Venus Fly Trap

By January, everyone is ready for a reset button. Carrying around a few extra pounds, staring back at ruddy skin, and feeling lethargic get old after a while. Most people are anxious to return to pre-holiday form, as am I of course, but because weight management is a slippery slope for me, I have to be particularly mindful of the pressure I put on myself come the New Year. After years of torturing myself in January as punishment for a blissfully indulgent December, I finally learned that remedying one form of unhealthy with another, (extreme measures,) results in frustration at best and binging at worst.  

 

In the past few years, I’ve tried to ease myself back into a nourishing, clean diet by slowly decreasing artificial sugar intake and rich foods and simultaneously increasing simply prepared whole meals and snacks. We return to cooking at home more; inventive salads, fresh grilled fish and chicken and pureed vegetable soups fill the menu. When cravings strike, I do my best to remember the end game: clean diet = clean body=clear mind=strong and happy Liz.  If I slip up, I try like hell to avoid punishing myself with extra workouts or skimping on meals. I even write post-it notes on the inside of my bathroom mirror with messages like “be kind to yourself” or “health is fragile. Be gentile.”  The theme is positive reinforcement. The goal is that within a couple of weeks, my brain recognizes and feels the remarkable difference between a nourishing, clean diet and an overindulgent one. If I can be patient and focus on health above all, I start to truly feel why I’m mindful of nourishing my body first, and indulging second.

It all sounds quite simple and sensible, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, the reality is that after years of trying, I still can’t wrap the sins of the holidays up in a neat and tidy January package. It’s as if while my conscious self is focusing on the healthy path, there’s still that little voice deep inside me saying “don’t let that scale keep going in the wrong direction!” The fear of losing control slowly, quietly builds - it’s a seed that starts small and flourishes despite my refusal to water it. Even if I turn my back on it with intentions and healthy habits, it still grows into a Venus fly trap by the end of January.  I walk right into the trap and hit the release valve with a regretful night out or weekend of overindulgence, effectively burying a month of “right” with a mindless dose of “wrong.”

I stood in the shower Sunday morning, the scalding hot water bathing me in déjà vu. After a moment of searching my memory I realized that this was the 3^rd or 4^th January in a row when I’ve buckled under the same old self-imposed pressures right as the calendar turns to February.  I looked down at my toes and watched the water rush around them, feeling heavy and rooted to the porcelain tub like a statue.  In that moment, I wondered if the strength and wisdom and self worth I’ve worked so hard to arm myself with will always be as fluid as the water rushing at my feet – and if that ashamed chubby girl inside of me will remain as immovable as the feet beneath it. Will I ever be able to drown her out for good?

In Living Color

B is the most authentic, real, alive person I have ever met. He is sensitive and passionate, his emotions lie just under the surface; they bubble over multiple times a day in intense waves of happiness, frustration, joy, displeasure, satisfaction, sadness, anger. Always intense and always fleeting, his emotions are part of the astonishingly broad spectrum of bold, bright, beautifully vivid colors that come together to form his character. He is at times raw and unfiltered, loud and unrestrained. He thinks big, smiles big, feels big. He allows himself to be vulnerable in every way. He fearlessly feels his way through life and as a result, his life experience is nothing short of grand.  

I, unfortunately, am equally emotional, but not quite as brave as my husband. 9 times out of 10, I’ll take a detour around an authentic emotional response and head straight for a more scientific approach. I’ll filter, analyze, audit and reason my way through a shit storm for 6 months sometimes before I get the guts to really feel something, let it out and move on.  

The idea of becoming unhinged is so disconcerting that I cling to restraint like warm, fuzzy security blankets. This is obviously a byproduct of growing up with a mother who was basically Vincent Van Gogh crossed with Scarlet O’Hara. There was fire and darkness and intense light inside of her, a kind of lyrical chaos that sometimes yielded warmth, tenderness and pure sunshine. Other times, uncontrollable storms of complex, confusing emotions consumed our household and sucked the breath out of each and every one of us. My father, on the other hand, is to this day unwavering, stoic, steady and strong. In our youth, he was the calm to her storm. He was truth. He was safety. He was peace. He was our lifeboat. And so, I cling to the kind of discipline and order with which he kept us all afloat.

I may always find unbridled emotion unsettling. I may always default to restraint and control. But I’m starting to realize that the things that comfort us, the old habits or versions of ourselves that are easy and proverbial, are often the ones holding us back. B has taught me that letting go enough to lead a bold and colorful life isn’t a recipe for disaster. And when I watch the way he laughs and loves and smiles and fills every room with energy, I know that to never realize a life as vivid as the one he challenges me to live would be far more devastating than any momentary loss of control.

Belize It

B and I were married on a little island off the coast of Belize on May 25, 2013. When we first returned to San Francisco, I had this idea that I would give myself a little time to process before memorializing our wedding week with some fabulous multi-installment blog. It’s been over 5 months.

I’ve never liked endings or goodbyes - I prefer to move, and think, ahead. I still hate closing the back cover on a book I love; I wish I could work the characters off the page and into my life. I used to cry every single time we left cousins, aunts, uncles, old family friends. Even the ones I didn’t like that much. I guess coming home and writing about my wedding immediately after would have forced a kind of closure I've never been very good at. I didn’t want to acknowledge it was over. Much like during childhood, I didn’t want to feel the dissonance between a week bright with familiar faces and laughter and a reality absent of family and friends' company.  Talk about a come-down far worse than the post-Christmas blues. So, instead of writing about Belize, I eased back into San Francisco and floated through a few weeks with my new husband, high on all that positive post-nuptial energy. And when scrolling through new images uploaded to our group album while waiting in the salad line started to bring that familiar ache for friends and family, I moved on. I focused on the next big thing.  

I grew up very far from our extended family. I moved away from home when I was 18. I left Boston after college and have lived in San Francisco, far from my sisters and parents, for 8 years now. I’ve moved on a lot. But I carry the people that raised me, shaped me, loved me, taught me in my heart everywhere I go.  The past few years have been hard. My family, health, support system and future life with my husband now resemble nothing close to what I envisioned 3 years ago. With each new piece of bad news, I closed my eyes and wished I had my sisters to hold me up or the Boston girls to make me forget or my Farmington girls to remind me how to be tough. When my parents ended their marriage, I wanted to eat cupcakes with Beth. I remember waking up in the hospital after surgery and thinking that I just wanted to have tea with my Dad. When they told me I can’t have kids, I just wanted my own mom to baby me a little. Every time I felt broken or lost, I just I wanted my people. But I knew that wasn't an option, so I just kept moving on.

And then I got off a little puddle jumper in Belize and took a boat to our hotel and tiny Emmie ran up the dock beaming and waving her camera in one hand, clutching the hat that was about to fly off her head in the other. From that moment on, all the people I longed for over the past 3 years- the people who make me strong, make me laugh, make me who I am- arrived one by one on that tiny caye off the coast of that beautiful country. It was as if they each carried a piece of me with them; and together with my sweet, gentle soul of a husband, they put me back together again.

Belize will always be paradise, but for that week, with my heart as full as it will ever be, it was my paradise. I’ve never felt happier, luckier, more at ease, more loved, more in love. I have never felt whole in the way that I did when we were there. No wonder it’s taken me 5 months to even begin to admit it’s over.

shoulda coulda woulda

I moved out to California with my best friend. Less than a month later, I met the man I'm going to marry this May. Had the tables been turned, I would have wanted to hang myself. We were new to an unfamiliar city full of unfamiliar faces. It was her first time living more than a few hours away from her close-knit family and our close-knit group of friends. She grew up in the folds of a big Italian clan; they moved her in about 5 doors down the hall from me in the freshman dorms. We spent the next 5 years eating, sleeping, shopping, breathing together. We had each other and 4 other forces of life - all sources of strength, laughter and comfort. We left all that behind and moved out here with nothing but our friendship, just enough naivete to throw caution to the wind, 2 ratty blankets and one pillow. And then I met B.

B always loved her and still does. Everyone loves her. He also understood how important she was (and is) to me and he knew that to make me happy he had to try to make her happy too. He enjoyed her company and was content to get to know her while he got to know me. He cooked for us and brought us on weekend drives around the Bay Area to discover our new home. I wonder how many of those drives she spent wanting to go back to her old home.

I'd imagine she felt a sense of loss when I met him, but I can't say for sure what she felt because she's never spoken of the unfortunate timing. She's never uttered a word about how lonely she was. She never cried in front of me about it; she was chipper at best and quiet at worst. Sometimes she was really quiet for days on end and her face would get a little stiff like she wanted to slap me. I should have given her the chance to cry, to tell me it sucked. I failed her in those moments, I know that now. I was blinded by a childish need for her to be happy for me - I remember thinking that I had spent "forever" watching everyone else fall in love. So dramatic. I was 23. I hadn't spent forever doing anything. I remember thinking it was finally my turn to fall head over heels and have the world rejoice in my good fortune. I was young and self absorbed enough to believe I was entitled to support even if that translated to a lack of compassion for what she was experiencing. It's amazing how easy it is to justify being selfish when we're young.  

She met someone in the 2nd year we were here. He was nice to her and offered companionship, but he was never the one. Her heart was too kind to see that, but her head never quite trusted him or her future with him and that made her anxious at times. He wasn't social and she is and that made me anxious for her. I started missing her soon after they met but I didn't think I had any place to complain about that. She supported me in the most unfortunate circumstances when I met my salty, wild, thirty-something stranger, I thought the least I could do was support her choice to be with this guy. I still wonder if I should have pushed more for them to come out to dinner with our friends or join us at happy hour. Maybe I spent too much time trying to learn to accept her choices and not enough time fighting for my friend.

I was relieved when she left him. I know that sounds terrible, but it's the truth. Everyone around her knows she deserves the world and he wasn't giving it to her. He didn't make her eyes sparkle. I was so scared she was going to marry him and never realize exactly how happy she deserved to be. He should have given her whatever she wanted and did whatever was needed to make her happy. She's that special. He wasn't smart enough to see he had hit the jackpot, but at least he was smart enough to realize he wasn't right for her.

When it ended with him, she didn't feel as if she had much to stay for. She started planning her exit almost immediately. I was hurt by how easy it was for her to pick up and go, but I understood why she was doing it  - I'm a bit of a runner myself.  I'll always wonder if I should have made it harder to leave, if I could have made it harder to leave with different choices along the way. I wasn't compassionate enough to what she must have been going through when I met B. I didn't fight for her when I saw her folding into her relationship with that jerkoff who wouldn't even give her a puppy. I didn't tell her how badly I wanted her to stay when she told me she was moving back to Boston.

She'll always be my best friend, even with all the should haves, could haves and would haves. I just hope she knows how much we both love her. Since she left, B and I both look back and wish we could have done something to make her stay. He sees how much I still miss her almost every day. I think he feels as if he took me from her. Maybe he did, in a way. Afterall, she was the first one to "give me away." My Dad will do so in May, but she was the first.

Dear Ladies (And Bubby and Kurt)

This past weekend, you were kind enough to throw me a bridal shower. At the age of 30, when everyone a few years younger and a few years older is going through some sort of transition or major life change, I don't get many afternoons with 15 of my favorite people in one room. We've spent our time since high school and college falling in love and getting married, committing more time to building a life with lovers and partners. We've moved across the country to find ourselves or to return home again. We've taken jobs that have swallowed us whole for weeks at a time and trips to distant corners of the world. Some of you have had children and have bought homes in the suburbs. Some of the stories we've written together have been broken into chapters, the print faded on worn pages torn at the corners. And now we write new chapters only in the breaths between "life," but rarely are all the characters present.

This weekend, you gave me the gift of time with some loved ones that have helped me write epic chapters. I was reminded of how full my life is because of you. To my sisters, childhood and college friends and people that have made California home -  you lift me up and make me feel young and strong and smart and funny. You make me proud of who I am. Your honesty and authenticity make me feel normal and loved and most of all, lucky. I draw my strength and wisdom from you.

Promise me we'll find enough space between getting old and taking life too seriously to keep writing chapters together. Please.

Depression

I can’t take naps during the day anymore, even when I’m exhausted. B and I don’t have kids, animals or a big house to care for, but somehow there are always chores to be done, to-do lists to tend to, projects to work on. I catch up on phone calls, schedule meetings or send emails while I walk. I read on the bus and pray in the shower. I don’t have a stressful life, I just tend to shy away from idle time. It’s been that way for years, ever since I learned that as long as I kept moving, it wouldn’t come back as often. I’m 29 and I’m consistently happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life. The other day, however, uncomfortable with being forced to sit idle in a superfluously long meeting, I realized that as far as I’ve come I’m still afraid it will come back if I hold still for too long.

I used to get pretty bad bouts of depression, especially in high school and college. There were days, sometimes even weeks when I had little desire to put effort into dressing myself, going anywhere, doing anything at all. I’ve emerged from the major hormonal hurricanes of my teens, evolved as a person, and I’m fortunate enough not to have to contend with the kind of depression I battled when I was younger. That’s not to say that depression is entirely a thing of the past for me. There are still days once in a while when it threatens to alter my perspective, change my experience. But I’ve worked very hard to learn how to keep it at bay and stay in a good place. It’s been a long and bumpy road towards balance and overall happiness, but well-being is like anything else worth having- you have to work to get it and fight to keep it.

I always wanted to be happy but for a long time I didn’t quite know how to be happy. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have a little bit of sadness settled in the pit of my stomach, an element of dread I never really could put my finger on. I did well to bury it with a million friends and faces and material things and parties and books and music and constant movement and stimulation. But every few months, there would be a few days or a week when I got tired of piling one thing on top of another on top of the sadness and I’d collapse. I’d stay home from school or skip class, say I was sick and sleep for longer than I now consider humanly possible. I would call out of work and eat and sleep all day, close the curtains and watch shameful amounts of Lifetime or E! I didn’t ever ball my eyes out or freak out or have meltdowns in a corner somewhere. It was never that dramatic. Certainly nothing worthy of Lifetime or E!. I was just there, taking up space. Void of the energy to think or move or live. Void of any desire to be myself. God it was bad. I’ve forgotten how bad it was.

I realize now, as I write this, that the anticipation of one of these bouts of depression was almost worse than the “shut down” itself. It often came with little warning; as I got older I could feel it sneaking up behind me but I still couldn’t figure out how to stop it from swallowing me up for a few days. I stood atop One Market Plaza once and watched the fog roll in through the Golden Gate. I had never seen it like that before – with the advantage of an unobstructed panoramic perspective. It sidles in one finger at a time, painfully slow to a focused eye. As soon as you turn around for a moment though, the whole city is cloaked in damp, dank, grey.

At a certain point I got sick of waiting for the depression to come, I got sick of fighting it off with constant movement and hyper -vigilance, I got sick of feeling it. I knew I needed a little help finding my way, but after countless brief bouts of therapy with detached therapists, I didn’t want to lie on a couch and talk about why I hated my body or where my fears came from anymore. I wanted to talk about how to change. I stuck with therapy and bounced around until I found someone that I knew could give me the tools to fight depression and break out of the cycle of torturing my body. That doctor told me that peace and happiness were inside me, always had been and always will be, and that I just needed to learn to stop piling so much sh*t over it. I liked that idea. It gave me hope.

Over the past few years, I’ve learned a lot about which habits, indulgences and behaviors help my overall well-being and which ones inhibit it. I’ve changed my diet; I’ve identified forms of exercise that help keep me in a positive state of mind. I try to get enough sleep and take care of myself inside and out. I remind myself every day that I deserve to be happy and that I get to choose how my life plays out. But I’m still learning to enjoy and appreciate quiet, still moments. Yoga has helped tremendously with that, as has mindful awareness and meditation. Those are things I laughed at when first suggested. They seemed impossibly simple remedies for my overly complicated mind. But now I know that they are invaluable stepping stones on my road to enjoying a well-deserved afternoon nap or a perfectly trashy Lifetime movie in the daylight– without feeling like I’m opening the door for depression and inviting it in.

Identity Crisis

A few months ago, a friend and mentor asked why I don’t use my name or have any pictures of myself on my blog. I explained that doing so would make me feel too exposed; that I don’t like the idea of revealing too many of those everyday personal details, because I don’t like the idea of developing a persona that can be picked apart. If I share my stories and struggles without revealing who I am, I am insulated by anonymity.

He challenged me to think about it from another angle. He explained that people need to see a writer who writes about “real life” as a “real person.” If they can’t do that, they can’t easily connect with the author or truly identify with her. He asked me to consider that my messages might not be as powerful or helpful when delivered by an anonymous woman.

This past weekend, I was reminded of conversation when a friend was complimenting my blog and applauded me for having the courage to “put myself out there.”

As soon as he spoke of courage, I realized remaining anonymous and telling hardly anyone about my blog is far from courageous. If anything - in light of the fact that I challenge women to be more honest, transparent, and forthcoming - I’m being a bit hypocritical.

So, who am I?

• I am a writer.
• I am a strong woman.
• I am a weak woman.
• I am a good sister, daughter, friend and lover. I wonder sometimes if I am tough enough to be a good mother.
• I was born in Ireland, raised in Connecticut, went to college in Boston and now live in San Francisco.
• I am 28 years old.
• I put too much thought and energy into everything I do.
• One of my absolute favorite things to do is read in bed next to B when he’s reading something funny, the room dimly lit by lamps, dark brown curtains drawn with the breeze poking through, down covers pulled up under my chin, bed shaking occasionally from his guttural chuckles. His laugh makes me warm.
• I can be judgmental and a harsh critic and I’m selectively compassionate – but I work on those faults every day.
• I operate at 90 mph for months at a time until I’ve got nothing left and then crash and operate on autopilot for a few days.
• My idea of a perfect (dream) daily routine: wake up after 8 hours of sleep, eat some steel cut oatmeal in my sunny living room while reading the newspaper or catching up with family over the phone, head off to a vinyasa yoga or Bar Method class, stop at the farmers market on the way home, write and work on my website for 6 hours, experiment with a new recipe with B or try a new restaurant with friends, write for a few more hours, finish the day with some quality time with B.
• People are what make me feel whole, fulfilled. I think life is all about the people you share it with. I get to share mine with a wonderful man who has a huge heart; two amazing sisters; very loving parents; a kind, accepting best friend, and some very remarkable people from my childhood, college years and life in San Francisco.
• Exercise is what keeps me sane. I start to go a little crazy if I don’t work out at least 4 times/week. I cry more; lose my temper more and I’m not nearly as nice or patient. And I’m not that patient to begin with.
• My hair is naturally a mousy, dirty blond on top and fades to a darker mousy brown on bottom. I get blond highlights every 6-8 weeks.
• I love candy. It makes me happy. Until I swallow it.
• I have exceedingly high expectations of myself. I have similarly unrealistic expectations of my partner, my colleagues and my friends, which can be unfair and unreasonable.
• If I don’t remind myself of who I am and what I’m made of, I start to feel like I’m not smart/thin/well dressed/disciplined/athletic/classy enough in new environments and/or certain social circles.
• When I close my eyes and think of what makes me happy, I picture laughing. Laughing with B, my sisters, my friends, my buddies at work, my uncles B and K…Just laughing.
• I don’t care much for modern art, minimalist design or post modern architecture. I suppose I’m too much of a romantic, too complicated emotionally to appreciate the simplicity in those things. I like to see struggle, triumph, energy, heart and soul when I look at a painting/sculpture/building.
• I hate feeling like the fat kind in gym class when I can’t do something (physical) as well as the people I’m with. It happens a lot.
• I’m not athletic or coordinated by any means, but I am flexible, strong and in the best shape of my life.
• I miss my Dad a lot.
• I love music so much – classical, jazz, blues, indie rock, classic rock, etc. I think music gives meaning to otherwise mostly vapid film and television.
• I will start playing the piano again. I played for years as a child and quit as a teenager. My father promised me I would regret quitting. He was very right, as usual.
• I also want to learn to play slide guitar. I will learn to play slide guitar.
• I would like to start singing in a choir again.
• I don’t have a good singing voice.
• I don’t regret much in life, but one of my biggest regrets is failing to recognize the value in a close relationship with my older sister earlier on in life. She brings so much to my life now - I wonder what strength we could have brought each other as we grew into teenagers and women, had we had each other’s company and counsel then.
• I enjoy being alone, as long as it is on my own terms. I want to choose when, where and why I am alone - otherwise I find solitude unsettling. 
• If I could hold still long enough, I would read for at least an hour a day.
• I want to learn to sail. I love sailboats. They look like music on water to me. 
• I adore traveling. B loves to travel too. We’ll go on sabbatical and travel around the US and Europe someday, hopefully soon.
• I would love to experience agritourism in Italy.
• I never buy things full price and I try not to spend money on things that aren’t well made and wont last. The more I understand how financially draining having a house, car, family and well balanced social life is, the harder time I have spending money on myself.
• I can’t get enough of big, floppy, dopey dogs. I especially like ones with very big heads. I think it’s funny when animals have extremities that are entirely out of proportion.
• I want a Smart car. Only because I know I would laugh every time I got in or out of it.
• I’ve lived in a city since I was 18. It’s hard for me to imagine a life outside of the city, unless it was on a vineyard in northern Sonoma County, or a ranch in Montana or Colorado. But someone else has to feed the animals at 5 am.
• I am always sore. To me, a good therapeutic massage is priceless.
• I prefer feeling hungry over feeling full. I am downright uncomfortable when I am too full.
• I don’t currently read any newspapers. Not one. Not online, not in print. Very shameful.
• I love maps. Somehow, my geography is still pathetic.
• I would have a bunny with floppy ears, if bunnies didn’t poop everywhere.
• I buy 90% of my clothes and everyday jewelry at J. Crew. Yes, I am that boring.
• I wish I had a chef to prepare my fruits and vegetables every day. It takes a long time to inspect, wash, chop and prepare as many as I try to eat.
• If I think I need to change something, I work on it. And I change it. Even if it takes me 10 years.
• I have no desire to go to Las Vegas – I think there are a million better ways to spend the kind of money you inevitably spend there.
• I love pizza and ice cream, but preferably on the weekends so I don’t feel guilty.
• I loved James Frey’s books and I think Oprah was too hard on him. She’s a liar if she claims she has never embellished the truth or passed something off for something it wasn’t.
• I tend not to enjoy highly acclaimed films – the kind you’re “supposed” to love. I still see them all sooner or later. Because I’m “supposed” to.
• I’m slowly learning to be a good cook. I’ve always been an excellent baker. My forte is scraping the bowl.
• On average, I do 5-7 things at once while at work, and 3-5 at once while at home.
• I spend too much time at the farmers market. I love the colors and smells and energy of the place.
• I like really bad TV. We’re talking the old 90210, the new 90210 and Keeping up with the Kardashians. Yeah, that’s right. I make time for that, but I don’t read the newspapers. Shameful.
• My favorite places in the world are the Belizean cayes, Tuscany, Eastern Australia and San Francisco.

Confession

I hope that my posts have never given the impression that I am more put together, wise or sensible than I really am. I am assuming that the admissions of vanity, immaturity and irrational behavior balance out any impressions of composure, but in light of some recent undue compliments, I still feel I should make a few things clear.

Although I have my brighter days, I certainly have dark ones too. I still throw tantrums. I am a grown woman with a career and a wonderful relationship and quite a bit to be thankful for, but sometimes I cry about nothing at all. I found someone who loves me in a way I didn’t think existed, but I sometimes I come home from a bad day at work and take things out on him – even though he has never taken much of anything out on me. I have days where I focus on the inadequacy or imperfection in completely inconsequential aspects of my life, until I remember how ridiculous I’m being – but sometimes that can take a few minutes. Or hours. Or if I’m being really difficult, a few days. I often forget how lucky I am. I have a tendency to move through my days at a pace which has both accelerated things and greased the downward spirals, so to speak. I’m human and I actually have moments where I wonder if there really is a little “crazy” in me. I fear that irrational part of me may grow bigger someday if I’m not terribly cautious.

It’s important to know that my most optimistic posts - the ones characterized by a positive outlook on life -usually come on the heels of a struggle or rough patch. More often than not, they are the calm after a storm, a concrete representation of another lesson learned the hard way. For example, “Fish-face Lip Marks and Tiny Fingerprints” was written after I finished crying for an hour about my sister and her family leaving, even though I’m going to see them two times in the next two months.

You see, many of my posts are born of a selfish need for re-evaluation, a need for some serious reflection. Writing is one of the only ways I know how to bring myself back down to earth when I feel particularly sad or frustrated. So when I write about the importance of finding and keeping perspective, or finding beauty and happiness in places we often fail to look, I’m really just reinforcing those concepts for myself. I’m not always able to find the silver lining on the clouds that come my way - that would just be suspect. I sure as hell don’t learn a valuable lesson from every single little mistake I make and I don’t always remember to apply the lessons I do learn when similar challenges present themselves. And I don’t actually keep a positive, happy-go-lucky perspective every minute of every day –that just isn’t possible. And for better or worse, that just isn’t who I am.

Expression of Gratitude, Embarrassing Admission, or Inspiring Quote…

The most valuable lesson I have learned in the past 5 years is that your life experience is largely based on perspective. Having the strength to find a silver lining on every cloud might be unrealistic, but I believe that as long as you fight to keep your “rose colored glasses” from caking with mud after each storm, you’re at least moving in the right direction.

Being aware of my blessings, finding humor in humiliation, and drawing comfort from insightful words of wisdom are three activities that have always helped me keep the ups and downs of my rollercoaster ride in perspective. Because I have found tremendous value in the cathartic nature of these exercises, I’ve decided to make them a part of my blog. I hope these expressions of gratitude, embarrassing admissions and inspiring quotes bring as much laughter and comfort to you as they have to me.

Embarassing Admission, November 14, 2009: Last January, I had an unusually large chalazion, (a pea-sized cyst inside an oil gland in my eyelid,) a flare-up of hormone-induced adult acne, was wearing a mouth guard at night to prevent grinding, and was icing my lower back every night to reduce the swelling attributed to my sacroiliac joint dysfunction. Basically, I looked like a pimply 15-year old Cyclops, walked like an 80-year old woman and had a lisp after the sun went down.