Dear Santa, Is It Really December?

I need to blog.
Like, it's a literal need.
Remind me on New Years Eve that I made a resolution to write two blogs a week for the whole year.

I need to write.

And I can't thrive if the only things I write are resident violation notices and emails to my boss. #notenoughofanoutlet

Thus...December.

December brings a new blog challenge, hopelessly devoted to the magic of Christmas!!

Day One: Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,
This year has truly flown by; how is it possibly already December?? How are we already thinking about Christmas??

Truth is, I haven't been thinking much about Christmas. I've been distracted by a new job keeping me insanely busy, an upcoming move, and (as always) family drama that just won't seem to die. I've also been wallowing in the gloom and disbelief of a Donald Trump presidential win (I wonder if I'll have my citizenship revoked for that). It's been a tough year, and I am - in all aspects of life - looking forward to the start of 2017.

This year for Christmas, I am simply asking for a little bit more fun in my life.

Okay well technically I am asking for weather-tech floor mats for my car and more Costco shopping trips with my mama, but that's from Mom-Santa.

From you, Santa, I just want the commitment to have more fun. To try more new things. To go on more adventures. To stress less about things that don't really matter in the long run. And to simplify things where I can, to make sure I am having more fun.

Starting this month. I have a full December, with holiday traditions, church dates with my grandma, the orchestra with my mom, a new apartment without any roommates (and therefore, not any pants), and a full 11 days off work between Christmas and New Years...which I intend to make plenty of fun.

Speaking of New Years...Santa, please let me have some fun this New Year's Eve. Not house party fun, but sparkly-dress-and-bright-lipstick, out-all-night, champagne-toast, need-an-uber-driver fun. I have never done a fancy New Year's Eve, and that's what I want to do. Sparkles, champagne, and dancing all night. These are the things I am after, Santa.

This year, in between the routine monotony I seem to have let slink in, I did get to try several new things - all of which were fantastic. I stayed in my first AirBNB, did my first wine tasting, joined my first wine club, traveled to Anchorage where I went on my first fishing excursion and saw my first moose. I attended my first paint night, threw my first surprise party - for my dad, who accidentally helped set it all up, unknowingly - , arranged to attend my first women's march, and signed up for my first regular monthly scheduled donation to Planned Parenthood (because, FUCK YOU, Mike Pence). So it's not like the year was an awful mashup up negativity by any means, but it certainly came crashing downhill with the election last month...I think I lot of women - myself included - are still reeling from it, and feeling a little gloomy.

Side note...Santa, where were you on election day, bro?? Can I ask for a new, less fucking bull shit president for Christmas?

Anyway, so while I had a lot of fun in 2016, I'd like your help, Santa, to ensure it's a better balance in 2017. Less stress, more fun.

Say it with me - less stress, more fun.

Oh and also, please bring me a million dollars, an open-ended plane ticket, a portfolio for my company in Bend so I can move there, a new tattoo (or several), and another season of Gilmore Girls revival.

Merry Christmas Santa!


 

For Your Next Craptastic Day

Everybody has shitty days. They're unavoidable. Maybe everything went wrong; maybe you overslept and then didn't get to shave your legs or wash your hair, so you had to wear wrinkly pants instead of the skirt you'd planned. Then maybe you were late to work because you got in the car and your gas light was on, and then you forgot your keys to the office.

Or maybe you were just in a foul mood and all the shit in your day that is normally fine, just wasn't.

We all have shitty days.

And one time, when I was 20, I had the literal shittiest day.

In my late teens, early twenties, I had the most irresponsible, maniacal, insane, fun, awesome group of guy friends, ever. We were still a bit too young and naive to buy into the whole men and women can't be friends thing (they cannot, by the way, as proven by the number of those boys I made out with as a college freshman), and all we ever wanted to do was drink beer and go camping.

This particular stay started out as any other; the summer was our oyster, and we were going camping.

Now, this is a good time for me to mention, teenagers are fucking stupid. It's just a fact. In fact, anyone under, like, 27 is an idiot; we make stupid choices. It's like we can't help it.

Why do I say that?

Because, this large group of kids - none of us 21 - put all of the beer into the open bed of the one truck driving with a busted brake light.

It's like asking to be pulled over!

Instead of sending beer in someone's trunk, we literally stacked it into the bed of a truck without brake lights. And then we all piled into vehicles and headed towards Estacada, where our intention was to have a big fire, drink all of the beer, and sleep make out in tents.

Cue the sirens (obviously).

Shitty start to this camping trip, detail number one: Minor in Possession tickets.

FUCKER!

Now (and again, this is because I was 20 and therefore a fucking idiot), I was in the pickup truck with two of my male friends, sitting in the middle of the bench seat. I did not have my purse. Or my wallet. Or any identification of any kind. So of course, the police is questioning if and how I even know these two boys, and if I am in the car by my own free will. After convincing him that yes, these are actually my friends on purpose, and no I am not being smuggled into the sex trade, he then proceeds to find the beer (duh, because it was right there, in the open). He makes us get out of the truck and pour all 30 bottles out, one by one, on the side of the road.

For the record, 30 bottles of Bud Light, when you're not of legal age to buy, is like solid gold. This was a very emotionally scarring moment - hence my remembering 12 years later that it was 30 bottles of Bud Light.

Anyway, so then after draining our beers, and after confirming I am intentionally with Devlin and AJ, the officer proceeds to write each of us an MIP.

SHIT!

I mean, really, an MIP is a little like being grounded. You go to the courthouse with your $200 ticket, and they reduce is to $80 and send you on your way. Whatever. But I feel like usually you get to actually drink the beers that earn you the ticket.

In any case, we're having a shitty weekend so far: we've been pulled over, we've gotten tickets, we've been accused of kidnapping. We've basically ruined all possibilities of a fun camping adventure for everyone, since we were the ones with all of the beer. Super. Shitty.

And it only gets shittier!

Everyone decides to meet up at a gas station a bit up the way, to try and decide what we want to do from there. Still camp? But with no beer? Go home? Go home and try to get more beer and then leave again? So many decisions to be made!

By the time we get to the gas station, though, I am about to pee my pants (girls, seriously, we always have to pee). So while 15 boys stand in the parking lot trying to make life decisions, I race into the gas station and ask to use the bathroom. I'm directed to a port-a-potty out back (ew) and head out that way.

And this is where my weekend takes a literal shitty turn.

I go into the port-a-potty, and it's pitch dark; there is no light inside, nor is there any light outside. This is an actual rape and murder scene just waiting to happen. But I am doing a real intense potty dance, so I have no other choice; I yank down my yoga pants and hover as best I can in the pitch dark to pee.

And then there is shit.

Everywhere.

Not my shit. Strangers' shit.

This port-a-potty is FULL - no, more than full, I guess. I can't see what's happening, but I can feel it. There is poop on the back of my leg. And then on my other leg. But then somehow also on my back and kind on my shoulder. I literally do not know how this was happening, because it was pitch dark (which, looking back, is probably for the best), but there was shit everywhere.

And like, one total square of toilet paper with which to solve this problem.

At this point in the story, I am basically blacked out from horror, but I somehow make my way out of the port-a-potty, where one of my male friends is waiting - to pee, by the way, not to see me covered in dookie.

Lucky him, he now has to help me.

And by help me, I do mean he literally peeled all of my clothes off while I cried (how many times in one weekend can this poor dude be set up for a kidnapping/rape/murder situation) and dry heaved, then left me standing naked in the dark while he rummaged through his truck for a tarp to wrap me up in.

So. We're going home now, right?

After scrubbing what I could from my hands and up my arms (yes I said there was SHIT EVERYWHERE) in the back office of this horrid gas station - while naked and burrito wrapped in a tarp, mind you, I get in the truck and demand that the boys take me home. Obviously. Where the fuck else am I gonna go??

Once back in Milwaukie, I stood in a scalding hot shower until my skin burned off, and practically filled the shower stall with bubbles as I worked through an entire loofah and emptied the contents of like 4 bottles of body wash. I had just been literally covered in shit, and had managed to get a $250 ticket in the process. I was never getting out of this shower. I'd burn to death in here. I can't get the thought of poop out of my head, so I will just stay right here and die.

But then when Devlin's dad poked his head into the bedroom as I was drifting off to sleep and said "I heard you had a pretty shitty night," I laughed. Hysterically. Forever. Because it was true; I had the literal shittiest night.

So the next time you think you're having a bad weekend, just be glad you aren't naked in a tarp, after basically having poo flung at you in a dark room, while you try to figure out who's it is and where it came from.

And, side note, it doesn't really matter who's it is or where it came from, if IT ISN'T YOUR OWN!!

This story is hard for me. So feel grateful I finally shared it. I now have port-a-potty post traumatic stress, and yes my fear is real. And valid. I am actually more likely to squat next to an outhouse than go in one.

And never, absolutely ever, will I ever use one in the dark. #lifelessons

#500wordsaday: The Only Love I Chase, is the Love of the Cat

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: Why you long for love.

Why do I long for love? 

Um. Doesn't everyone? Isn't love a basic human need? 

Am I doing that thing where I look at things in too simple of a light? Like, I probably need to just dig a bit deeper into the prompt...which has been the case every day for the past 8 days? 

You win, blog challenge; you win. 

I long for love from my family, because it's out of reach.

I long for love from my friends, because they feel more like my family.

I long for love from Juno the Cat, because she only gives love when she's in the mood - and I want her to be a snuggly love bug all the time, dammit! 

I long for love romantically, for a lot of reasons, on a lot of different levels.

I feel like the word longing, implies that I am chasing something I can't have - but I don't feel like that's the world I live in. I'm not chasing love from people in my family who don't have love in their hearts for me. And I am not chasing my friends down to love me - they just do. And while I'm not in a romantic relationship, I do also find love from boys - granted, not always the best choices, but still. 

I'll admit I chase the cat.

I had brunch mimosas with a friend from high school recently, who told me the story of a terrible date he'd been on with a girl who had said she wasn't registered to vote (I realize this may not ruin a date for everyone, but for those of us who are in our mid-thirties and single, I think we grow pickier by the minute). As I listened to him talk about how he'd gone total dad-lecture status on her for not being registered to vote against Trump in the upcoming election, it occurred to me that this is the crap people our age deal with in attempt to find the love we're apparently longing for.

Which then made his point make total sense; why bother continuing to date in hopes of finding someone, when all of these people tend to disappoint?

Which then made me feel completely cynical.

Which then led me to wonder...am I actually cynical?

Upon review, let the record show that despite temporary cynicism that comes in waves after every shitty date or every douche bag dude who has a secret girlfriend hidden somewhere...I am not a cynic. Quite the opposite, in fact. When no one is listening or paying attention, I am actually quite the romantic. 

Don't tell anybody; I don't want it to get around.

I'm definitely a girl who loves stories about people who went to junior high or high school together, who then met at random for booze 15 years later, and wound up together (I am actually talking about a girlfriend of mine, I'm not dating the aforementioned bachelor). I love that my best friend and her husband took 20 years to end up married to each other after keeping in touch from when they were neighbors as kids, after each marrying someone else first. I love hearing those gushy stories about people who went through horse shit and came out the other side with the love of their life. Those stories warm my otherwise chilly little heart. 

I can relate, however, to the bachelor noted above, and all of the reasons he's jaded enough to have basically sworn off love forever. I hate the phrase, as we get older, but I also can't think of a better one, so, bear with me here. As we get older, we deal with more and more bull shit. We deal with more and more experiences with people who jade us. People hurt us more often, and for far more ridiculous reasons. It's almost like, the more we get fucked over by people, the more we use that as an excuse to fuck over other people. Like how people who get cheated on, end up cheating on someone else later on. It doesn't really make much sense. When you really think about it, it seems like baggage, or the hurt other people have caused you...should teach you how to treat people better. 

Am I wrong?

I mean, the more boys who dump their epic bull shit on me - their drama, their fear of commitment, their ability to not engage with their emotions, their baggage - the more I should be shutting down. The more it seems I should be swearing off men forever, refusing to date, accepting my fate as a forever bachelorette. 

But I'm not like that. I have this uncanny ability to shake off the shitty treatment I get from the boys I date. Can't be open with me? That's your loss. Can't be faithful to me when I'm ready? Hash tag bye now. Don't want to talk about your feelings? Not my problem. I don't own someone else's baggage. I'm the girl who is patient and understanding and completely open - but not when you can't give me the same vulnerability in return. 

When someone comes at me over mimosas with, I'm never going to date again, my initial response is never to run, but rather to question. I ask, literally millions of questions. Some people aren't into my investigative nature, but those who are, always find a way to be a little more transparent with me than they may be with other people. And maybe that pays off for me in the future. Maybe I date that person because they finally let their guard down and realized that not all women are evil. Maybe that person just has someone else in their corner, or a bit of reassurance for the future.

I don't find myself pining away for the love of my life, upset that Prince Charming hasn't rolled up on my doorstep yet, so I feel like longing for love is completely the wrong phrase. I have immense love in my life, and am in no way, longing. 

Besides, I'm too busy chasing the cat around the house, trying to make her love me. I certainly don't have time for that when it involves humans.

#500wordsaday: Take Me Somewhere & Leave Me There

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: The last time you were happy for a week straight

Anyone who knows me at all, knows I am happiest while vacationing. The times I spend away from work, away from home, are always the best - whether it's a big extended vacation, a long weekend, or even a local overnight trip, I am always happiest when it's jet-setting. 

The last time I felt truly happy, for a duration of time, was the birthday trip I planned to Bend for my best friend earlier this summer. It wasn't a week, but if you count the time I put into planning it, I think it counts. Everything about the trip was fantastic - the drive, the weather, the place we stayed, and everything we did for the long weekend. 

The trip to Bend was a culmination of a travel-themed birthday week, throughout which my gifts to my bestie had all centered around a theme: had she stopped to think about it much, the obvious theme was BEND (Dechutes beer, a tasting at Naked Winery, an overnight bag) - I was banking on the fact that she'd been so busy at work, she wouldn't notice. 

And I was right. 

I think what was so great about this trip, was that it was timed perfectly for the fact that we'd been living together for six months, and she was about to be moving out. We had spent so much girl time in the prior few months, and we both knew that while it was an exciting step for her to be moving in with her boyfriend, that also always changes things between friends. We had spent six months watching Teen Mom in bed together on Monday nights, eating popcorn for dinner, popping bottles of wine with our Chinese takeout while writing our financial reports for work each month; these are things that you tend to stop doing once you don't live under the same roof. So it was really excellent timing to take a girls-only, just-us, nobody-with-a-penis allowed road trip. 

And this is why people tend to think we're lesbians.

Anyway, much like any other trip we've taken together, this one was full of fabulousness - however I'd prearranged most of it in honor of her birthday. We took a brewery tour and did a wine tasting (and by "tasting," I do mean we stayed at the tasting room for like 4 hours and then went shopping while white girl wasted, and I bought a cat headband), went shopping, and wandered through the streets of Bend, one of our absolute favorite places. We stayed in an adorable bed and breakfast type place we found on AirBnB, had our favorite eggs bennedict at our favorite restaurant in Bend, and had so much girl talk - it was fantastic.

Small trips like this one - whether it be to Bend or the coast, or even to Phoenix or Vegas - are such a great reminder for me to step back and relax; life truly isn't all about work, and I shouldn't be so stressed about finances and responsibility all the time. I think it's easy for us to get caught up in our day to day, and taking some time away from a routine, helps find balance. 

As we expected, things have been different since she moved out of the snuggle pad (again, it is clear why people think we're lesbians) and in with her boyfriend. Not bad, but definitely not the same. She lives across town, with him and his son and a puppy, and I live here, with a new roommate who I definitely have to wear pants in front of, and who doesn't come with me to the grocery store only to eat popcorn for dinner three nights a week. I watch crappy reality tv by myself now, and we have to make actual plans to hang out instead of just each flopping onto the couch in our jammies at the end of a long day. But she is by no means, any less my best friend. 

Taking a break from the day in and day out patterns to plan a long weekend or a trip away, always provides those reminders that the only real important things in life, are the people in it. As we're excitedly counting down to our next girlfriends trip out of town, I'm certain it will be equally as fun, and will certainly serve as a reminder to be happy. 

I may not feel over the top happiness every day of my life, but even just writing this blog serves as a reminder that my life is happy, and that's reason to celebrate. 

And so I will.

With another vacation. 

#500wordsaday: My Favorite 'Plus One'

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: Your most authentic moment.

Authenticity is a huge thing for me. I didn't start using the hash tag #speakyourtruth for nothing; honesty matters to me, and matters a lot. Vulnerability is hard, and it only seems to get harder as I get older, but without it, I'd really be lost. 

So, this. One of my most authentic moments, comes in the form of a blog I've already written, one I've read a hundred times myself, one I've shared every year, at least once. My most authentic moment, came on the day I finally processed exactly how I felt. The moment I was able to say, Zach wasn't the best boyfriend - he was flawed, he had faults. But he was also the first guy I ever fell in love with. I loved him hard, and he loved me hard right back. We had fun; we went on the best dates, and we had the best movie nights. We shared the most amazing, side-splitting laughs, and he did the most hilarious things whenever I was mad. We had passionaste emotions - both good and bad. When I loved him, I loved him hard, with everything I had. And when I was mad, I was MAD. And when he died, I was devastated. Sometimes I think I am still a little devastated.

I am a girl who wears my emotions on my sleeve; I am wildly passionate. I love hard, and sometimes that bites me in the ass. But I never look back negatively on any moment with Zach. He brought out the passionate little firecracker in me, and I was never anything but authentic in my relationship with him. 

I wrote this blog on July 2nd, 2012, after learning that my ex-boyfriend had been killed in a car accident. Zach died two years ago, and these words ring true just as much today as they did the day I wrote them...

When I first read the article about Zach's car wreck and that he'd died in the collision, I was shocked. Numb even. I stared at my computer for several minutes, read the short blurb over and over, and then went on with my day. I spent the next few days reading and re-reading the articles and still, just shocked. 

The accident was the Monday before last, and his memorial service was this past Friday. Up until the night before his service, I had yet to show any real emotion or feel anything other than complete surprise. I had a couple short conversations with Stacey, Juliana and Nick, and I had to email the story to a handful of our old coworkers, but nothing was really getting through. The night before the service, though, I laid in bed for hours crying, remembering awesome moments we'd shared, thinking of his family, just sobbing. 

Raphael, one of my coworkers from BWW, picked me up for the service (I didn't want to go alone), and we met Christine and Eric there (also from BWW). Zach and Eric had been pretty close, as had Christine and I, so it was great to see them all, despite the sad occasion. We sat together, cried together, and it was comforting to have the arms of old friends on my shoulders as we listened to eulogies, memories, stories, and watched several slide shows. It was very, very hard, and I left the service feeling like reality was sinking in. 

The 4 of us headed to McMenamins from the service to have a drink and some lunch before we all had to go to work. Before any of us knew the extent of Zach's problems with alcohol, we all had great times at Rialto, a dive downtown where Zach would always drink Rumplemintz (YUCK). Eric, in an attempt to pay tribute to his friend in a more "manly" way, ordered a round of Rumplemintz, and toasted Zach with that, several kind words, and more tears. We were then able to share lots of great moments of working with Zach at BWW - I loved hearing my friends tell me all the ways they knew Zach and I were sneaking around together at the beginning, and I was so happy that they all had so many fun stories to share with me. Zach had such a bad experience at BWW, and I felt really comforted that during that shitty time, he'd made a few real friends who are truly suffering his loss right along with me.

I went to work for an hour or so and was just unable to get myself together, so I left and went up to Kelso to visit LaDonna and see the baby, knowing that baby snuggles are healing. I cried the entire way there...and by cried, I mean, I could barely see the road I was bawling so hard. It was the entire 10 days worth of emotion and feeling coming out, and I just cried. I visited my family for a long time, and I really did feel so much better holding Landon, eating waffles with my family, and just feeling loved. 

I took off around 9:00pm for home, and when I got to the freeway, traffic stopped completely. They were paving the highway, so it was narrowing to one lane. There I was, after an exhausting day of saying goodbye, sitting on I-5 in one lane construction...I looked up, and right in front of me was a semi truck. I completely lost it. I cried and cried and cried, the whole 30 minutes I sat parked behind this semi, until I was physically so tired I could not wait to get into bed. I was sitting in Zach's scenario, sitting there thinking, all he'd had to do was brake harder. How many times in a week am I behind a semi truck on the freeway? About a hundred. 

My final conversations with Zach were not as pleasant as I would have liked to remembered our relationship by, and I am so thankful that I can look back on a million other, more positive, truly happy moments instead of having to focus on those last couple of jealous, insecure, sad ones. I sat on Saturday night and wrote his mom a Facebook message that was probably 3 pages of text, telling her stories, asking about him, just wanting her to know how incredibly touched my life was by her son. I then sat for hours typing a message into his Facebook page...something I hope no one has the password to and will never be seen, but it was so cathartic to say the things I should have said when I had the chance. 

On my own Facebook, the night before the memorial service, I posted my favorite photo of Zach and me, along with exactly what I was thinking: "For encouraging & supporting me. For always making me laugh my hardest & for never making me cry. For escorting me to weddings, entertaining my friends & meeting my grandparents. For taking me hiking & camping, and for lazy nights at home. For being my friend first, my boyfriend next, and never for a moment being my enemy. For your generous heart, your strong will, your carefree spirit and your kind soul. For these reasons and a hundred more, I will miss you, think of you, and appreciate the man you were. Thank you for touching my life, my heart, and my entire world..."

Zach was not a perfect man. He was not a perfect boyfriend. But he was amazing. He was fun and full of life and always laughing. He was comforting and happy and he was doting. What I wanted to do, so did he. When he took me somewhere, he acted proud to have me at his side. He bragged about me, he told his friends about me, he took me places and told me I was beautiful. He never hurt me, called me names or picked fights with me. He was a friend - a wonderful friend. He held me close, he was kind, and he had the best smile. He truly did touch my life. He taught me to have fun and take life less seriously. He calmed me down when I was mad...except when it was him I was mad at. He was the first man I ever loved, and I am so thankful to have told him so when I had the chance. 

I am sad. My heart hurts and my soul is broken. I miss him, and I want to tell him a million things. If that means I continue to write about him or to his Facebook page, maybe that's what it takes. I hope with all I have that he knew what he meant to so many people, and that he knew how immensely proud we all were of what he was doing with his life. I am grateful for the months he was mine, and I will always remember only the good things he did for my life.

#500wordsaday: Just Picture Them All Naked

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: When you really loved yourself

Women aren't really predisposed to love ourselves; society prefers we focus on our faults over our successes, the bad over the good. It took me a frightening amount of time to think of a time I could say I last really loved myself. Like, such a lengthy amount of time, I am writing this intro still unsure of the answer. 

The last time I really loved myself.

Do women really do that? Love themselves?

Fast forward a day-and-a-half, and I still don't really know the answer to this question. What's scary, is that I can think of countless moments where I've taken time out of my day to hate myself. I can think of plenty of moments where I have hated on my body or on my life or on my choices; I could write a whole book on times I've hated something about myself, physically or otherwise. 

We have to fight against the thigh gap and the bikini bridge; without those things (which are impossible goals), we can't possibly love our bodies. We have to fight against rape culture, which continues to blame us or what we're wearing when we're assaulted or raped. We have to fight against sexism and wage gaps in the work place, disrespect in athletics in both high school and college. You name it, women are waging an uphill battle against it. 

And I feel like that's how most women I know, would answer this question. I am not the only one wading through times I've been negative about myself, looking for a brief fleeting moment of a time I may have had a loving moment. I honestly can't think of a time in my adult life that I have loved my body, and I make a lot of choices I'm not super lovey-dovey about either. 

I had to dig really far to find a way to write this post.

Recently, I was asked to speak for 5 minutes at a training in our corporate office. This likely seems like not such a big deal to a lot of people, but for someone who gets nervous when speaking in public for 5 seconds, 5 minutes in front of all of our company's regional managers and directors, is a big deal. 

Big.

Huge.

Before I said yes, I almost passed out at the thought. But of course, I know that in order to move in the direction I want, this was a great opportunity, and one I should be proud of having, as only two of us were invited. So, it was a big deal. One I should have been (and was, once the overwhelming terror wore off), proud of. 

I had no idea what to wear, and probably tried on everything in my entire closet the night before - keep in mind, this was taking place at 8:00am the day after my birthday, so I kept dinner very tame, only had one beer, and was home in bed by 10:00pm; I was not taking any chances at this not going well. In the morning, I walked into the corporate office with my coworker, a complete ball of nerves. We'd spent the drive nervously gossiping, trying to convince each other this was no big deal, knowing full well that it kinda was. But, with all of my nerves, I did it. I got up in front of the room, talked about my team and their awesomeness, and about all of the things I was asked to speak about. 

And I didn't die or faint or anything!

I was certainly proud of myself in this moment, and felt a huge sense of accomplishment. I did something I was terrified to do, and I did a great job - I received several amazing follow up emails confirming that I didn't fail miserably at life, nor could anyone tell I was so nervous I was practically hyperventilating internally. I did great. And I was so proud. 

I would say that those things - pride, accomplishment, the ability to pat myself on the back - equate to self-love. I left the meeting with this sense of confidence that I don't often feel, and I think that is self-love as well. 

Starting this post, I felt like I needed to uncover a moment where I loved myself physically; for some reason "a time you loved yourself" instantly felt like I needed to dig through all of the nasty things I have ever said about my body to find a moment I liked it. But in reality, self-love doesn't have to be physical. It doesn't have to be a time I felt great in a dress or noticed myself losing weight; it doesn't have to equate to body image, because body isn't all I am. Self-love can exist in other ways, including pride for accomplishing something or overcoming a fear. 

There are a lot of things I don't love about myself, but the reality is most of those are external. And the reality is, most of them are stupid and irrational, and almost all of them are things I need to work to get over. It shouldn't take so much thought and bewilderment to come up with something I actually love about myself. 

But this exercise made me do that, which I clearly needed. 

I love that I'm ambitious, and that being afraid will never be what stops me from going for what I want. My passion and drive, both personally and professionally, are a force to be reckoned with, and while I often lack confidence, I am just as often driven forward on stubborn, hard-headed passion alone. I like that about myself. 

You could even say I love it. 

#500wordsaday: I Want Out

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: How You Started Your Day

I started every day this past week with the harsh realization that I want out. Like, tag me the fuck out please. I don't want anything to do with the nastiness taking place in this scenario, nothing to to with the insanity or the meanness or the cruelness surrounding it all.

I. Want. Out.

I. Am. Out.

People, when you have a child, you do not get to drop them on their ass because you're tired of parenting! You don't get to just toss someone on their ass. You do not get to decide not to be someone's support, not to be someone's network, not to be someone's family. Family is (supposed to be) forever, not just for the good days!! You don't get to peace out on someone when you're mad.

THAT IS NOT HOW IT WORKS!

I woke up and started every day this week in a bad mood, after tossing and turning all night the night before. I didn't sleep, I had nightmares in the few moments I did drift to sleep, and I woke up grumpy, running late, and not at all in the mood to...well...to do anything, actually. I wanted to stay in bed and be gloomy, but at the same time, I wanted to figure out why all I could process was anger. I was literally seeing red. Rage-induced blindness, for days and days, without an end in sight.

Every morning, the messages were in my inbox when I woke up, after falling asleep every night, phone in hand, Facebook messenger app open.

You have 26 new messages.

You have 43 new messages.

You have 91 new messages.

You have 64 new messages.

Every morning I read them, while brushing my teeth and blending my smoothie, and every morning by the time I got to my office, I was ferociously angry again.

Why? Why am I letting this get to me? It's not about me, it's not happening to me, it's not anything I can fix or control or help or make better. It just is something that, is.

And yet, every day I woke up and like clock work, read these messages, got mad, went to work and continued to feel mad, and then went home, mad. I ate dinner mad and went to bed mad. For like six straight days. Finally on Friday, I clocked out a few hours early and found myself pacing in my living room, needing to do something, needing to just...GO.

And so I went.

I got in the car, connected my Pandora, grabbed some crackers and a bottle of water at 7-11, and sped off into the sunset. I had intended to drive until I felt better; to drive until I could take one full deep breath without the weight of someone's shoe on my chest. Until I could inhale and exhale five times without my eyes welling up with tears, I would just continue to drive.

Once on the road, things aligned a bit better, and instead of driving into thin air without destination, I found myself driving to the Dairy Queen waaaaaay out Highway 26 past Banks, where I met my favorite little kiddo and his mom for an ice cream cone. They were actually headed to the coast for the night, so I went ahead and followed them out, joined them for dinner, had a fire on the beach, and then drove home in the middle of the night - I remember when I used to make that late-night drive all summer long in my early twenties.

I found myself much calmer and far more centered when I woke up Saturday at 10am, after sleepily falling into bed when I got home at 3:00 in the morning. My bed full of sand, hair reeking of stale campfire, still a full face of makeup and my tee shirt from the night prior. I had 21 new messages in my messenger app, but I didn't rush to read them. Instead I lounged in sandy sheets for as long as Juno would wait for breakfast (about 43 seconds), then took a long hot shower, drank a smoothie, and was halfway through my day before I sat down to scroll through them. It wasn't that I no longer cared; I just didn't want to be so mad about a situation I have no control over.

I wanted to start my day level-headed, not seething with red hot anger.
I wanted to start my day calm, cool, and ready for my day, not running late to get to work while practically throwing my phone at a wall.
I wanted to start my day like I always do, not like I was this week.

I can't fix this. Truth is, no one involved can fix it. This, to me, feels like a true end, a conclusion there is no coming back from, the end of things as I know them. But I want to start my days like normal. I want to start my days waking up from a restful night, go to work, and enjoy my days. That doesn't seem that difficult, right?

I'm willing myself to start my days the way I want to - not by reading messages I'm not ready to deal with. I want to start every day on a good note. And in the times like this, where icy rage surrounds me, I want to start every day on a good note. I want my days to start with my music turned up as I shower and get ready, and with a breakfast smoothie on my way out the door to work. And on the days that can't start like that - the days where cruel recaps of awful messages flood my inbox - I just want to remember that I can't get so mad, at the things I have no control over.

Or, if that doesn't work, I just want to remember that I can end a week with a late-night drive, a loud sunny drive to the beach or the mountain with the music blaring, and a quiet, dark drive home late in the evening.