Straight Outta Remission.

Five years. Five years ago today I arrived at Via Christi hospital for what was to be a routine removal of a cyst. I truly believed that that was all it was. I was a little anxious, but more so about what kind of scar the excision would leave than anything. I didn't even really want anyone to go with me, because I was so sure it was nothing and didn't want anyone to make a fuss.

There was nothing in my life that could've prepared me for what happened when I woke up. I remember groggily noting that Bill and Hunter were in the room with me. Belatedly, I noticed the surgeon was there too.

And then he spoke.

His words are still seared into my brain today.

"Well, we got it all...and it was, uh, it was cancer."

It was as if everything turned white, with fuzzy edges (the movie 50/50 with Joseph Gordon-Levitt NAILED that part).

EVERYTHING disappeared, save for his voice and those words. First I looked at Hunter, my eighth-grade son. And then I realized that, for both his sake and mine, I needed to keep it together and figure out what those words would mean for me.

However, I was so groggy that I missed a lot of the finer details about what exactly those words would mean for me.

It wasn't until the next day that I realized my surgeries were far from over.

I was a bitch to be around once that little bombshell dropped, I can promise you that.

So it was that, a week later, I returned for lymph node removal to ascertain what stage my cancer was. I spent some great days and ultra-comfortable nights attached to a bunch of tubing and a drain bulb. But, in the end, the nodes were negative. The cancer hadn't spread, which made me Stage One.

I thought that meant that I was done with the pesky little setback.

Once again, though, I should never be told anything when I'm coming out of surgery. It turned out that my young age, coupled with the fact that my tumor was the most aggressive type (Grade Three), meant that I would have to have chemo and radiation as a preventative measure.

I was super pissed. I had shit to do, and this cancer was really going to mess it up.

The next months were whirlwinds of doctors, specialists, more surgery (the chemo port insertion, which looked like a small doorknob sticking out from under my collarbone) and hair loss.

Chemo: the nausea was like nothing I can describe, then or now. The neuropathy was debilitating. The baldness would have been more devastating than it was, but I was so sick I really couldn't care (I did love how smooth my head was, though).

None of those things seemed that bad, though, because I had such amazing people in my life who loved and encouraged me through every sick day. The people who took care of me and the people who bolstered my resolve on a daily basis? Well, I'll owe a debt to them for the rest of my life - one that I can never begin to repay.

Unfortunately, not everyone who started with me five years ago made it to this point with me.

And that's what I hate the most about cancer. It's so cruel. I watched it break people who were by my side during treatment, either literally or figuratively. Young people. Older people. People that had no fucking business going through that kind of pain. People who had small children. I communicated with them all.

Two of them didn't make it.

I never thought the five-year crossover to survivor status would really get here. Every check-up, every mammogram, every ultrasound brought new waves of fear and expectation that round two was imminent.

Then there are the parts that will always stay with me. I can't ever have my blood pressure taken on my right arm. I will never again sweat under my right breast. I have a fun collection of scars and radiation tattoos, and my skin has some interesting, random discoloration. I have episodes of short-term memory loss, holdovers from "chemo brain." Part of my mind feels like it's locked away, and damned if I know where I put the key.

Every single one of those things is a tiny price to pay for my post-cancer life, because so many more positive things came from those dark days.

What cancer did for me? It gave me an appreciation for life that I previously lacked.

I enjoy every sandwich now, even though I still inhale my food.

Spending so many weeks wishing that I could sleep through chemo makes me thankful for every time I get to walk out into the sunlight.

I'm grateful for every bad hair day, because every time I start to curse the interesting half-ass, thin semi-waves that grew from my head after chemo, I remind myself how great it is to have hair at all.

It was a long five years, but today I finally cross over from remission to survivor status. The likelihood of my recurrence of cancer has dropped significantly from the 35% it was in 2010.

As great as it feels to hit this mark, though, it is so, so bittersweet. It is so, so emotional. It is remembering my supporters who didn't get the privilege of five years. Although I get that life is unfair, although I get that none of us have the guarantee of health and longevity, nobody deserves that pain.

So I just want to say thank you to everyone who got me through it.

I want to thank my son for telling me he wouldn't put the dishes away when I was sick, because if he did, then I would grow to expect it.

I want to thank my family for making my bald head a big joke (duct tape hair removal! Lathering it up with a wig of shaving cream and getting rid of the weird patches of stubble!) and normalizing it in the process. Like when we had Italian Night since I was already wearing bro tanks throughout radiation.

Playing the cancer card was the best thing ever.

I want to thank those who got "Team Mom-Tard" bracelets - and wore them.

And I want to thank everyone who sent me a kind word. I saved every message. I saved every card.

I've become an advocate for cancer research in the last five years as a result. I spent several years on the Board of Directors for Vernon County Cancer Relief. I have counseled many new diagnoses through their own journeys, because it's scary as hell in the beginning.

I have said, more times than I can count, that cancer was the best thing to ever happen to me, and I still mean it. Cancer takes away so much, but what it gave me was my life. It gave me much-needed strength, and confidence, and resolve. It gave me appreciation, and love, and new perspectives on so much.

It can still come back. I'll never be in the clear, not really. But I can handle it.

Because I'm out of remission - and into the chapter I've wanted to write for a long, long time.

Some Parts are Worse...And There is No Way to Know Ahead of Time.

I've been a mom for 19 years, and I have loved it. My son's birth, and all the years since, were absolute bliss for me. I was amazed by him. I was fascinated with everything he had to say. I should have documented a lot more, as my mom advised me to do, but I was busy being completely absorbed by his very existence. Was it healthy? Who's to say. Given my track record, probably not.

He's in college now, in his first semester, which was, in my college "career," my worst semester. I gained the Freshman 15, two times over. By semester's end, I could only fit into my DAD'S sweats. I had, as has been the case every day since I was about nine, bad hair. And bad chins.

So it is that I so keenly feel his pain as he struggles to find his identity. There is no manual for these dark and hellish days, as your child

Crushing it, Pallet-Style

Do you have those ideas where you're like, "I think I'll do something like from Pinterest that's really crafty."?

I have done these Pinterest projects many, many, many times before, but they were always food-based. I love food. I like to make it. No-brainer.

However, what I have now that I didn't have before is Josh. And Josh is a Pinterest go-getter. And when I say go-getter, I mean we came up with this concept, he got a bunch of pallets immediately, and we started tearing them apart almost as quickly.

The concept of which I speak is a pallet wall. The master bedroom needed some work, having been painted a uniform bluegray. I mean "uniform" as in down to and including the doors and baseboards.

So we agreed that this pallet wall would be really cool, and we would paint the rest of the bedroom a less-threatening, lighter gray.

The next question was whether to paint or stain it. Josh talked about how cool it would be to find a natural stain. And then he did some research. And then he formulated the plan. What he found was a stain comprised of nails and vinegar combined in a bucket. There's oxidization involved, very science-ish, no idea. But allegedly it worked.

Here is what we were looking at before.

And here is also what we were looking at before. 

But, and I really can't emphasize this enough, Josh is a go-getter. We tore those pallets apart. And by that I mean largely him.

He also made the stain. 

Regular vinegar.

Apple cider vinegar.

Not gonna lie, there was for sure a strong smell. And let's just leave that there.

This weekend was declared as the one in which it was all coming together. By Josh. Josh declared it. But I was totally down with it, too, so.

The project commenced. In earnest.

So much rippin' and tearin'.

And staining. 

Huge color variation based on the vinegar type alone. 

And then, it began.

These are the beginnings of the wall lamps, side note. Super awesome.

He flat made it happen.

And then, he closed the deal.

Look at that outlet-cutting and baseboard-making technology.

Pallet wall with natural stain: complete.

I made bread...and kinda cleaned the garage. The point is, the wall is great.

The Long Goodbye.

This is probably the hardest thing I've ever written, which is weird because I always thought it would be the easiest thing I would ever do.

All I wanted, for most of my life, was to get out of Nevada. I found myself back here in 1994 after the tiniest of hiatuses, unsure of the path I should take.  My motivation at the time was severely lacking, and before I knew it, I had bought a house with my son's father, we were engaged, and Hunter was on the way.

I was overwhelmed with love the first time I saw my son. I loved him so much, in fact, that I agreed to stay in Nevada and raise him. Our families were both here, and at the time it made sense for me to let him marinate in all of that love. I always told myself that I would stay until he was gone, and then I, too, would leave.

What I didn't know was what a dark, lonely stretch of hell his final months before moving away would be. How could I know what he would go through? How could I know all of the cataclysmic events that I would go through? How could I know that those events would culminate with me losing my best friend, first figuratively, and then literally? I couldn't. And I'm glad I couldn't. Because how much would we try if we knew the struggles lying ahead of us? Would we rise to a challenge if we knew the steps that we would have to take to meet it?

I had an initial escape plan, but the passion was lacking. The timing was off, and it was just too soon to make that commitment. I found an amazing place to live, and an amazing place to heal. I gained friendships that I had spent years lacking. I found my peace, and I found my center.

But while I was sitting and waiting and wishing for the magical time that would mean I got to leave Nevada, there were amazing things happening all around me that I discounted. 

Nevada takes care of its own. There are endless fundraisers and benefits to help people or family struggling with upheaval. When I had cancer, the outpouring of love and support I received from this community blew my mind.The women at First National Bank, which was not even my bank!, wore pink bracelets emblazoned with the words "Team Mom-Tard" (Hunter's design, naturally) to support me. That was one tiny example in six months of assistance. I received free tires from Highley Tire Center to get me back and forth to treatments. I received gas cards from Vernon County Cancer Relief for the same reason. And I had endless meals delivered to me by friends, and even virtual strangers, who just wanted to help by feeding my boys when I was too sick to do so. So, these are the things that I remember when I reflect on the four decades I spent here.

So it is now that it is time to go. Anyone who knows me knows that I always like to find lyrics befitting any life situation I may be going through, or any life situation at all, or anything. Today's selection comes from the Avett Brothers' "I and Love and You."

Load the car and write the note
Pack your bags and grab your coat

Tell the ones that need to know

One foot in and one foot back
But it don't pay to live like that

So I cut the ties and I jumped the tracks

Never to return

The truth is, Nevada will always be home. Whether or not it is time for me to go, this was my community and these are my people. I want to thank you all for a really great 40 years.

I love you guys. 

I'm scared to leave, but I know it's time to go.

 I think will have times where we know we're vulnerable to emotion and can feel it bubbling up with a sickening and tenacious intensity that we are powerless to fully squelch. In those times, it is only natural to seek release of some form. That release can be drinking, eating, distracting with it and upbeat song for example, or just dealing with it and crying it out.

About a Boy.

Lay Lady Lay

Traveling Wilburys

Dancing

Cognitive Dissonance

Degrees

Music

Goals

Age

Quotes

Big Lebowski

Hunter

Best friends

Dough on a Stick (Alternate Title: Welcome to 40!)

I try not to be a blamer in my life, and for the most part, I think I'm good at it. Honestly, most of my character traits and life decisions come from me seeing a behavior/choice and thinking, "Yeah, I'm going to try to do not that" and adjusting accordingly.

One thing that has always bothered me is the idea of being a tattletale or blamer.

I'm not saying I NEVER blame or tattle, because let's be honest, I do, without even realizing it sometimes.

And I'm not saying I don't have the URGE to tattle or blame, because oh Bessie, you got no idea. The force is strong in this one.

So that takes us to the number one thing I want to blame on anybody or anything but me: my eating habits.

They are, in a word, terrible. They're terrible because that serves me in some way, according to my wise workout instructor. I think that way is summed up in one word: deliciousness.

Food is delicious. I love it a lot. However, food is not a good influence on my life. It's like that one friend you have that you get together with periodically and you always MEAN to make good choices as a unit, but the next thing you know you're both covered in donut glaze and at least one of you is missing a shoe, and neither one of you can remember how to get to that one chick's apartment who lives within walking distance.

I think compulsive overeating is the term, but that makes me sound like I have a condishun, and that's not the case. I just love food. I love it. I love to think about it, look at pictures of it, and eat it. I love to plan recipes and add secret ingredients, and I firmly believe a little extra vanilla is vital in a dessert, just as a little extra garlic in an entree isn't gonna hurt anyone.

So then I have that first bite, and oh my God I nailed it, so I have to keep eating, or oh my God did I not nail it? I better have another bite to see for sure, or oh my God this is terrible, but I hate to waste food, so I have to keep eating.

See the pattern?

All of this has resulted in hundreds of pounds gained and lost over the years: 20 pounds here and there, but usually more in the five to 10 pound range, over and over and over again.

But mostly, I have gotten away with it, by working out or moving enough to keep it from getting really bad.

However, I'm noticing something: either I'm eating a lot more or it's getting noticeably harder to beat the system. And my weight gain is a little different than it used to be. It's like I'm accumulating more...sag.

I said it. There's more droop. It's an almost imperceptible melting effect. I mean, dear God, is my belly button actually disappearing behind a curtain of falling skin? And what is my chest DOING? Is it actually dipping down to help me look for my belly button? Why do my upper arms morph into flying squirrels when I wave furiously at someone? And is my leg skin...starting to fall?? Where will it land? Around my ankles? Will it just drape in folds eventually, all the way down? Is my skin actually getting bigger? What is even happening?

So every Sunday I have a stern talking-to with myself. I'm all, self, listen. We're older than we've ever been and now we're even older.

And now we're even older.

And now we're even older.

You know what I'm saying. So then comes the hey, health, longevity, mood stabilization are actually GOOD things, so maybe just stop, please just at least consider stopping eating like you used to when you thought you were comfortably married and would never have to be in the dating pool again. If you could just try that, just give it a little try, a little try never hurt anybody, and then maybe the flying squirrels won't actually look like they're going to sail right off your arms, and maybe your legs won't slowly morph into skin drapes.

And then I'm like, hey, self, great idea, I could NOT agree more!

And I mean it. Until, say, Monday at 3 p.m. when I'm in the end stages of starvation even though I've consumed a very reasonable breakfast and lunch. Then I attack a jar of peanut butter with a spoon that barely fits in the mouth of the jar, and boom, another day is lost.

So then I go to Fit Club (which I won't be attending for six weeks now due to a longish-term commitment) and my sister, who is amazing, but only 30 years old, mocks me openly. She means well. She tells me that the flying squirrels will be larger and more aggressive if I don't punch harder, that my leg folds will be worse if I don't do higher knees...and she snickers a lot. Far more snickering than I like to have directed at my body skin.

The point is that I think of all this, I get down on myself, I start to openly question at what point I filled up with so much self-loathing, and then I remember the 1997 Baz Luhrmann song, based on the Mary Schmich article of the same year that was a list of bits of advice to graduates in speech format: Wear Sunscreen.

Schmich started by extolling the virtues of sunscreen, and imploring young graduates to start wearing it immediately, in order to save years of regret later. She followed a specific-to-broad-to-specific format from that point, and hit on this line early in the list:

But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.

Sigh. Okay. I get it. So I started paying closer attention to these thoughts I had about my body's tendency to embrace gravity a little too zealously, and realized that, when traced back to my lazy, lazy roots, I AM a blamer. And the person I make these excuses to every single day...is myself. My internal dialogue goes much like this:

Well, I CAN'T do high knees, because sometimes that one knee hurts.

I mean, if they want me to throw up on this floor, sure I'll go as hard as they do.

They're lucky I'm even here today. I'm super hormonal. So much bloat.

The last time I did this workout was in Bangor, Maine. It was a simpler time.

And on, and on, and ON. So I'm going to try a thing where instead of constantly blaming something else for my lack of drive, I'll just put some of that energy into jumping-jack pushups or whatever the hell is happening,

and see how that all shakes out.

I'll let you know how it goes. But until then...

trust me on the sunscreen.

I Am.

Have you ever had one of those songs that just stick with you and become, for the moment or several anyway, your personal anthem? A song that doesn't necessarily define you as a person, but at least rings true with a situation or era of life through which you're coasting/slogging?

Music is my lifemate. If I could live every moment of my life like it was a music montage, I would happily acquiesce. Think of all the useful shit that gets done in a music montage! I always refer back to my first memory of the montage, in the 1984 epic genius film "Revenge of the Nerds," during which an entire frat house was changed from structural kindling to an up-to-code, upstanding residence in about 30 seconds.

THIRTY SECONDS. I would remodel so hard if I could do it that way.

But I digress.

The song of the times is called "I Am" by Awolnation. Lyrics, for reference:

"I Am"

These friends of mine will come and go
I’m the first to leave and last to know
I’ll be swimming in a face of flames
For these friends of mine I’ve overpaid
And I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know

All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down

Veins are glistening
So thanks a lot for listening
I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know

All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down

Well I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know

All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down

Well I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know

Hypnotized from the day you were born

So that's my personal song now. Let's couple it with a post about grief, shared by my uber-friend Tami Jones:

I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not.

I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents...

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.

Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.

If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

I have found my pieces of wreckage to which I cling each time the waves hit, and, unlike a couple of months ago when I clung to whatever may have been floating past at the time, these are sturdy and healthy.

It's been quite a summer. I have suffered loss as a result of death twice. I have suffered loss in the form of my son starting college. And there have been a few instances of loss in relationship form, which are intensely painful but becoming more and more manageable.

And every day I see others around me suffer loss of some kind and begin the slow-motion, defeated paddling that occurs with endings as the first wave rises above them, unrelenting and unforgiving and absolutely unavoidable.

For those of you who are facing that "Perfect Storm" moment even now, please remember this:

There are so many of us who have been through it and come out the other side.

And ALL OF THESE THINGS MAKE YOU WHO YOU ARE.

Think of where you were. Think of where you are. And marvel at the growth and change that sheer damn living brings. Every single instance of pain, or joy, or loss, or gain, has shaped you. EVERY ONE OF THEM. Whether you asked for that growth or begged to be shielded from it, it has found you and molded you, gently or roughly. It is this very phenomenon that has caused me to have two lists:

1. My Bucket List

2. My Unintentional Bucket List

I also have altered the title of events to fall under one umbrella: "Collectible Life Experiences."

Instead of, say, "Cool Shit That Has Happened to Me" and "WTF, Life!?"

If past me had been told that there would be a summer during which I would lose my most loving uncle, my best friend/ex-husband, and my son, ALL IN THE SAME TWO MONTHS, I would have said, "Get right out of town!"

Then I would have removed one of my shoes, probably the left one, and thrown it at said messenger.

Then I would have run away in a zigzag pattern to avoid being hit again.

Then I probably would have tripped, either because I was wearing one shoe or because that's who I am as a person.

But what I wouldn't have known then was that I would have been able to handle it.

And that is why we don't know things such as the exact date of our death.

Ruminating about what has come before us or what lies ahead of us does us exactly no good. We only have this moment. THIS moment. Right now. Because we all know that nobody makes it out of this thing alive.

All we can do is seize who we are in this given moment, and then do the best we can with it.

THE BEST WE CAN. Not the right thing. Not the wrong thing. Only the thing that best helps us get through it.

So love yourself. No? At least like yourself. I look at it like this: if I want to watch Netflix for six hours, I want to watch Netflix. Great idea, self! I couldn't agree more!

You are equipped with everything you need, whether it seems that way at the time or not. Remember it. Lean on it. And live it.

And while you ruminate on that, take the time to notice how much my son looks like me. And then message him. He'll be so excited.

Things I Learned from Nevada Fitness Club, Part Six: Cize.

An interesting thing happened yesterday. I turned 40.

So, that's over. Moving on. Tonight I went back to the Fitness Club for what I thought was going to be a casual 21 Day Fix with weights.

First of all, screw the 21 Day Fix with weights because shoulders. And too much pep. And it interrupted a good nap.

So I'm suffering through that, feeling all 40-esque, but it was only a half an hour, right, so who even cares about a little sweat? And what else was I going to do? I had broken my corkscrew earlier, and the only bottle of twist-top wine I had was just okay. Side note, tonight I realized maybe I have a drinking problem.

But this isn't about my drinking problem. It's about what happened after the 21 day devil shoulder wtf fix.

And that something that happened was Cize.

Cize is Shaun T of Insanity and T-25's latest workout phenom. It's entirely dance-based, so the idea is kind of that you don't realize you're exercising. The inherent problem in the whole operation is that I basically can't walk without tripping.

When I've got a pleasant buzz to hard drunk on, though, I still can't walk without tripping, but I don't care. I also believe, in these booze-clouded times, that I not only have the right to dance, but that not dancing would be to deprive the world of a greatness heretofore unseen.

However, tonight, at the Community Center, I wasn't drunk. I wasn't even a little bit drunk. So when Brad fired up the 'Cize, my instinct was to trip-walk right out of that damn gym. However, I had a little time to kill, and I had just seen Trainwreck and wanted to learn a dance like Amy Schumer uses to land the guy, so I told myself I'd stay for five minutes.

The problem, again, was that I really had never danced sober.

We got started at a nice slow pace, slow enough that I got excited. I can totally do this, I thought. And this is where being a dreamer gets you. Before five minutes was up, I had imagined myself right into the Jennifer Lawrence part of Silver Linings Playbook. I WAS Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook. And by that I mean the dance part, not the part where Bradley Cooper can't get over his ex, because let's be honest here, I already lived that whole part of the movie. Over it.

I was ready for the glory. I was ready to stick the landing and live happily ever after with the guy who saw me dance and was blown. away.

And also he was hot, and totally into me, but not too much, because then it's clingy and just no.

The motions and tempo continued to increase, but I was keeping up, and there were even times where I felt like I stuck the move hard. And then my fantasies commenced again, but more in depth. I decided that I would probably go clubbin', because that's a thing that I literally never do, and that my range and skill would be so obvious that the room would form a circle around me in no time. A circle that would remain unbroken...until the crowd parted and a man drew next to me. I had never seen him before, but that didn't stop us from moving in a complicated choreography that was completely in sync, not to mention stupid acrobatic, and culminated in me leaping into his arms and flying while he spun me like pizza dough, at which point the crowd would go wild and he and I would then go get some donuts or whatever.

For the first time, I understood that weird chick in high school who always danced alone in the middle of the floor, or tried in vain to get a conga line going while everybody looked at her like, you so crazy, goth girl.

This is also a perfect example of why all my grade cards mentioned that I daydreamed too much. But let's be honest, daydreams are so much cooler than not daydreams, amirite? C'mon now.

Science.

The point is, my five minutes turned into the whole 28 minutes, and I never felt like I was working out, so win. It's not even close to Insanity Max, so I'm sure the calorie burn is stupid low in comparison, but what isn't? Plus, mix that routine UP, right? Something something metabolism.

Anyway, it ended, and then I went and ate stromboli, and this is why I'll never be ripped.

And in the End, the Love You Take...

Tonight, I got the last load of items from my house and double-locked the front door.

Just like that, it's over.

Sometimes, as you write the chapters of the book of your life, you don't understand that each one has to end. You might understand, in a logical way, that none of us get out of here alive.

But you don't truly process it until you have to.

It is still surreal to me, even as I complete yet another move, even as I grasp the reality that as my thirties are drawing to a close, that so too is the chapter of my life that I considered the most pivotal.

My dad frequently quoted a poem to me in my youth, called "Don't Quit." He gave me a framed copy of it some years ago, and I keep it at my bedside.

Not that I need to. The words, along with those of Rudyard Kipling's "If", are, at this stage of the game, seared into my brain.

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill.
When the funds are low, and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must
But don't you quit.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, but then again, what is? How often do things play out exactly as we envisioned?

When Bill died, I turned, in my grief, to a friend who helped me to sharpen my focus while simultaneously dulling my pain.
He asked me what I wanted in life, and told me to define it specifically and in writing.

There were two things on my list.

1. To live in a loft
2. To get a job as a professor, ideally teaching writing

I thought I had it figured out, essentially. What I didn't remember was that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.

My goal was to be out of Nevada when my son was, in August 2015.

However, I realized that it was perhaps best not to make too many decisions, too fast. I had all but officially left Nevada, and my belongings HAD officially left Nevada, when I realized that it was not yet time. As soon as I understood that, I texted a friend who owned rentals and asked if anything was open.

As it happened, he had a loft that had just become available.

And it was amazing. This is my view right now as I type.

I had also applied to a couple of places in Joplin, Freeman Hospital and MSSU. I had two interviews, and got both jobs. The first was not what I had initially thought. The second culminated in a phone call telling me that the job had been mine, but the person I would have replaced had withdrawn his resignation.

It seemed as though I wasn't meant to go quite yet.

And then, a third interview...as a professor of English Composition. As a professor who would TEACH WRITING.

"Your M.A. is in Communication, but given your various experiences and recognition of your writing, I think you may be a wonderful fit to do some adjunct teaching in our department," the email read.

The interview was five minutes long, followed by 25 minutes of discussing my thesis research. She offered me the job before I left, as an adjunct professor of two separate sections of Comp 101.

That met...in the middle of the day.

That paid...significantly less than my current salary.

It's interesting, life. There were two things I asked for, and, basing this on a technicality, I received both.

However, my Nevada time is not over. Not only because I don't want to move again, but also because life is a process. I'll start my forties here, and who even knows what will happen, but here is what I do know.

1. The donut shop is within walking distance.
2. And White Grill
3. And Dairy Queen.

Livin'. The. Dream.

Plus...

Singing Under My Umbrella, Ella, Ella

Repeating the same stories over and over.

The way he said "Love you Jenny" and "Love you kiddo."

The way he dried off with his towel.

Popping my zits and saying "ew" and calling me a groder.

Just saw Tina Kruse with her kids, wonder if any of them are mine.

His perfect steaks

Kevin Hart

Vegas

Baltimore

"Fuck a bunch of dumb shit"

Holding my boob

Rodney Carrington

His notes

His pinky toe

Putting his feet on my lap

Telling me we were perfect for each other

Never, ever giving up on me, even when I gave up on him

Being patient when I got crazy

His perfect ass

His legs

Please come here. I love you and need you please.

 

Be Thankful.

A friend of mine halted my mourning briefly when he told me to shut up and be thankful for my life. 

He actually said it more forcefully, and I stopped crying and became furious. 

I believe what I said was, "I'll thank you for this later, but for now? SHUT UP."

Be THANKFUL? My best friend, my husband, my housemate, my former husband, all of those things rolled into one that Bill was, had just died. I had to pack up our life and move within a few weeks. Our plan was long since abandoned. Be THANKFUL?

Another friend coached me on finding the positive for every negative. That felt similarly hard.

Praying was mostly crying and asking "Why?"

And then yesterday, I moved. I watched as our bed was carried away, as our memories were divided, loaded, and driven away, packaged neatly like those shared years were just that simple. 

I gripped the Señor Frogs giant cylindrical neon cups from Vegas, straws still contained within, for a little too long. 

A lot too long.

I inhaled the scent of the house (and every home has its own) as deeply as I could, knowing I would still forget and crying at the thought. 

I cried off my Tattoo liner. My Kat von D TATTOO LINER. 

It's waterproof.

And then, curiously, I began to notice things.

Signs.

Embracing the unknown is a thrilling possibility. However, that embrace cannot take place when I'm still asking the universe why my Bill had to leave.

There is no right way to grieve. My days are roller coasters, starting with morning group humor from my incredible co-workers and typically ending with me eating my feelings and sleeping fitfully, waking confused from dreams that had me convinced that my new reality was the illusion.

I'm writing about it only because these are the accounts I seek out now to find commonalities and feel, even for a moment, less alone. And writing is my only solace.

Yesterday, I had a great start. I crossed major tasks off my list. I ate reasonable foods (not cookies and chocolate). 

And then I went to my house to pack. 

The upstairs is in reasonable shape, so I went down to the basement storage area. 

First it was the suitcase of little Vegas souvenirs. 

Then it was the box pushed way to the back of the top shelf. When I got a grip on it and tugged, the entire side of it fell away and two things slid out.

One was my wedding guest book. The other was the engraved cake server: 

Jennifer and Bill, September 18, 2010

I gave up on packing and found the ice cream, but the seeds of grief had already been planted. 

So then I found myself at the cemetery. I looked through my car for something to sit on, and while sifting through a baf of miscellany, found his 2013 union book. And it was while idly flipping through it that I found his latest message. 

I remember visiting him and writing "Best wife ever here" - I did not realize he wrote "very much so" the next day. I have been finding notes throughout the house as I've been packing, and had thought I discovered them all. Sitting there at the cemetery with this unexpected bonus was almost too much.

And then a hummingbird buzzed by and stayed over my head for a few extra seconds, and I knew these were his signs. Subtlety was never Bill's strong suit.

I laid there next to him, headphones in, listening to our music like we had countless times by the pond, and lost the final shreds of self control. Because it's NOT FAIR. It's not fair that he's not here to drive us crazy and tell the same stories over and over again and grill the perfect steak and spill his drinks all over the carpet and tell me how amazing I am, then in the next breath, how crazy.

NO.

The title for this post is the predominant word in my head. I think it hundreds of times a day, or thousands. However many times it is when a word is at the forefront of your thoughts for most of your waking hours.

But not all of them. Because there's another word chasing it, determined to obtain the lead, and that word is "WHY."

One week ago, at approximately 9:40 p.m., my world as I've known it for the past 23 years came to a black and empty end. It just stopped turning for me. And while I watch the worlds of people all around me continue to spin, mine continues to stay in suspended animation, frozen with uncertainty about a future that would involve it revolving again.

Bill is gone.

It was always him. He was always my focal point and my best friend. He was also the person who made me feel the craziest, the person who shook up everything I had come to believe in my formative years and made me question who I was and where I was going. He was the one who taught me how to believe in myself. He was the one who made me strong.

When people tell me now how strong I am, I thank him, because without him as my teacher for so many years, I wouldn't be able to survive this.

He carried me through so much. He loved me through cancer in a way that made me feel invincible. He taught me to be self-reliant because his job kept him away so much. He told me more times than I could begin to count that his big shoulders could carry anything, and to unload my worries on them and take his hand.


I feel that I can't even process basic decisions. I can't react to situations accordingly, something that was effortless for me before. I often realize that I've been staring into space, and can't remember how long I've been doing it.

I feel like I'm comprised of a void. I feel like the most vital part of me is dead. I feel like letting myself slip below the surface because then everything wouldn't be so damn hard.

He was barely 40. He spent his 40th birthday in Washington state, asking me to come visit. We hadn't been getting along; in fact, we divorced in late March. The divorce couldn't stop our friendship, though. We still talked almost every day.

He wanted me to visit, and I said no. I said no for many reasons: how would it look? What would my family think? I have two jobs. I have After Prom. I have Hume After Prom. I have the Male Handsome Pageant. Reason after reason that it wouldn't be a good idea. Instead, I had gifts delivered to him every day of his birthday week.

But he didn't want gifts. He wanted his friend.

And I failed him.

I am so angry with myself for that. I squandered my time with him in his last year, although I thought I was doing it for the right reasons. I wanted him to face his health issues. I wanted him to take care of himself. I wanted him to stop the path he was on and listen to me, because I totally knew what I was talking about, after all. If only the whole world could listen to me, there would probably be no war and stuff.

Don't we always feel that we know what is best in a given situation, particularly one involving someone else? I certainly did.

And when he wouldn't listen, I thought that losing me would surely make him face the reality of what his life had become.

It did not work. And now, with the crystal clarity that hindsight so kindly provides, I face what will be my newest demon for the rest of my life: could I have prolonged his life, salvaged his health, by staying by his side every day? If I had been there the night of the accident instead of trying to make him realize that he was on the wrong path and arguing that point with him the whole day and evening of June 3, he wouldn't have gotten in that truck. He would have stayed home.

And he would have had at least a little more time. Not a lot. But a little.

These are the rambly thoughts that speed through my head every day. I made it through the hell of watching my lifetime best friend die. I honored my promise of making sure he had the funeral he wanted. And then the last vestiges of shock wore off and I turned into the person I am now, comprised of wild grief, tears, and nerve endings, alternating with the most horrible kind of numb.

There are other things to face without him. We had just put our house under contract three days before the accident, and now I find myself staring blankly at the life we built within its walls. Every vantage point is a memory. The bed is as if he just got out of it. I can't bear the thought of it being taken apart and removed. The Jello I brought him home before he went into the hospital to help soothe his stomach in the refrigerator. The ice cream that he never got to eat in the freezer.

My last shift at the movie theater, he brought dinner in for the staff, and the top layer of our wedding cake in for me. Surprisingly, it was still good almost five years later. He posted a picture of the feast on Facebook, labeled "Moma's dinner."
He had just gotten out of the hospital earlier that day, weak and beaten down, and still he brought the food to me. He apologized that his visits to the theater had decreased so dramatically the last two years.

He would die exactly two weeks later. And I didn't know.

I have not been able to return to my job at the theater since. I can't bring myself to go back. That is how I want to remember the end. That is how I want to leave it.

I also can't spend another night in the house.

All of this means that I am forced to look ahead and make still more life-altering decisions in a body that finds it difficult to even move. I had planned to leave Nevada, and that is what I am still doing. But that entails so much. A new job. New surroundings. New life.

And for the first time since I was a teenager, my background noise, my focal point, my center...will not be Bill.

I'm. So. Lost.

I want to cry the tears that come from your very core, that make you howl at the injustice and fight your demons with every wounded exhalation. People who see me, who know what happened, are mainly in one of two camps: they don't know what to say or they tell me I am strong.

Here is what you say, those who don't know (and I used to be one of you): this sucks.

Because it absolutely does. The acknowledgment of the vast unfairness of life's twists and turns is almost a relief to those who have born the brunt of the ax of loss.

He is gone. My world has not started to spin again, not even remotely. I want to apologize to those who have anchored themselves to me in order to shore me up: I am not worthy of your devotion right now. Because I am no longer me.

I am made of grief and anger and so, so much regret. Disbelief and rage and void. Stringing words together to uphold my end of a conversation is too hard. Deciding what vestiges of my life to keep and which to give away as I struggle to empty a house is hard. Staring at a tiny plaque in Moore Cemetery reading that Bill Shepherd, Jr. was 40 years, 2 months, and 1 day old is incomprehensibly hard. Those big shoulders were supposed to be able to withstand any burden.

How can he be gone?

So forgive me if it seems that I can't look you in the eye, or if I take way too long to answer a question or even if I ask you to repeat it. While I may be strong, and while I do feel his strength within me, imagining a world that doesn't have him in it still feels like an insurmountable task.

Countdown: 40, F&@$ing Seriously?

So I have this milestone-ish birthday coming up in less than two months, and although I don’t feel any differently approaching this age than I’ve really felt approaching ANY age, the parade of high school friends who have preceded me to it in the last year kind of provide an ever-present reminder that it’s coming.

Most recently, it was my fellow NHSer, Angela. She celebrated the entire month leading up to her birthday with little daily treats, which she photographed and posted. While I really, really love that idea, I’m driven in a different direction – one of fitness goals that are in line with my last 18 months of deep denial that I’m aging.

Although I refuse to participate in any kind of 5K, half marathon, marathon, whatever, I do have two specific goals for 40:

1. I will walk 100,000 steps in 24 hours.
2. I will be able to do a headstand without the assistance of a wall.

That’s pretty much it. From a list standpoint, there are only two items, which seems incredibly easy. From a practical standpoint, it’s ridiculous.

One hundred thousand steps is, like, 38 miles.

A headstand is, like, a headstand.

Since getting my Fitbit for Christmas last year, the closest I have come to 100,000 steps was 25,000 in Boca Raton. It involved, surprisingly, a lot of walking. And I’m talking about doing four TIMES that much walking in one day. It’s nuts.

The closest I’ve come to a headstand is up against the wall after Fit Club one day with plenty of help from my sister, Shannon. Additionally, I’m doing ever-lengthening daily sessions of Crow Pose in order to lie to myself that it is in any way preparing me for a successful headstand.

I do go to Fit Club, and I do participate fully. However, I may be sabotaging myself a little with my internal dialogue.

Case in point: last night we did 21 Day Fix Extreme Lower Body followed by some type of Extreme Ab Rippin’ and a’Shreddin’ or something. Forty minutes total. What’s 40 minutes in a human life?

Hours after we started, I looked at the time remaining.

We had only been going for four and a half minutes. FOUR AND A HALF MINUTES. What the actual hell? I’m not a math type, but I’m pretty sure that’s just over 10 percent of the total class time.

That isn’t even the worst part. The instructors for these classes are on some kind of drug that acts as a simultaneous mood booster and sweat suppressant and enables them to be stupid happy and beautiful at the same time. And they talk. Cheerfully and relentlessly.

For everything they say, I have a mental counter, and this is where I struggle. If I devoted all my energy to the physical, I’d be in far better shape than I am. But instead, it goes a little something like this:

Instructor: “Post YOUR pictures of 600 consecutive squats with weights! Hashtag 21 Day Fix!”

Me: “Hashtag Piss Off Hashtag Nice Bra Hashtag I HATE YOU.”

Other Instructor: “Oh, come on, Jen! You can get deeper than that!”

Me: “My fist will show you deeper than that.”

Instructor: “If you want the results, this is when you have to push! You won’t get anywhere if you don’t push harder!”

Me: “Shit, that’s actually a good point.”

And that’s what it comes down to. I’ve alternated between lots of exercise and none exercise from my teenage years to now, but my body prefers to go hard. I like all-weekend tennis tournaments. I like Insanity Max.

I just have to convince my mind of it. Also, last night when I went to my friend’s after the workout and ate the frosting off half a box of cupcakes, I realized that it was not only the mindful, but also the mindless behavior on which I need to focus.

So, to recap:

1. 100,000
2. Headstand
3. Complete revamp of mental bitchiness and sabotage
4. Less than 60 days to goal date

Super easy.

Hashtag whatever.

Oh, Life, You Minx.

John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

I was so busy making other plans, in general, that I forgot all about that quote. Inconceivable, really, in someone who was fed a steady diet of Beatles along with homemade baby food.

So, as I suppose was inevitable, life snuck up and bit me in the ass.

Have you ever had a goal, like, a really big, all-consuming goal that fills you with purpose and makes you feel alive and gives you something to reach for all the time, something that feels almost too difficult to attain, but nonetheless makes you really, really driven?

Did you ever reach that goal?

And then what did you do?

A year ago, all I wanted to do was finish my thesis and finish grad school with a 4.0. It felt insurmountable...in fact, I really, really didn't know if I would get all the revisions done to my grad committee's specifications. Every day, every hour, almost every minute was given a specific task. I became an expert at time management. I also began to eat healthier, and work out.

I felt, looking back now, like I was on top of my game. Even though I had this enormous task in front of me, I was smug.

I knew I was capable of whatever I set my mind to, you see. I was unstoppable.

But then...it was over. I had my 4.0. I had a research award. I had promises of furthering the thesis, of submitting to a conference, of speaking to classes, of being used as an example.

Oh, yes. I was smug. I was so smug I forgot what had motivated me to stay so busy.

I scheduled my time so fully because my personal life was crashing around me. I was losing my son. I was losing my stepsons. I was losing my marriage. And I knew it.

But I couldn't do anything about those things.

And I knew that, too. So, I stayed busy, even though staying busy was also going to be my downfall.

But what happens when the busy-ness fades? Suddenly, I was finished with my thesis. I graduated, and, with my graduation, lost my job as a graduate assistant.

Suddenly, 55 hours of my weekly schedule was free.

And my problems were very, very visible.

I panicked, and almost immediately took another job. I spent as much time as I could out of the house, which felt very, very empty.

I ran away from my problems, because that was SO much easier than facing them.

If only that was effective. I was like a character in Pokemon Colosseum that nobody ever picks because its strategy was always the same...



Run. I picked "run" every time.

With all that running, you would think I'd be in shape.

I ran all summer. I lived on Slim Jims, T25, and denial. Shaun T. became my closest friend. I worked a lot.

And things got worse.

In the fall, I realized that my son needed me. I decided that he and I needed a new start in a new location.

The problem, though, was bigger than the fairy tale ending I had constructed in my head. Again faced with something outside of my control, I panicked and ran.

Sometimes, as parents, we forget that our children learn the most basic ways of being by watching us. Unfortunately, my son had grown up with me as his role model. He had watched me react to major problems with denial, and he had adopted the same policy accordingly.

The first thing that made me fully realize my weaknesses was when my son suddenly became strong, stopped running, and faced his demons head-on.

The second thing that made me realize I needed to change was watching my son begin to heal himself and become an adult.

The third thing that made me realize I needed to change was going to visit him in January and attending a couple of groups.

That's when I first heard it.

"The only thing you have to change is everything."

I liked it. It was short, to the point, powerful, and effective.

But then I attended a group comprised of other people who had lived as I had...people who erroneously felt that they could control others. And what I learned was something that we all think we know, but possibly don't fully understand.

The only person we can change is ourselves.

If my 18-year-old son could grasp this so wholly, surely I could at 39.

It felt like the first day of my life.

I would love to say that the story ended there...and we lived happily ever after.

The truth is, every day is a struggle. Although I have come a long way in this journey of understanding, the truth is I still stumble every day. I'm prone to self-sabotage.

And oh, Lord, am I a fan of eating my feelings.

Just tonight, I had a plan to go for a walk after work and enjoy the beautiful weather, then go work out at the Community Center. I scheduled dinner with a good friend who always makes me happier.

Instead, I came home, ate half a jar of peanut butter, a sleeve of girl scout cookies, two Twix eggs (they're really good. Easter candy is just evil) and way too many Doritos. Then I got in bed and watched it get dark.

Life is a process. Sometimes we have to go through these dark, dark days because we can appreciate the light so much more later.

But man, sometimes it feels like the bulb is permanently burned out. Like we're in that six months of darkness in Alaska, and time stands still.

The beauty comes later, when we're granted a new day and a new chance to start fresh.

What we have to take from that darkness is that it gave us an opportunity to learn and grow. And sometimes growth is painful. That's why we don't remember teething or, for women, the pain of childbirth. But look what we got from that pain.

Teeth and kids.

Both very useful tools. In fact, I think I used my teeth to bite someone when I was in labor.

Of course, I really don't remember that.

This has been a painful journey, and although it might not match the journeys of others, maybe you're facing a similar darkness.
Maybe it feels like hell. Maybe you think, sure, I got through bad times in the past, but this is different. This one really, really hurts.

Close your eyes and wait.

There is always darkness

before the dawn.



*photos courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half's genius creator, Allie Brosh, because I can't art.*

FREE AT LAST!

Although I have alluded to my most current obsession in the most casual of ways, I feel like enough time has passed that I can come clean with everyone about what my life has been like for the past two point five months.

I was ate up with the Fitbit fever.

I got it for Christmas from my dad and stepmom, and I was instantly intrigued. I'm obsessive about my weight, and I love exercise, so this was a great idea to my way of thinking. Much like giving paraphernalia to an addict might be, but I digress.

I linked it up to the corresponding app/site on my phone and computer, respectively, and was super excited to watch the steps rack up on the device since I was up and down and around a lot in general in my jobs.

You can only imagine the disappointment when I realized that my average day only had around 5000 steps.

Clearly, I needed to STEP IT UP!!! GET IT? FITBIT HUMOR, AMIRITE? come on now.

Anyway, it started with walking around a little more.

Then a little more.

And then there was a Movin' and Losin' corporate challenge that started February 2. Suddenly, my obsession had wings. Winged shoes. And I was wearing them.

I started by going up and down the three-four giant flights of stairs up to the top of the building. First two times, then three, then seven, then my entire lunch break.

Then I started

Things I Learned From Nevada Fitness Club, Part Five: Graduation

I talk about Nevada Fitness Club a lot. Actually, maybe I don't talk about it out loud. But it's kind of an ever-present background noise in my mind.

It's because precious little is more important to my Monday through Thursday routine than going to the Community Center at 6:30 and swimming out 40 to 60 minutes later in a pool of my own sweat, riding on a workout high that lasts at least an hour. Or until the fifth spoonful of peanut butter. Whichever comes first (it's the peanut butter).

It was not always this way. In fact, on January 27, 2014, when I went to my first workout, I decided five minutes into what was clearly a routine exclusively for the graceful that Combat Cardio was not for me. The instructor, a man I had previously considered a friend, spent at least 48 of the 50 minutes telling me what I was doing wrong.

"There are other people in this damn class!" I telegraphed to him furiously in my mind, but he was too busy talking about my horrible technique to read my thoughts.

But when it was over, I felt this crazy rush, and knew that air-punching my invisible enemy was the workout for me, after all.

Though the workouts varied, one thing was a constant: my location in the gym. I hugged the back corner, right in front of the door, so I could bail if necessary, and so nobody could see me labor through the moves. I'm kind of a clumsy, gawky person, and I didn't want anyone to see what I looked like trying to do hip-hop and agility drills.

As the months passed, I saw people make noticeable progress...the woman in front of me lost fifty pounds in 2014. But as far as regulars, people who were there with me at the beginning and the end of the year, it was kind of just me and that woman, whose name I still don't know. She's awesome, whoever she is.

Summer ended and the weather cooled, and as it did, attendance picked back up. I kept my spot in the back and waited for the rush of new people when we came back to class January 5, and although there were a few new faces, it wasn't as packed as I thought.

Until this week.

All week long, my spot was taken by a new attendee. Actually, the whole back row was new people. Who were these people!? Why were they in my spot?

Luckily, there was a giant, spotlighted area on the front row waiting for me. At first, this made me angry. What right did they have to stand in my spot!??!? Why did I have to go to the front!?

And then, it hit me. Those people were me a year ago. I had spent the year in the back of the gym, feeling out of my element, out of shape, out of breath. But a lot changed in the past year. I could get through the workouts now. I wasn't winded. I didn't feel like as much of an idiot.

It was time to graduate to the front of the gym.

And it wasn't that bad. Mainly because I couldn't see the people that could see me, but whatever.

Sure, I haven't made the noticeable changes that many in the class have made. Christy has lost 11 inches and 15 pounds; another girl, a runner, shattered her record for the mile since she started working out with us.

I haven't really lost any weight; I don't look that different. My physical changes are limited to the fact that, in the beginning, I spent a lot of time wheezing on the floor.

My real changes came from within. A year ago, I started to work out because I thought I needed something to fill the time while my husband was working on the road. I was accused of over-thinking things in general, and I thought a hobby would prevent that, give me something to fill up my time so my imagination didn't work overtime.

Instead, Nevada Fitness Club sharpened my focus and increased my confidence. To be fair, I had no confidence to start with, so I had nowhere to go but up, but gainz.

It enabled me to stop obsessing and attaching importance to things I could not change, and instead focus on the only thing I COULD change...myself. I'm a different person now, and I have Nevada Fitness Club to thank.

So I'm happy to give up that back-row spot if it means the others can get even a little of what I've experienced from these classes.

I just wish the light wasn't quite so spotlight-y on the front row.

I Used to Be Smarter...[alternate title: I Think I Just Blew My Own Mind]

I work with kids (think ages 4-12) every day as part of my job. I used to think that I wasn't all that kid-friendly; like, as a person, I just wasn't into it or whatever. Kids are noisy, they're messy. They're unpredictable. They make it hard to sleep sometimes.

I really liked mine (and still do. Mostly. More than half of the time), but I inwardly reacted to kids the same way I react to a horde of mosquitoes...by telling myself to run to a place where they were not, and quickly. I didn't know how to talk to them, I didn't know how to deal with them.

My son kind of cured me of that temporarily, but I found it to be an issue again when I returned to my old movie theater job. I could make all kinds of small talk with adults, even teenagers. But small kids...I would smile in a forced, most likely terrifying, way, and say something like, "HI! ARE YOU EXCITED FOR THE MOVIE!?"

To their collective credit, they took it well, and most had the sense to pretend I wasn't talking to them.

Now I work with kids on the reg, and I have found that, on the contrary, they're a delight. I'm kind of jealous of them. They know what they want. They're not afraid to tell someone. They work actively on their goal if they haven't reached it. Things tend to be more concrete in their world than abstract. They're (mostly) pretty sure of who they are as people. They aren't afraid to tell you what they think of you when asked.

So I guess what I'm curious about is, when does that change?

I remember the Renaissance Festival when I was a kid. It was magic. I loved everything about it...the costumes, the games, the booths, the food, even the car ride.

It was that cloud of nostalgia that gripped me when I took my son to the Festival when he was four...

...and it was NOTHING like I remembered. When did everything get so expensive?! The gas, the money to feed us, the parking, the walking, the highway robbery-style prices of EVERYTHING inside those gates, the price to get IN those gates...it was just depressing and sad. I saw it through different eyes...through jaded, adult eyes that realized it wasn't an educational thing for kids, it was a money-making scam.

It was that same storm-colored lens that became part of my everyday eyesight the older I got. "C" was the letter of the day in my younger adulthood...C for Compromise. As I got older, and more afraid of endings, and more clingy and attachment-happy in my thirties, Compromise went out the window and the letter morphed into "D" for Desperation. Such was my desire for everyone to get along and, more importantly, for everyone in the world to love me, that I became chameleon-like based on the company I kept. Oh, you like that? It's my favorite too! I liked what you liked...no matter what that might be.

Slowly, over the course of the last year, I have started to peel back the layers of this Jen-of-all-trades and realize that I'm not a lot of the things that I thought I was. As I have shed those layers, sometimes unwillingly, sometimes eagerly, I have started to see who I really am.

And it was as they fell that I started to understand the term "inner child."

I embrace the notion that attachment is born of fear. I have learned (just this year! Like, literally the year 2015!) on a core-deep level that all I have to really worry about is me, because I am the only one I can change. I don't have to be responsible for anyone else's happiness. Only mine.

And the most important thing I learned was who I am.

I love my kid, unreservedly and unashamedly. I love to work out four nights a week until I can't form a coherent thought. I love to walk. I love to read. I love a few shows on television. I love learning new things, and getting to talk to different people all the time. I love appreciating beauty in things, specifically nature's surprises.

I also learned who I was not.

What it comes down to is that all of those things I loved, I have loved as long as I can remember (except my kid, because duh). They were the things that grounded me as a child. Swimming until my limbs were jelly, playing hide and seek until the dark necessitated a call from the porch...those were my workouts before I understood what working out was. Losing myself in new books, meeting new people at church...I thrived on those encounters.

As I have come to realize these things, I have started to cast off the heavy cloak that was my previous life. The glass lenses aren't storm-colored anymore. They're not rosy, either...not yet, and they may never be. But I feel, in longer and longer bursts, HAPPY. Happy the way I was as a kid. Happy in the way that means that you can just be, and not label something or think too much about what it really means.

Uncomplicated. Wholly. Happy.

I'm kind of a present-moment kind of chick, so I'm not going to project that this means great things for the upcoming new decade of my life.

But I'm seeing more hide-and-seek games in my future.