it phrases are all the soul’s rebuttal to high demand when it can’t take on one more thing, or manage what it’s already carrying, but it feels impossible to admit it.

I recently went through an intense period professionally. And I have three daughters, so basically every day of my existence is stressful at home. (Beautiful, but stressful, yes, we all agree.) The only option was to put my head down and walk forward through the mud. Like a pregnant tortoise, no doubt, but forward ever still.

I recognized this chapter immediately because it’s one I’ve lived through before, many times. I tell myself if I can just keep unloading dishwashers and packing lunches. Keep detangling and putting up ponytails and putting away laundry. Keep adding tasks to the list and taking 10-minute impromptu meetings. Keep answering emails and writing words. Keep on keeping on.

Because when I lift my head, that’s when I notice that my to-list is substantially longer than my to-done list. Actually scrolling through it, I feel like it’s going to grow rows of teeth and swallow me whole. Big tasks, little tasks, follow ups, follow throughs. There for a span of about four weeks I was positively pounded with expectation. And subsequently, all the anxiety.

But did anyone know?

“I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

Of course they didn’t. Because that would require me saying no to something or asking for help or acknowledging I ran out of time. And I don’t run out of time! Pulling back the curtain to show the panic and tears and ugliness we typically reserve for our own self-loathing is just way too logical, too vulnerable, too honest. Screaming “uncle!” is weak in comparison to the denial-drenched alternative “I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

And I guess what I’m asking is why we do it to ourselves. I can’t be the only one who spends her lunch hour picking up the dog’s arthritis medicine, 3 poster boards for Star of the Week and the special non dairy cheese, glancing at the clock every 2 minutes to make sure there’s enough time. There has to be a silent army of us out there rounding up the oddities that make our tribe’s globe keep rotating on its perfect little axis.

And it’s not like I’m on an island. I have a husband. A good one, in fact. With a car and legs and a cell phone and a wallet. One who I could send an S.O.S. to at any time, no judgment. But I rarely do. I have friends. Good ones, in fact. With phones and mini vans and basements and vodka. Ones who I could text an S.O.S. to at any time, no judgement. But I rarely do. I have a family. A good one, in fact. With houses and a hereditary obligation to unconditionally love me, my partner and my offspring no matter what, and to show up every time no questions asked. But I rarely ask them.

It’s just insane, guys.

As women, our generosity muscle is strong. It gets worked. We see a weak moment for someone else and we offer to help before even thinking it through. We’re there to listen, cook, clean, fold, drive, whatever they need. But when we feel ourselves slipping, drowning, grasping, we push it down and we walk through the mud. The house is a mess and your cousins want to come over for dinner and I have a freelance story due and the dog has raging diarrhea? “I’m right on top of that, Rose! Sounds great!” I’m going out of town and got pulled into a last minute executive presentation and my oil needs changed and I’m getting a sinus infection. “I’m right on top of that, Rose! I’ve got it. No problem!”

And the people who really pay are the ones we love the absolute most. Hot off a stressful day I will scream at my girls to just “Go play anywhere but here!” while I burn an average tasting dinner that no one is going to eat anyway. But I’ll smile and eat my shit politely when a lukewarm acquaintance assigns me 50 action items for a charity event I didn’t even volunteer for or a stranger steals my parking spot at the grocery store in a thunderstorm. I don’t know why.

What would happen if I dropped “I’m right on top of that, Rose!” from my vernacular? What if we all did? What if, instead of “Sure,” “No problem,” “Absolutely,” “I’m fine,” “I’m great,” “I can just swing by on my way to …” we started saying things like, “Can you please,” and “I can’t,” and “I need,” and “It can wait,” and “Not today” and asking, “Is this really that important”? It would take time and a lot of reprogramming but it has to be possible. I see others doing it. Not many others, but others.

Let this be my confession:
On most days, I am only, at best, mildly on top of things. Other days I’m buried somewhere underneath. If you see me walking fast, I’m likely running late. If my head is down, I’m probably lost or checking to see what I need to do next. If I’m at the drugstore, shit’s probably going down. If I’m at the grocery, I’m miserable. If I’m exercising, I’m feeling guilty. If I’m driving, I’m listening to an audiobook about how to be a better human. I am a woman with her chin sticking just out of the water and I recognize your chin, too.

via GIPHY

I’m thinking my internal dialogue is as outdated as the hot pink and turquoise referee uniforms in the movie from which it came. I’m working to retire my tired ruminations and responses and downshift into more honesty. We’re always going to be hardwired to gather tasks. It’s our instinct to take inventory of needs and check the temperature of the members of our tribe, and there’s likely no fighting that. But I can certainly tap into my army more. I’ve got some pretty great soldiers among my ranks.

Thoughts

It’s not you, it’s … well, sometimes it’s you

March 21, 2018

Dear Desperately Seeking Representation,
Thank you for reaching out to me about this project.

I’m sorry this is a pass for me.

Right now my list is very full, and I’m fortunate that business
is very good so I can pass on projects that are not only
good and publishable but ones I really like. That’s a good
problem for me, but it just stinks from your
viewpoint.

I strongly encourage you to query widely. Other agents have more room
on their lists and are able to take on more clients.

Please think of this as redirection rather than rejection.

Very best wishes to you!

Brenda Boobenshlauts
Literary Agent to the Stars

“Redirection rather than rejection.” That’s some next-level breakup lingo there, folks.

You should know that this is an actual email that I actually received (for the most part). It came in response to a lofty step I took out onto a ledge protruding from the top floor of a building I’d never been in and knew very little about. It came from me taking a chance that didn’t quite pay off or pan out.

It’s cool. I can talk about it.

It’s amazing how ballsy we are in hypotheticals, isn’t it? How highly we think of the three-months-from-now version of ourselves when we’re feeling all big and aspirational. It’s not uncommon for me to set overly ambitious, unattainable goals when it comes to fitness or food restrictions, but when I sat down to make my 2018 resolutions, I wanted to throw something new in the mix. I wanted to get out of my literary La-Z Boy and dip my toes into a new pond. The publishing pond.

[laughing] Isn’t that so cute?

Back in January, I promised myself I would write something outside of this blog space and my day job space, and I would woman up and bravely send it out into the world, no regrets. At that time, I didn’t consider the boomerang laced with dismissal and disinterest that would come back to catch me in the kisser. I wasn’t thinking about the soul-crushing flood of failure that would infiltrate and poison my inbox.

And yet, the flood came.

To date, I have been told “thanks but no thanks” in a dozen different ways by a dozen different strangers. I’ve received short, shitty rejections, and softer it’s-not-you-it’s-me rejections. I’ve been rejected by men and by women. I’ve been rejected from six different states. I’ve been rejected more times today than I’ve used the restroom. Maybe I need to drink more water?

And now that I’ve scraped my pride up off the public bathroom tile, I’m starting to crawl toward the gratitude. I’m thinking that, in a day when we so often only offer our successes and posed portraits to our peers and connections, it’s interesting to explore the unfiltered side for a vulnerable sec. To hold the microscope up to the passes and disappointments, instead. I feel like you can’t really have one without the other. You can’t appreciate cupcakes unless you’ve had anchovies, right? That is to say, you can’t savor an achievement without knowing the taste of failure, too. And boy did I get a pu pu platter this past week.

I sent thirty-something proposals for a side passion project out the door the same week I was talking to the team of a well-respected public figure about another exciting extracurricular opportunity. While, by our third exchange, I think both sides sensed that it wasn’t the best fit, they were the ones to finally call it. Even though I helped slice the lemons, the juice of the rejection still stung. It stung because my mind had created an idyllic version of the situation since I so badly wanted it to fit. And it stung because I was already sipping from the trickle of rejection I’d triggered earlier in the week with my ill-fated proposal. By Friday, I felt like I was drowning in disappointment. Drinking it from a fire hose.

But – here comes the gratitude – the universe has this way of giving and taking. The pendulum tends to come back polished with purpose. It’s rare that hindsight doesn’t hand us some degree of handsome justification. It might take a few years, but a bad break almost always leads to a future happiness. Opportunities are kind of like Dominos in that way; as each one passes, it taps the next one in. Some are good and some are bad, but you can’t get to your future unless you fall down a few times and then put it behind you.

I find this push and pull – these highs and lows – in writing for sure, but also in marriage, in friendships, in parenting and in my relationship with myself. I might look around some evening and all my chicks are getting along and the house isn’t a catastrophe and there’s lots of cuddling going on, and then an hour later Sloppy Joan decides to make cupcakes out of shaving cream and cotton balls. I might get my workouts in six days in a row and finally see the scale move a pound, only to wake up surrounded by Taco Bell wrappers and Halo Top lids on Sunday.

It’s the pulse of life. Success surges and subsides.

And so must failure.

Rejection.

Redirection.

So, what to do after you’ve gotten your ass kicked, wrapped up and handed back to you with a bow on top? I guess, see it as a gift. Gabrielle Bernstein once posted, “ If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.” And I think that’s the faith and the hope that you get to hold onto when nothing else sticks. When your plan falls apart.

So, Brenda Boobenshlauts didn’t buy into your proposal. Or your idea didn’t fly in the staff meeting. Or you ate all of the ice creams. Or you didn’t get nominated or picked or recognized.
You don’t stop trying. It’s not supposed to be easy. You knocked and no one answered. The key didn’t fit. It just wasn’t your door.

Sometimes it’s a product of effort, sure, but sometimes it’s a product of timing. I think about JoJo and Spike. Remember last winter during basketball season, when Spike wouldn’t go on the court? She felt overwhelmed and small and incapable until that very last game when she got out there and flung that ball up toward the hoop. Not one of us cared that she missed.

When Hank asked if we should sign them up again this winter, I was convinced it was a waste of time, but he persisted. Last Saturday was their last game and I was almost sad to see it go. They both did so well, and scored almost every single game. That’s right, Spike scored almost every single game. The timing was right. She’d grown, both in stature and self esteem. She knew what to expect, and that the worst thing that could happen would be that she’d miss. So she shot.

I think about what a loss it would have been if I’d let last year’s poor experience poison this year’s opportunity.

As a writer, I can’t count the number of times a first draft or story idea got shot down like a fat turkey on Thanksgiving morning. But also, how many amazing opportunities and notes of thanks I’ve received. And most of the time, the amazing opportunities come just on the other side of the gut punch. The good stuff takes the sting away when the pendulum pushes back in my direction. I just have to have faith it will come back around.

If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.

Brenda Boobenshlauts was not my door.

The glitzy side hustle was not my door.

Now I have to stand tall on tomorrow’s front stoop and dare to try again. I haven’t sent my last proposal. I haven’t seen my last rejection. But I’ve got a ring full of keys and I’m huntin’ down my door.

(P.S. This was a letter I needed to write to myself, and I thank you for letting me put it here in this space.)

Thoughts

The 36 questions you need to ask somebody now

March 2, 2018

Last Wednesday night, my husband of a decade and I put on our fancy-ish, semi-stretchy outfits and treated ourselves to a gluttonous belated Valentine’s Day dinner. We really don’t date enough. Every time we find ourselves chickless with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine, we rediscover just how much we like each other.

We’ve been sitting at tables with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine (or pizza and soda cocktails, depending on the decade) for more than 17 years. We’ve covered a lot of ground, both in diet and dialogue. As you pass through the seasons of life, you fall into certain conversational potholes. In our teens, it was all who are you and how did you get so amazing? In our 20s, it was all friends and weddings and first jobs and apartments. In our 30s it’s the kids, our jobs, our house and the kids.

I love my girls, my work and our home, but after awhile, talking about only the adult parts of our lives makes me feel ever so slightly like the lead character in an indie film. You know the one … he/she’s disconnected, an inactive participant in the fleeting hours of his/her fleeting years. They typically come alive after daring to pursue a very uncharacteristic journey or relationship. In real life, the plot twist isn’t written in. You have to spice up the script yourself.

About a week ago, a sweet friend from work passed along a podcast she thought I’d enjoy. The Science of Happiness features research-based topics for living a meaningful life and is co-produced by the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley. The episode she recommended was “How to fall in love with anyone” and it led me to the 36 questions.

The 36 questions! It’s starting to get good, guys. Stay with me.

(This is the nerdy, fascinating part.) The 36 questions were originally developed in a lab by a guy named Art. Art was focused on creating, not love, but friendships. But not just any friendships. Friendships between people who otherwise hated each other. People who felt a strong prejudice against a particular group of people. The scientists (Art) wanted to see if having someone who held prejudice complete a get-to-know-you interview with someone from the group which they disliked would change or reduce the negative taste in their mouth. In short, could a good ole Barbara Walters sit down break down racial tensions? And wouldn’t you know … it did. Now, those are some damn good questions.

So, this author, Kelly Corrigan, who was the primary guest on the podcast, took Art’s research-proven technique for feeling closer to the people you hated and applied it to romantic partners and married couples, because, you know, why not?

She focused on couples who’d been together for some time. “You think there’s no discovery left and how sad is that?” she said. Her confident conclusion is that sitting down and asking your loved one the 36 questions will open a whole new can of conversational worms. “The thought of hearing your spouse say something for the first time, not just to you, but possibly to anyone, that’s powerful. Intimacy is predicated after all on telling someone something you wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

See, the trick is: You have to ask the questions.

Remember when you were first dating your husband/wife and you’d stay up late relentlessly probing for every little morsel of information? You collected their history crumb by crumb, devouring the sweet story of their life up until the point you entered it.

And that’s where you grew up? And what was your childhood like? Were you a bad kid or a good kid? Did you have any hobbies? Did you win any awards? And how did that make you feel? Were you close to your parents? Why is that? How would you say your relationship is now? Were you a good brother? What’s that scar? Did it hurt? Did you ever do that again? So you don’t have your tonsils?

When did I stop asking the questions?

If I had to guess, it was probably around the same time we added a second kid, went to man-on-man coverage and took jobs where we had to wear slacks and closed toe shoes, but it’s really a hard thing to gauge retroactively.

I don’t know everything there is to know about Hank. I couldn’t possibly! By our very nature we’re changing every second, in our thoughts, in our cells. I guess I just forgot that it’s my job to keep going back for the crumbs. It’s still a sweet story, his story. He still wants to tell it, even though he says he doesn’t. We all want someone to witness our time here.

There’s a whole process on the website for how you should conduct your interview. Myself, I like to just lob one at the old man when he least expects it, or he’s stuck at a fancy restaurant with me and we have to appear to be having adult conversation to fit in with all the other adults wearing sweater vests and cell phone belt clips.

“So, I listened to this podcast Angie recommended about these 36 questions …” I started [Insert spiel about the premise and prejudice, Art, etc. and so on.]
“OK”
“But I forgot the paper with all the questions.”
“You were going to bring a paper to our Valentine’s Day fancy dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“K”
“Anyway, the only two I can remember are, ‘Have you ever thought of how you would die?’ and ‘What was the last song you sang to yourself?’”
“I mean … really … I’m not good at this stuff.”
“C’mon. Have you ever thought about how you would die?”
“I guess old age, something sudden and catastrophic, or a horrible illness.”
“I hope it’s old age.”
“I know you do.”
“What was the last song you sang?”
“I mean, with the kids I’m always singing something from a Disney princess show or some stupid thing. But just like 2 seconds of it and then another thought pops into my head.”
“I remember another one! ‘What was the most terrifying day of your life?’”
“I don’t really remember that stuff. I know I was scared when you had surgery after JoJo was born (a story for another time). And I’m sure I was scared when Dad had cancer. But I just don’t hold onto those things.”

At this point, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the 36 questions were working their magic whether he wanted to believe they would or not.

We kept on like that through our entrees. Then I veered off script and brought up the subject of getting a new dog when our current dog crosses the rainbow bridge, and things took a turn. But still, 3 of the 36 questions had proven to be pretty dang great.

So now I want more. I want more time (I wouldn’t be mad at more fancy dinners, either) and more crumbs. I want to stay up late rediscovering my husband of a decade and all the strange, phenomenal thoughts that go through his 30-something head and settle back into his soul a bit. I mean, if I don’t ask him the questions, who will? Our children? Their major inquiries of late revolve around gravity and the purpose of butts. Someone has to steer this ship in a deeper direction.

You can find the questions here and the podcast here. I hope they help you reconnect with a parent, sibling, friend or partner. Maybe even try them on someone ya hate! Happy discovery and conversation, friends.

Thoughts

Peace by piece (let’s make it a thing)

February 13, 2018

I have, through a series of fortunate events, been introduced to and befriended a mindfulness expert, Dr. Dave. I just love the guy. He’s one of these folks who holds people with his eyes and controls your attention through the inflection in and pace of his voice. He slows way down when he’s making the point he most wants you to absorb. It’s like performance art, watching this guy explain the overthinking mind, I tell ya.

All that to say, he’s a pretty captivating soul, but mostly, I love the guy because he does beautiful shit like this …

A few weeks back, a group of us were working on a video project with Dr. Dave at his house, which is always kind of a rewarding exercise in itself because his home is very curated and collected and cool. It spawns a lot of creativity, which is my currency of choice. Plus, interview someone on a chair in a lobby and then interview them on their couch in their living room and just see which comes out more engaging. It’s a pathetic contest.

Anyway, we were standing in his kitchen, contemplating his gracious offer to make coffee, when he threw a standard Dr. Dave curveball out. “Guys, I want to start today by setting an intention.” Aw yeah, here we go! Intentions! [Oprah voice] He reached into his pocket and pulled out three puzzle pieces. He placed one very deliberately in my hand, then each of my coworkers’ hands.

“I want you to look at the glossy side of the piece. What colors are on it? What textures did the artist capture? What bigger image might this piece be a part of?”

We all obediently ran our fingers over our pieces, quietly, pregnantly.

“OK, now turn it over. What do you notice about the other side? What does it feel like?”

We complied. It looked and felt like cardboard.

“Now, I want you think about a word. One word. I want that word to be your intention for the month of February. Think about something you want to work on or focus on. What is your word?”

We only get one?

“You know,” he continued, “sometimes it can be hard to see the big picture when we’re only focused on one small part of it. But if you set your intention, it can help clear out some of the noise and give clarity.”

Classic Dr. Dave. That insightful son of a …

This was the shot from the gun at the starting line for me. Not the idea of setting an intention. I mean, I employ mantras in loads of different ways: To get through a long run … “one more step, one more step, one more step …” Or a long car ride with three tiny, disgruntled passengers … “you’ll miss these days, you’ll miss these days, you’ll miss these days … Or even to walk away from breakroom brownies … “skinny jeans, skinny jean, skinny jeans …” But this was more complex.

Strap on your seat belts, guys. We’re going full speed into Metaphor Town!

Let’s say life is a puzzle, with, we’ll call it 100 different pieces (if you’re lucky), and each piece is a different intention; A different facet of your character, awareness or behavior you’d like to strengthen. If you invested a bit of yourself in every single one of those pieces, you’d feel pretty great about the project by the time it all came together and it was ready to be put away, right? Do you smell what I’m steppin’ in? What Dr. Dave was steppin’ in?

You can set an intention for the day.

Set an intention for the week.

For the month.

For the year.

You could take everything apart, figure out what needs fixing or focus and then fix or focus on it. Piece by piece. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. Year by year. However much you can break off and handle at one time, handle it. Maybe it’s one small thing – like an hour more sleep – and that’s all you want to focus on for 365 days. I think that would be lovely!

This whole thing – this puzzle – might just be the secret to realistic change. It’s a guide to showing yourself grace and getting down into the gritty work in digestible, manageable doses. Every yahoo with a 50+ piece jigsaw under their belt knows that big results don’t come together by dumping the whole mess out on a table and going hog wild. No! Things really only start to come together when you have a plan. A strategy. They come from pulling all the edge pieces out first and starting there, maybe from a corner.

Yes, a corner!

Think of what your corners might be … C’mon, what are your biggies? For me, it’s patience, presence, health and growth. If I can get to a good place in those four areas, I think I can love with as much love as my heart can hold and live with as much life as my spirit can imagine. Maybe start there. With your four corners. The “need to haves”. Then … break it out from there with the “nice to haves” that tie back to your “need to haves”. What are the other pieces of the puzzle for you?

My intention for February is “awake”. (Remember, Dr. Dave only gave us one word.) It’s a state of being that often eludes me. I’m upright. I’m dressed for the part. I’m crossing everything off the list, but I am not always seeing things. I’m not always tuned into the people I’m doing things for or the reasons I’m doing things to begin with. I’m a frequent flier on the autopilot express, and my intention is to quit hitting snooze and wake the F up. Most importantly, the word “awake” ties back to one of my four corners: Presence.

So, now it’s your turn. I mean … if you want it to be. You could even go so far as to buy an actual puzzle from an actual store and write actual words on the backs of actual pieces. It’s your call. Blow it up and put it back together, word by word. An intention isn’t a contract or obligation to anybody but yourself. You can pick what those pieces say and you can pick your pace for putting it confidently into place before picking up the next one.

It’s your life, your puzzle. Eventually, it all comes together.

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Thoughts

Resolutions: lean and clean in ’18

January 3, 2018

Happy New Year, party people! My gosh, there were times during the last 365 days when I wasn’t sure we’d see the ball drop again, but we got there. Somehow. And thank goodness, too, because Mariah just couldn’t leave things like that. I rang in 2018 with the two oldest chicks (Sloppy Joan passed out to Spirit about an hour shy of the mark), my in-laws and my bro. It was everything you’d expect from 35 … a well-glazed ham, a counter full of Crock-Pots and a red wine hangover that began before I even went to bed.

I’m sure it comes as a shock to no one who reads this thing regularly that I am a huge sucker for the new year. As a seasoned ball dropper myself, I relate to the ceremony of it all. Admittedly, I get super romantic about the promise of a fresh start; the optimism, the possibility, the lies I can tell myself in the two weeks leading up to January 1, and the way I almost totally believe them.

I spend a lot of time plotting out my resolutions. I take them seriously, and I love stumbling across other people who take them seriously, too. It makes me feel validated and more secure in my ill-fated hopefulness. But to find those people, you have to kiss a lot of frogs first. You have to hear eight thousand times, “resolutions are a joke,” “I don’t believe in that shit,” and “My resolution is to stop making resolutions.” (So witty, that last one.)

Goal-setting is not everyone’s glass of Sunny D. I get it. Far be it for me to hate on someone who’s satisfied with the way their life is rolling along. That’s commendable! Grab a cup of joe and cuddle up with that joy, I say! Just don’t be a dick to those of us who still consider ourselves a work in progress, k?

So, what’s to become of this desperate little seeker in 2018?

After much deliberation and polling my social circle and complete strangers alike, I have arrived at my list for the year ahead. There are always some repeats from previous lists, either because I didn’t get the job done last year, or because I’m enjoying it so much, I want to keep going. This year’s no exception. I’ve already walked a bit down the path on some of these and, either wandered off into the woods to drink moonshine with the natives, or have miles yet to go.

2018 Resolutions

  • No sugar + No dairy
  • Very little meat + fish
  • Meditate at least 15 minutes a day, every day
  • Exercise in some fashion 6 days a week
  • Write something (non-DSS or work related) and put it out into the world
  • Less things, more experiences
  • Create space to love myself and my life

No sugar + No dairy.
We’ll hit this one right out of the gate, starting January 2. The hope is, we can really focus on these big bad guys for 30 days and then just carry that momentum forward. Not new information here, but the sweet stuff is public enemy No. 1 for this mama. Sucrose, fructose, maple, honey, cane, corn, brown, molasses … you name it, I’ll roll something in it and eat it. I can’t get enough. The butter, the cheese, the milk, the ice cream, I can tackle those lovely temptresses. Especially with so many semi-palatable replacements.

Very little meat + fish.
This one is also at the top of the list, but we’ve already started tiptoeing down the vegan path. I’d say our carnivorous consumption is down at least 50 percent. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that sometimes, a juicy burger or BBQ pulled pork sandwich just really gets my cavewoman heart a pumpin’. But, I will also say that, after going 14 days with no animal products, eating a pound of cow feels like swallowing a sofa. The sooner we can all get on board with easing up on things that moo, squeal or cluck, and being more mindful about the care they were given when they roamed the earth, the better off our planet will be.

Meditate at least 15 minutes a day, every day.
I’m phasing this one in after 30 days so I don’t completely fall apart before we hit February. I’ve had Headspace on my phone for months, that orange circle taunting me every time I see my home screen. When I make it happen, it makes me so happy. I have this recurring meditation. My mind just automatically plays it. It lives somewhere deep inside me and when I let some quiet in, it surfaces like a hug from my calmer self. The problem is, I rarely let the quiet in. I’m going to get better about that.

Exercise in some fashion 6 days a week.
Between Beachbody OnDemand and my gym membership, it should be harder for me to miss a workout than to get one in. But nevertheless, I often find 500 excuses to sidestep the sweat. For my sanity, I need to get back into a routine and start moving. I’m toying with trying a trail race in 2018, and would also love to find a spin class that fits into my schedule. Working toward a goal is always the best motivator so we’ll see what my fitness journey looks like over the next 365 days.

Write something (non-DSS or work related) and put it out into the world.
By far the most intimidating resolution on my list, I have a few ideas I’m staring at from a 3,000 foot view. I would love to do some research, get some words on paper, and send them out into the universe wrapped in lots of genuine love and intention. We’ll see, we’ll see … the thought is both exhilarating and nauseating.

Have you ever seen the movie First Knight? So good! Well, in it, King Arthur of Camelot (Sean Connery) dies and a bunch of knights, including Lancelot (Richard Gere) float his body out to see on a bunch of twigs and then, once he’s far enough away from the shore, shoot flaming arrows at it to light him on fire as Guinevere (Julia Ormond) looks on. In my mind, those twigs and body are my work and the flaming arrows are the publishing world. Clearly I have some issues to work through.

Less things, more experiences.
A favorite returns in 2018! I love, love, love this idea. I have stuff. I have a house full of gadgets and gizmos and garments and groceries. When I look around, i feel both blessed and burdened. To be honest, I would give most of it up in exchange for the chance to stand on a mountaintop with my tribe. I love smelling the air in a space I’ve never seen and seeing the reflection of the world in my daughters’ eyes. No blanket scarf or super juicer can top those moments. When it comes to spending money, insert a pause and consider putting your pennies toward places rather than pieces.

Create space to love myself and my life.
This is obscure perhaps, but also, so clear to me. I jam pack my days with the tiny functions of my family. Lunches and ponytails and bus schedules and Instant Pot recipes and baths and pajamas and Judy Blume books. I can easily fill the five waking hours a day I spend with my husband and chicks with tasks and caretaking. This does not make me unlike every mother in every corner of this planet. But between the morning, work and evening rush, there has to be a little room to breathe. There has to be some unscheduled space. I need to create a place to play. I don’t know what that looks like, but I know it’s lacking right now.

I can only explain it by sharing the way I feel when I hike. When I don’t have cellular data, or an agenda, or a plethora of first world amenities, I feel liberated. Like I’m opening my wings after keeping them under a lead jacket for months. But I don’t think it’s just the scenery. I think it’s cutting the tether to my everyday. I’d love to find a more convenient, accessible way to achieve the same freedom.

What are your resolutions for 2018? If you’re into that sort of thing. Whatever the goal, I hope the next 12 months are full of tender, sweet moments and joyous, soul-stirring triumphs. I wish you loud giggles – from your own belly and those of little ones – and restorative quiet. Glennon Doyle always says, “We can do hard things.” And I think I’d like to do some of those hard things this go around. Giddy up!

Thoughts

How the strep stole Christmas

December 29, 2017

We have been positively drowning in holiday cheer over here. Well, holiday cheer and the white-hot throat daggers of strep. Both, equally and with the exact same amount of dedication. With just 5 days till Christmas, my true loves gave to me …

4 sweats and shivers,
3 blades to gargle,
2 swollen lymph nodes
And a bug that left me feeling shitty.

But it came in tasteful, shiny wrapping paper, so, ya know …

Being sick this time of year is such a treat, because there are so many sophisticated films to take in (i.e. the Christmas Prince) (But, for real though, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) and a brutal fever is the perfect way to sweat out some of those Christmas confections you’ve been stuffing into your mouth hole.

As the mother, finding yourself bedridden for two days before the jolliest weekend of the year is not unlike playing Ebenezer Scrooge in a local church production of A Christmas Carol. You’re a ghost, looking in as your spouse carries on dutifully in your absence. This is what baths would be like if you weren’t around. This is what the dinner rush would be. This is how laundry would be folded. It would all march on without you; Slowly. Wrinkly. Whiney.

The chicks passed the ick like a filthy baton. Spike kicked it off strong, followed by JoJo, who was trailed, not far behind, by Sloppy Joan and myself, simultaneously. But it’s interesting how the sickness materialized, festered and then vacated each of their little bodies. I have found, in my eight years of mothering, that, when under the weather, my girls often fall into one of the following personas:

The Walter White.
This is the kid who leaves for school in the morning smiling and talking about weekend plans and how wonderful their cinnamon toast is and comes back to you an hour later entirely deteriorated, a completely different person. This is the scenario that always brings the most passive aggressive school nurse shaming. You just know she’s wondering why you sent your kiddo off in such bad shape. Little does she know she was so good just 3 hours earlier.

The Jo March.
This is the kid who gets crazy emotional and affectionate when she’s sick. She talks about what a wonderful mom you are, how you should go and enjoy frozen yogurt without her, and how sad she is to be missing the opportunity to play with her sisters whilst she’s ill. Always with giant cartoon teardrops in the corners of her eyes and an endearing redness in her cheeks.

The Katniss Everdeen.
This is the kid who comes down with the ick, goes to your bed and sleeps for 48 hours, waking only for medicine and a drop of water. She goes into a self-induced coma to recoup and reemerges like a true badass. Classic Katniss.

The Sixth Sense.
This is the kid who, after just 24 hours, makes a miraculous recovery. She’s running around the house and jumping off the coffee table so you send her back to school. Three days later she comes home with a 103 temp and hot tamale tonsils. You just don’t see it coming!

We shook off the strep just in time for the major festivities. Unfortunately, the burning little bitch gave way to a barky, brutal cough that left all three chicks barfing in their sugar cookie-filled pie holes. Nothing says Merry Christmas quite like hacking over Grammy’s hamballs.

But we’re coming out on the other side now. I’m almost 90 percent sure of it. I took some time off, which I used almost exclusively to find homes for all the new shit we had stacked in our living room. This, of course, was only made possible by throwing away all of last year’s new shit. The thing that truly scares me is that year by year, gift by gift, all of these treasures are finding a nook and a cranny in my home. But my home isn’t exactly getting bigger, right? So eventually I feel like I’m just going to wake up in FAO Schwarz. My house is slowly morphing into the apartment from Big. The toys are taking over and their army is mounting by the minute.

Anyway, with all the Amoxicillin flying around I didn’t get a chance to really wish all of you who spend 10 minutes a week with me on here a warm and Instagram-worthy holiday. I hope it was filled with warm cinnamon rolls and cocoa, lots of smiles around the tree and at least one thing you truly wanted for yourself.

Much like the strep, I’m ready to shake 2017 off like a labrador comin’ out of a car wash. Let’s rally and kick some ass in the new year.

Thoughts

The truth about monsters and men

December 1, 2017

“This is getting out of control!” It was Hank, sending me an instant message in the middle of the day.

“Uh oh, what’s wrong?” I responded.
“First Matt Lauer and now Garrison Keillor!”

I knew what he was talking about right away. I knew because a friend I was close to once upon a Matt Lauer crush had text me the morning’s headline. (That crush had extinguished entirely years ago, after Ann Curry’s abrupt departure and his dickish reaction to the whole situation. I like Ann Curry. She’s that perfect blend of wicked smarts and genuine compassion.) But Hank and Garrison Keillor … That’s something else entirely.

The news of Mr. Keillor would shatter Hank. I can’t tell you how many times my husband (who I often theorize to be 87 years old at heart) made us all listen to Prairie Home Companion on a long Sunday drive. Or how many times he’s read the book “Daddy’s Girl” to the kids. He knows it by heart … “O baby won’t you dance with me … Little baby bouncing on my knee … Wave your hands and shake your feet … Ooohh baby you’re so sweet .”

He keeps it in his top dresser drawer so he’ll always know where it is, the spine soft and worn from his rough fingertips. Now I wonder if I’ll ever hear the lyrics leave his lips again. Those melodic lines, sweetened by his comforting voice under an 8 o’clock moon.

“It makes me sad and scared,” Hank went on. “For you and for our girls. That you have to live in a world where this happens. Where it’s something you have to think about.”

(That’s why I married this one, guys.)

While I assured him that everything was going to be OK. That we would raise our girls to know the boundaries of what’s right and what’s wrong and how to be strong and speak up and speak out and find power in their voice. I don’t think it soothed his burning thoughts.

And it left this interesting questions, too: What is Garrison Keillor to us now, if not a magnetic storyteller and master of words? Is he simply to be known from this day forth as an imposter? A predator? A monster? What’s to become of all those characters left in Lake Wobegon?

Comedians, TV dads, distinguished newsmen, business moguls, film producers, playwrights, media executives, acclaimed actors, presidents and politicians … their talents and contributions obliterated entirely because they couldn’t follow the simplest of unspoken rules. Because they made the mistaken, narcissistic assumption that their power would override the prerequisite for consent. Because they operated under the foolish pretense that they were desired by every woman, simply because she knew his name.

Maybe it’s us. Maybe our expectations are just too high. Maybe it’s too much to expect someone with a gift for music or narrative or business to also be an upstanding citizen of this planet. For them to share something with a woman without expecting something physical in exchange as payment for their genius or attention. Maybe it’s too much to expect that someone tick all the boxes when it comes to character and human decency.

Maybe.

But then, I know many men who tick all those boxes.

Men who expect nothing but mutual respect in return.

I will teach my girls that this world is full of monsters and of men, but more of the latter. And that it’s important to recognize the difference. I guess I started the lesson the day I married their father. The day I picked him and all his decency out of the pool of potential suitors and said, “Yes! That one! I like what he stands for. I shall do life with him, forever.” I think it has to start with strong male figures. It has to start with celebrating the men who aren’t in those headlines. The ones who respect a woman’s mind and humor over any curve or inch of bare skin.

And then you have to offer them awareness. Because their dad can’t protect them always. And neither can their mom. But I can sure as hell encourage them to use their words for justice and their breath for equality, and that they have to grow louder when no one is listening. If a time comes when I need to, I can show them the army of brave women coming forward to say, “This was not right,” and how, sometimes, though not always, consequences do exist. Victims do have the final word. They get their power back.

That’s what I can do.

And as for Mr. Keillor and his brethren of offenders, what a disgraceful party you chose to attend. My only hope is that this onslaught of accusations and dismissals might settle into a wealth of healing, for all those involved. For the men and the woman … and the monsters as well.

Thoughts, Uncategorized

Thanksgiving and 31 flavors of joy

November 29, 2017

I’ve really been getting into joy lately. I think because sometimes, if I’m not careful, joy can feel like a bit of a unicorn. And, let’s be honest, who wants to live in a world where the most pleasant of emotions is as rare as a leprechaun sighting in Alabama? (Or is that really rare, after all?)

Here’s the thing, I fight fear like most people fight the flu; proactively minimizing my exposure and sniffing out supplements to stack the deck. That’s not only for my own sanity (though that’s the primary reason), but also to prove a point. Because sometimes I think those who seek to instill fear get the most pleasure out of creating the illusion that it exists. It’s the scary music. The mask. Sometimes I think that gets them off even more than carrying out the actual act that elicits the fear. I’m trying to strip it of its power. I’m trying to diffuse the pressure cooker of potential catastrophes lurking in both my imagination and my newsfeed.

It’s a work in progress. Some days I notice every nuance of the sunrise and some days I hyperventilate over whether my children will see their twenties.

But this past week I was so aware of joy, you guys. I was bathing in it. It felt more tangible than it’s felt in months. I could hear it, see it, taste it. Joy! In all its delicious flavors.

Why? I don’t know … lots of reasons. As the years go by, Thanksgiving becomes one of my favorite holidays. It brings some of my most treasured traditions. The 4-mile race, cold and challenging. It wakes me up and makes me uncomfortable in that way that can only be followed by extreme elation once complete. Then we go out for a warm, carb-loaded, maple syrup-soaked breakfast with a flowing stream of creamed coffee. Everything tastes like joy after a chilly trot in 30-degree weather.

Then I love going home to watch the parade with the girls, waiting for Santa to come down a crowded New York street, confetti flying around his jolly bearded head. Then the dog show, with the wild-haired breeds no one’s ever heard of. I savor the satisfaction of packing up the food we’ve prepared to share – this year, cucumber sandwiches, crescent rollups with garlic and red pepper and a vanilla bundt cake – and loading everyone into the car.

For the past few years, Hank’s Grandma Marge hadn’t been well. I remember two years ago on Thanksgiving, we all took pictures with Grandma, an unspoken nod to the reality of her condition and fleeting time with her beautiful face. This year, there was talk of babies and ripples of laughter. Life, it seems, has gone on, and there is still joy to be had. Next year, there will be a new beautiful face at our dinner. A sweet little boy.

Friday morning, all I had to do was have Hank get the red and green totes out of the attic for the chicks to release their unbridled cheer all over the first floor of our house. JoJo pulled out every homemade ornament we had – stick-on jewels and stretch cotton ball beards – and hung them on everything standing still. Every thing. She put a string of plastic snowflakes around the handle for the freezer. She threw gold glittered Christmas trees in potted plants. She was running around like Buddy the Elf at Gimbel’s. Joy! I said to myself as I saw it run past. This is what joy looks like!

And then there’s my Spike and her powder pink ukulele. I hear her sometimes, strumming the strings in a quiet corner of an empty room. She’s more of a songwriter, see. She’s about the lyrics. After two days of mumbling along with an unfamiliar melody, my brunette beauty came out and told me she was ready to share her song. She sat down, wearing nothing but a camp t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy boots, and she poured her little heart out.

Mya from Courtney Leach on Vimeo.

It was a song about Mya, who is our dog. But this tune was not about our dog, specifically. Mya was the name of the fictional dog who runs away in the song. It’s moving … haunting, and I’m kicking myself for stopping the video just shy of her dramatic finish; three deliberate strums and unbroken eye contact. She was so proud of herself and her moving tribute to puppies, even though she hasn’t been able to replicate the tune since. Joy, in the key of who the hell cares.

Saturday we lit the lights at my parents’ house. The Grand Lighting, as we call it. Every year, on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, my mom works her ass off to make all our favorites – turkey, deviled eggs, stuffing, broccoli salad, gravy and mashed potatoes – and we all sit around laughing over the same stories we’ve been laughing about for 30 years, while Dad bitches about outlets and breakers.

It’s one of those traditions steeped in self-inflicted inconvenience. My dad’s dad, Red, was huge on Christmas displays. In turn, my dad was. Until one year, he wasn’t. But the damage had been done. We all had expectations by that point. Not to mention the grandkids who’d come along by then. And so, with my mom taking over the helm, the exterior illumination show has gone on. And we, the display’s humble admirers, still stumble outside, bellies full and wine in hand, to watch as the strings of twinkle lights shine for the first time. And it’s one of my favorite nights of the year.

We sat down for a round of Cards Against Humanity afterward. I’m tellin’ ya, you just haven’t lived until you’ve heard your mother utter the phrase, “tasteful sideboob” or “Lance Armstrong’s missing testicle”. The sound of joy.

The final day of our long weekend was also Mom’s birthday. Matt took over Big Breakfast to give our folks a little break. This family tradition is rich in joy; loud, sticky, buttery joy. The people I love most in my life, sleepy eyed in plaid pajama pants, gathering around mugs of strong coffee and plates of dippy eggs. The cousins – an army of girls punctuated by one teenage boy – flip in the front room, meandering in here and there to claim cinnamon rolls. The only rule at Big Breakfast is to come as you are.

And finally, last night I watched my three little girls hang a full tote of Hallmark ornaments on our happy little Christmas tree. One by one they picked up the ballerinas, the snowmen and the penguins wearing ice skates, and assigned them to the perfect branch. The Grinch was playing in the background, stealing their attention here and there. I should have made them go to bed by 8. I should have turned the movie off. But, the joy … oh, the joy.

The more I learn to grab it when I see it, the more I think joy is always there. Sometimes it’s concealed in discomfort, like change or unexpected news. Sometimes it takes awhile to shine through. But it’s there.

Sometimes it’s true, I have to kill a fair amount of fear so the joy has room to grow, but, like I said, I’m working on it. Worry will be the most overpowering weed in the garden if you let it. And Lord knows it’s easy to let it. But joy is where it’s at, I’m tellin’ ya. Joy is the remedy and the resolution. Let it filter in through every crack and see you through every shadow. Feel it, taste it, hear it, smell it, look for it … every day, everywhere.

Thoughts

Secrets. If you can’t tell the Internet, who can you tell?

November 10, 2017

Therapy looks different for different people. For some, it’s yoga, for others, it’s cigarettes and gossip. It might be an emergency session with a legitimate counselor or a vigorous hike or a bottle of red. For me, it’s these keys. This space. You guys are at all of my therapy sessions. Sometimes I sit down at my computer and I can almost instantly feel the weight of my burdens give way. Like a bra coming off after a 12-hour day, just the thought of being brutally honest about what ails me can be so freeing. But not today. Today, this post is scary and embarrassing, and I feel heavy just sorting through the words that might appear on this screen.

As you know if you follow DSS, I just had my 35th birthday. It was lowkey and sweet, both figuratively and literally. Those who spend any real time with me, know the key to my heart comes baked, frosted and coated in chocolate. My mom got me a necklace, gift card and seven candy bars. My birthday party (an event I share every year with my nephew) didn’t disappoint, as I blew out a candle nestled in a white cupcake topped with decadent whipped frosting, my favorite. My girlfriends from work took me to lunch and passed a superhero bag across the table. Inside, I found my favorite bath salts, a heavenly scented candle and three bars of dark chocolate.

The irony was lost on everyone but me. Because I am in on the secret. And now you will be, too.

While I’ve lightheartedly documented my suspicions here before, I am fairly certain that I have some food addiction issues. It seems so small, right? Inconsequential and petty. Dramatic maybe. It’s silly to assume that a grown woman would be incapable of practicing moderation. That she would compare a simple sweet tooth to true, uncontrollable compulsive behavior. But staring at the bag, with a superhero emblem on the front and my greatest weakness inside, I had to face the fact that none of this is funny or small anymore. Food is my heroin, my whiskey, my cocaine. It is destroying my body and wreaking havoc on my soul.

I often find myself hazy, drunk on additives and refined, racy treats peeled from brightly colored wrappers. I celebrate with chocolate. I mourn with cakes and cookies. I string the hours at my desk together with a licorice rope adorned with syrupy popcorn balls. I fight stress with frozen delicacies, named mint chip and cookie dough. I reward with cocoa-coated almonds and lean into lazy with a bowl of sweet cereal for dinner. I reach to find food in every high and scoop it up in every low.

And I guess most people would argue that it’s normal. Because in our culture, it kind of is. We eat too much, we joke about it, and then we have a salad to make up for it the next day, followed by a cookie that afternoon. It feels like balance and looks like trouble. But that’s the game. It’s a merry-go-round of too much and not enough, and we all have a generous roll of tickets.

From a 30,000-foot view, I’m checking the boxes. I’m doing it right. I work out at least 5 days a week. I pin vegan recipes and shop on Thrive Market. I obsess about curating all of the things my ultra-healthy alter ego is going to need for her ultra-healthy life. But it’s aspirational. All of it. I am planning meals for a person who doesn’t yet exist.

“You look fine!” people say, when I groan about my binges or complain about my weight. But I don’t feel fine.

I’ve been fighting the scale for months now. About two years ago, 11 months after I had Sloppy Joan, I made it back to my pre-baby weight. I was running, going to classes at the gym, tracking my calories. I was making the smart sacrifices you make to get your shit together. And I got there. But then, I got comfortable. And comfortable for me, is sugar and those simple, simple carbs. But it’s not just a little sweet here and a little apple fritter there. It’s disgusting, mindless gluttony.

A lot of people love food. I get it. Clearly I love it, too. But love, as many of us know, can be pretty twisted. It can make you do things you wouldn’t normally do. It can consume you and blind you and make you sick. As so many loved ones pointed out last week, I’m flying toward 40. I don’t want to go into the next chapter of my life flailing and foggy.

I smoked for years (I know, gasp!). I can remember sitting in my garage and having these tough conversations with myself. About how I was killing myself, and paying a lot of money to do it. Every pack was “my last pack” and every Sunday night was the Sunday night before the Monday morning when it all went away. But what I didn’t realize, was that I never gave the substance enough credit. I underestimated everything about those little white bastards. I always thought I was stronger. And, in the end, I was, but it took years and years and countless attempts to find that strength. Because I loved those cigarettes. And only now can I see that love for the twisted lie it was.

But this time, I can call this by name. I can see this cycle as addiction rather than a harmless romantic indulgence. I know that, right now, I have no control in this relationship.

Let me give you an example. The marketing geniuses who came up with retail birthday coupons saw me coming a mile away. The second a voucher for a free frozen yogurt hit my inbox, I started thinking about it. What flavor, what night, what toppings. I obsessed. I mentioned it to Hank everyday, until finally we went, on a night when it wasn’t convenient – because with three kids, it never is – and after a sensible dinner that left me more than full. But that’s what I do. I lust after sugar like Heath Ledger in his knight suit, may he rest in peace. And I tell myself I could stop if I wanted to. I could just let the coupon expire. But I don’t. I can’t.

My relationship with food is one of shame rather than guilt, and it’s important to know the difference. When I eat an entire coffee cake, I instantly feel like I’ve satisfied those triggers firing off in my brain that scream, “Right now! Do this! It’s delicious! You don’t always have this in the house!” And then I immediately wash that down with a tall drink of regret and shame.

Behavioral researchers would make the distinction between shame and guilt in my situation this way: If I were a woman in control who made a bad food choice here and there, that would elicit some guilt. Guilt is temporary and not tethered to the characteristics one associates with their core being. But I’m on the other side of that. I am not a woman who feels in control of her food choices. I feel consumed by urges and addictive patterns, and overall, just riddled with shame about the whole thing. Then I try to swallow and shrug off that shame so that I don’t pass these tendencies down to my girls. Oh my gosh, life is short. It’s just food. I don’t want to feel deprived. But what I really feel, is sick.

They say shame is the worst thing for children, because they connect feelings of shame with feelings of being unlovable. But I’m an adult. I feel loved unconditionally and I feel accepted. I don’t fear being abandoned or found out or rejected based on this addiction. I just feel like shit because of it. I feel like I turned over a huge piece of my self-respect to a chemist who sat in a lab and figured out exactly how to hook me. And I want to think I’m stronger than that. But I’m not. And that concession is where the shame resides.

But you do Whole30s and 14-Day Vegan Challenges and all that stuff. I know, I do. And I stand by the fact that I find these exercises valuable in the war to gain control over my habits. But I also find it troubling that I require such strict parameters around what should be such an intuitive act in order to feel like I’m driving and not along for the ride. I feel like there should be a simpler way.

So what’s a girl to do, huh? When she’s come onto this blog more times than she can count and confessed her shortcomings. When she’s tried so many different diets. When she’s 21 Day Fixed and bootcamped and MyFitness Pal’ed her brains out. When she’s scared the sugar’s stronger. What is she to do then?

Last week, I saw the number on the scale I’d been running from for two years. I know that number does not define me, or my worth. I know that obsessing over that number does nothing for me nor does reacting to it in the way I instinctively want to react to it, particularly with three little chicks watching everything I do and listening to everything I say. I need to see it as the spark for change, rather than the fire that’s going to burn me down.

I choose to try again. I choose to make this Sunday the Sunday before the Monday when it all goes away. Because if 45 things don’t work, maybe the 46th will be the one that sticks. I’ve been reading a lot about mindfulness, transcendental meditation and food addiction. While the salt/fat/sugar trifecta is certainly something to conquer, there’s also a lot of noise and stress and underlying triggers lingering just below the surface, whispering, “Food is comfort.” A little quiet might just help shut down those extra triggers enough to make some progress. So, maybe there’s something there.

It would all just be so much easier if the answers were in the back of the book. If I knew the solve. I have this friend at work and she’s always cold (you know the type). She combats the chilly office climate with a space heater. One she turns on periodically throughout the day and one that, inevitably, pops the circuit. She used to have to chase down a maintenance guy, explain her misstep and then wait for him to go flip the breaker. Until one day, it occurred to her to just follow him, write down which switch he flipped and then take care of it herself when the fuse, inevitably, popped again. Now, she heats her space without fear. “Well, I mean, I know my button,” she’ll say. Having the power to fix things for yourself is such a simple but rich reward in this life. I wish I knew my button.

I have no answers, no plan, no challenge in the works. I don’t know which button is my button. What you’ve read here was a trip to the confessional. An informal declaration. I just needed to come here for a bit of therapy. I needed these keys tonight. But our time is up for now.

Thoughts

A wish, on my 35th birthday

November 3, 2017

This week I turn 35.

35.

What can I say about 35 … I’m halfway through my 30s and barreling toward 40 like a greasy sled in an avalanche. I call 20-somethings “kids” and they call me “ma’am”. My hairdresser (friend) found my first grays. I’ve decided to name them Salt, Peppa and Spinderella. My underwear is as big as my fitted sheet, but I have a few Stitch Fix pieces the young gals at work think are dope. I’m straddling the numerical divide, just a pant pleat away from middle age.

There’s something about birthdays, much like the turning of the calendar year, that tickles the reflective parts of my brain. I mean, more aggressively than they’re normally tickled, if you can imagine. I always come back to the romantic, unrealistic visions past. The ones where I imagined where I’d be by 35. I think about what this age looked like to me 20, 15, 10 or 5 years ago. Am I there? Am I even close to there?

I probably thought I’d be married at 35. And a mom, with three kids. CHECK.

I probably thought I’d be a moderately successful writer living in a semi-intimidating metropolis exposing all that’s beautiful and ugly and hilarious and ironic in the world. That I’d have a tailored capsule wardrobe curated by someone who knew how to hide these hips. That I would have something bound and boldly placed out into the universe for others to read and dissect at book clubs where expensive red wine flows like soda pop in the south.

I probably thought I’d be my best self physically. My child-bearing years behind me, I’d have a sculpted physique I chiseled in the wee hours of the morning when all the doers are already doing, while the want-to-doers are fast asleep.

That’s probably what I thought.

Now, I’m not mad at where I am. No sir. As I sit here listening to my baby chuckle at her dad in the next room, I declare myself a proud, card-carrying member of the suburban working mothers’ guild. I feel blessed that my most critical struggles are teetering on the high end of my recommended BMI and disciplining a 6-year-old who I’m certain is smarter than I am. That is God’s gift to me. A life rich in blessings and poor in complexities. A life where I can toil over the simple glory of being present and connected, rather than where I’ll put my babes to sleep at night or how I’ll fill their little tummies. I count my blessings every morning and twice each night, knowing none of this is guaranteed and nothing separates me from those heavy hearts but a little bad luck and a wrong turn or two.

Whether this stop was on my roadmap or not, it’s where I live. It’s where the branches on my tree first sprouted, and where they’ll continue to grow. This is exactly where I should be, and where you’ll likely find me at 40 … and 45. So, if I’m not planning on going anywhere, perhaps it’s time to form a new vision for my future. And I know exactly what it is.

Guys … I want to be a hero.

I had the chance to hear motivational speaker Kevin Brown a few weeks back, and he was phenomenal. I was buying everything he was selling. The masterful storyteller stood on the stage and reflected on many things, including the times he pretended to be Superman as a child. He started jumping off the couch. Then the table. Then, eventually, he decided to jump off the roof of his garage. He was young, invincible, and he believed he could soar. Of course, he didn’t. He got hurt. And that was likely the beginning of the end of such bold attempts. He says now, “I would love to go back and ask that little boy, ‘When did you forget you could fly?’”

When did I forget I could fly? When did you?

We’ve all heard people say that heroes are ordinary people, doing extraordinary things. But Kevin believes that heroes are the people who choose not to be ordinary at all. Ever. To never buy into it. The fact that we are here – that we swam faster than the others and our mother carried us for nine months and we made it into the world – is extraordinary. We’re created in an image of excellence, and we arrive with a unique set of talents and thoughts and gifts. But somewhere along the line, slowly, gradually, we start to believe that good enough is good enough. That if we do the bare minimum, we can coast along. We can blend and dissolve into the sea of other ordinary people doing ordinary things. We can fly under the radar, which isn’t really flying at all.

And in the end, if this is your choice, that’s all you get.

Kevin called it “terminally corporate”. We’re chained to a string of mundane tasks, mundane accomplishments, mundane days, leaving nothing of note to live on in others when we go. A lackluster job that doesn’t quite fit, or a loveless marriage, or the loss of something or someone becomes an excuse to go numb. And letting that mentality take over seeps out into every interaction. Every moment, every memory. It becomes the script you live by.

We think that the only choices are, we’re either backpacking across Ireland or we’re sitting on the couch eating Chili Cheese Fritos, bingeing the whole first season of Ozark. But what if there was something else you could use to measure?

Enter Kevin’s definition of heroism.

Heroes change lives. They seize every opportunity, big and small, to impact others. Heroes make every person feel seen and valued and important. They do things from a place of sincere respect and genuine compassion, two things they award to all people, who’v earned them by simply being human. Heroes recognize the value of the space they occupy while they occupy it. It’s not about dwelling on what happened yesterday, or dreaming about what may come and what you’ll do if and when it does. It’s about taking the moment you’re standing in, right now, and making it count, both for you and for the other people standing in that space with you.

Have you ever passed someone who looked disheartened and thought, “Man, I should have stopped. I should have said something”? Well, heroes do. Heroes are boldly and unapologetically empathetic. Heroes ask the tough questions with the hope they can impact the answers.

Being a hero means somebody else’s life is better because you showed up.

So, that’s the vision for 35 … and 36. And all the days, weeks, months and years I’m gifted after that. To become a hero, by Kevin Brown’s definition, to the people I love and the people I will love but haven’t met yet. What I do is what I do. It’s not who I am. If I write something truly profound (Lord willing) and it catches fire, that’s great. But it’s not what will define me. The way I make people feel will be what defines me.

It will be my cape. It will help me soar.

If I can pour a little positivity into every person I pass each day, that’s the stuff of legacies. That’s the flame of the torch. Accomplishments matter, sure. I want to be healthy, fulfilled, successful. But I want to really see people, hear people, impact the people standing right in front of me much, much more than that.

I want to be a hero, and I want you to be one, too.

[blows out candles.]