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Showing posts from September, 2017

I'm Not Your Type

Recently, I went to a restorative yoga class. I've wanted to go for a long time but never did because a) they cost money and at-home yoga is free and b) Sitting still is hard for me. I meditate for about 20 minutes; then, I'm done. I can hold a pose for about 5 breaths; then, I have to move. It's outside my comfort zone. But, I'm always preaching at myself to step outside my comfort zone, so I went. It was amazing, and I'm so glad I went, but this isn't about stepping outside your comfort zone. Actually, this is about knowing that sometimes, it's okay to stay in it. What? Hell, you say. Life BEGINS at the end of your comfort zone! Nothing great ever happened in a comfort zone! The magic happens when you step OUT of your comfort zone. I know. I've read the quotes. I believe them too. Sometimes . On the other hand, I am very comfortable with a lot of things about myself: I don't run, spin, funnel beer, bungee jump, knit, do crossfit, drive go-c

Good Enough.

I went to see Stevie Nicks on Friday with my daughter. It was an incredible show, and Stevie Nicks is a GODDESS. But that's not what this is about. In order to see Ms. Nicks--whom I have adored for my entire life--from the vantage point of the nosebleed seats, I tried to make everything perfect. My hair, my outfit, the day, the experience ... my nails. I have a love/hate relationship with my nails. When I was young, I wanted them to be long, and they refused to grow. Now, I feel like I'm constantly cutting them off because they grow with wild abandon, and I prefer them short. On Friday, they were long-ish, so I decided to paint them. Pink with gold sparkly tips because it was the 24 Karat Gold tour. I'm that guy. I own it. It took me about 7 1/2 hours to paint them. They were perfect for about 15 seconds before I messed them up. Is it just me or does your bladder immediately realize it's uncomfortably full as soon as you finish painting your nails? Anyway...Here

Who Do You Think You Are?

A few weeks ago I finished a draft of a book that I have been writing for a long time. I started writing it several years ago and in a computer catastrophe lost 39,000 words. It took me a long time to try to again, but finally I started. Bird by bird ... word by word, because I had to tell this story. My story. I already tell it in everything I do and everything I am. I tell it in how I love my husband and parent my children. I tell it in how I eat and sleep and dress and speak and drink. I tell it in the way my stomach knots up every time a phone rings. And I tell it in the sweat on my palms every time Brad's plane lands 30 seconds late or Chloe takes too long to text me back or Peyton hasn't gotten home by 3:00 or Lily's bus is 4 minutes late. I tell it in that sense of impending dread...waiting for the bottom to fall out of my dreams. But shit gets in the way of telling this story that's so obviously mine. There are other people and feelings and opinions and famili