Somewhere between pressure cooker and all-out bonfire*

I suppose there is risk in everything. There is risk in liking, most definitely risk in loving and hopefully some kind of assuring risk in committing. There is risk in expression as much as there is risk in keeping your thoughts to yourself. And though I don't have a site meter and doubt there are more than a couple dozen people around here on any given day I sort of feel like I've had this blog long enough to understand the risk in having an opinion. An opinion on the Internet, that is.
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I've had plenty of opinions prior to my blog experience, of course, but I'd venture to say this is it's own kind of special risk. Perhaps that's just my way of feeling good about what I write and how I share it, or because I love other blogs too much, but whenever there's a little bit of disagreement I wonder if I'm not getting scared. I mean, I want to share my opinions and I don't mind if no one agrees but I start to wonder if that's okay. I start to think about the chance of offending others.
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I struggle between writing from my gut and writing in a way that will allow me to relate to my known readers. I mean, without naming names, how does one go about sharing life's details without offending anyone between the ages of twenty-three and fifty-something? How do you write if you're constantly thinking about what the college student, or the father of four or the wacky cyclist or the pastor or the One You Call Your Internet Mom are going to think? How do you even begin to be authentic? And I don't mean what those people are going to think of me personally, I just mean in general. While I'd say I pretty much do whatever I want, I do like to think I do things with intention. I believe we can be careful without being too self-conscious.
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I'd also like to think I make an effort to think about what I say and how I say it. So when I write about the peace I feel floating in crystal clear water, it is really how I feel. And it is not just because I had a beer on the beach that day; though I can honestly say I feel like being able to experience moments where you feel at peace in your life and where you are, where you've chosen to be, are a blessing, even if they include a beer. There is nothing wrong with that.

I struggle a little about sharing some of my adventures and the experiences I'm able to have, fearing they'll come across as gloating. And though I've said many a time that a life well lived ought to be shared, the natural doubt that comes from so much good contributes it's share of guilt. I want to be sure that somehow, through sharing, I absorb the experience and the gratitude I feel in an otherwise impossible way. It is not just the experience itself that feeds me, but the perspective I get by possibly relating to another that makes it better. Richer.

The truth is, there are hard times in life. There's bad stuff in my life and your life and the life of the guy next door. There are things I don't like about myself, that's for sure. I try to work to make these things better, sometimes. For instance, I know I can become a better writer and photographer and maybe even a better runner. I know I can be a better friend to some and I know I can become better at knowing when to let things go.

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I am learning. I keep telling myself I can learn to like créme brûlée, but that's probably not going to happen so I'm learning to be okay with liking mole (pronounced mo-lay, F.Y.I.) and finally building up enough of my oh-so-white-girl tolerance to handle food with some kick to it.

But you know what I think? I think we all know that. We know all about the hard stuff. We live it and deal with it every day. We all struggle with our choices and the demands in our lives and try not to lose our minds on those days when we have seventeen different things to do and, oh yes, they are all important.

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So when it comes down to it, when I sit down to write a post and wonder to myself what is sitting in my mind's queue waiting to come out, I guess I don't think about the risk I might be taking as much as I'd thought. I try to aim to create something a little lighter, perhaps more interesting than the oatmeal I had for breakfast but less interesting than, say, politics. (Heh.)

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I guess my point is, when I might be so lucky to have people read what I write and then have something to say about it, I'd rather it happen in a way that feels good. I'd rather enjoy the little bits and pieces of life we can be so quick to glaze over. I'd rather be serious yet still joke about ridiculous, silly things. It's a tricky balance and it's not always possible but I've tried it both ways and I think it's better this way. If it's true that there's a place for every one of us, and all our words, then let mine be the place where I can slow down, do my best to absorb everything that's good and most of all, share it with care but without worrying about the risk.

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Coming to that conclusion here, in black and white, as they say, is a lot more refreshing than I imagined it could be.

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* Alternately titled: No this is not just a sneaky way of posting more photos

Pieces of perfect

We stayed at this little darling hotel on the quiet end of town. We walked through the rainy streets with bags and no umbrellas to get there and if the warm colors and adobe spiral staircase weren't welcoming enough, the staff was. They knew our names from the moment we walked in the door and offered us everything from directions to umbrellas to comfort us. The manager, whom I nicknamed Pavarotti because he was singing when we walked in, helped me reacquaint myself with Spanish. It turns out I can find more than the beer and the bathrooms when I'm in Mexico*.

It was an interesting place to see the fusion of different cultures. It always amazes me how if you take the time to talk with people and make the effort, you'll get an amazing response. You go from feeling slightly lost and very out of practice to knowing that yes, even with the barriers of language and culture differences, you can make friends anywhere.

Like the young lady at a small bakery we stopped in for dessert one day. Though it was simply apple pie, there was something oddly magical about her teaching us to call it tartleta de manzana as we ate it and read magazines while Springsteen tunes floated out from the back room. It was a fantastic contrast that settled me. One step up, two steps back, indeed.



The sky also happened to stay in a constant state of bright blue, of which the thought only causes me great discomfort today. It is fifty-four degrees (F) in Colorado right now and I didn't see blue sky all day. Call it nature but I think it's Colorado's karmic way of getting back at me for pining after others.





Mexico, and likely any place if you'll let it sink in, is filled with detail. And just a couple steps away from the mainstream, you'll see this more and more. Little things people do and say that show an effort to be unique. An effort not only to stand out but to do it in a way no one else does. We should each be so lucky to have these efforts noticed. We should be so lucky to always try to make the effort at all.


I must admit, was not enough time. But when is it ever? I took an entire week off running (not to mention every other endeavor) and I have to say, for the first time in a while, I really miss it. I miss the open road and the air being stolen from my lungs. I miss the sweat and the way it clears my mind. Oddly, though I so badly believed I needed to be taken away, I missed my feet being on the ground. And if we know anything at all, we know it won't be long before I'm floating again anyway.

* See Me: 101, #70.

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Last week's guessing game answer: C. I made it up. And if the above didn't make it obvious enough I will just explain by saying I think it would be nearly impossible for me to be friends with someone that so decidedly hated warm weather. There's just a certain basic level of understanding that must occur between friends.

Don't listen to me, I'm high on corn

Today I returned from a whirlwind road trip from Colorado to Iowa, via Omaha, Nebraska. All I can say after roughly 2,800 miles on the road, 13.1 of those miles spent running and yet another reminder of how blessed I am to have wonderful friends is I'm exhausted and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

It was the change in scenery, the miles put on the car, surviving a half-marathon I was entirely unsure about and being around running friends (with whom, you know, no subject is off limits) that put me right where I needed to be. I wasn't sure about this trip, for many reasons. One, of course, being the running but also being so unsure of the steps I've been taking in other parts of my life. It turns out packing a lot into the last bit of Summer is just the thing to remind yourself that those steps, both running and otherwise, are inevitable.

And there's nothing like being with people who accept you, your choices, and your bad jokes just the way they are to reassure you that by taking advantage of every minute, you are doing just the right thing. Because when I think about that inevitable "end" we all will reach one day, it will not matter that I ran slower than I should, or that I passed up a chance for promotion because it didn't feel right or that I put off getting the carpets cleaned. Yes, all of those things might bother me, but it really doesn't matter.

So after an all-too-fast weekend and keeping myself up late tonight to do homework that I just didn't seem to get to before now, I can at least be assured of a few things: we really do only race one person, weekends and life go far too fast, and you shouldn't wear a skirt in a cornfield.

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P.S. I am so sorry to my Minnesota and Iowa blogging friends. There was just no time for an extended visit. I totally think this should be in my life plans soon, though. Believe me, I need no excuse to meet strangers from the Internet. Heh.

Not having done it in fifteen years didn't make it any easier

It never gets easier. I count myself lucky that I've seldom had to do it. I've been blessed with good people, I've chosen well. But recently (and reluctantly) I had to let someone go.

It was sort of like firing; I had to fire her from being my friend. The chances were out, the strikes, way beyond three. I gave it time, a lot of time. I thought having the bigger heart and waiting it out was the way to go. After all, my friend was going through a hard time, and if I couldn't hold on then, what sort of friend would that make me?

I held on, I let time pass. I let the emotional roller coaster cycle through, time and again. I thought as long as it wasn't my emotional roller coaster, I could let it pass. But then, she discovered this. She realized that somehow, my choice of not letting her decisions affect me meant something was wrong.

We now know this something as drama.

I saw right through it, though it wasn't her plan. She wanted to pour oil on the flames, I had the extinguisher. She was sliding down a steep, slippery spiral, I wouldn't sacrifice to go with her. I couldn't. It wasn't because she was asking too much, it was because she wasn't. She assumed I could be there, without question. Or morals. Or self-preservation.

I did question, though. And chose morals, and self-preservation. I had to.

The entire thing felt very business-like. Sort of similar to when I'd have to give bad feedback reports on volunteers, in my college internship days. I didn't want to ruin anyone's day, I didn't want to be negative, but when it came down to it, I had to be. It was hurting the cause, affecting more than just me.

She wasn't always bad, which is the part that makes it difficult. There were good times, times of hard work and play. But choices were made, and roads were chosen. Priorities changed, in ways I never expected, and very few people surprise me. (Us closet cynics have that sense.) Sooner or later, things like that just bring everything to a halt. A grinding halt.

So I let go. It's not easy, not without a share of guilt. But it's right.

Life is more like a river than a lake

Yes, there is a possibility that I have just been allowed to have it too good lately. Though I've been working hard enough to come home at the end of the day and tell myself "you've worked hard, you need a break" I also think I've been pretty lucky with the breaks so far.

If nothing else, I've at least been lucky to have spent them with really wonderful people. Although the places and the weather have all been beautiful, I can't help but think the people you spend your time with, if they're really awesome people that you love, would be people you'd be with anywhere.

I found myself thinking that a lot over the weekend. Around the campfire or on the lake shore, I just sat back and took it all in. I'm always in fear a little of bringing up the good. I don't want to brag anyone to death or, heaven forbid, make it all go away by talking about it. At the same time, though, that is what the good is about, isn't it? It's there to enjoy- to celebrate as if this feeling, this moment itself might be what we always use to define good.

Earlier in life, at times when I didn't know what awful really was, I wasn't great at recognizing life's truly good moments. I didn't really know the stark, meaningful contrast between love and hate or peace and fighting. Hate was the girl that purposely kicked sand on me, war was a yellow button I wore on my jacket.

Growing up, growing old, is such a bittersweet contrast in itself. The nostalgia, the lust for those days gone by is only overshadowed by the appreciation that develops over time. Over the weekend, as is often when friends get together, the question came up of would you ever go back in time?

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My first instinct is to say yes, knowing what I know now, of course. But then I think about it, and realize nothing I remember would have been remotely as grand had I not had the privilege of innocence. I wouldn't have cared deeply about getting a perm or missing an episode of Beverly Hills 90210. I wouldn't have gotten butterflies at the thought of a boy sitting next to me on the bus or have been surprised by Halloween haunted houses. So no, today I'd say going back would just not work. Mostly, it would prevent moving forward. It would prevent weekends at the lake, to be with friends and reminisce.

And what are good weekends with empty margarita glasses and clear blue skies worth if you can't reminisce about being seventeen again? I certainly wouldn't be able to tell the story of the last time I was at this here lake, when the girls met up with the boys, likely all having stretched the truth with the parents. Where we walked shoulder to shoulder, wondering if he was going to take our hand. The boathouse where the girls would go to tell one another which boy liked them and which was a "loser." The hill where, in the late night hours, you might sneak off and, you know, read.

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I don't need to go back to that. Remembering it is part of the magic. And life, in it's sneaky, quiet way just keeps getting better and better.

Living Anyway

At it again. There are roads to drive, roads to run. I’m off to do the relay thing. It’s brand new to me, I really don't know what to expect. I’m doing it anyway.

I haven’t conveyed my anxiety about this event to anyone. There are a couple of reasons but perhaps the most important is I’m just not properly trained for it. In my mind I’m not, anyway. If you look at either of the training schedules and then compared them to my log, it is, in a word, frightening.

The race organizers encourage diligent training for this. From what I hear of my team and dozens of others, many choose not to follow the plan anyway. This does not make me feel any better. The plan has you running two or three-a-days (I have done a few), doing speed work (does not compute) and running hills (which I’d like to avoid but here in mountain land, I fortunately cannot).

I have not been running this way.

I have been running for fun. I have been running for stress relief. I have been running to get the travel weight off and the sun on my face. I have not been wearing a watch. I have been running just enough to not piss off my knees. People around me are very disapproving of this. They think I am crazy or "asking for it" by running. I am running anyway.

(Sidebar: These are the same people, however, that send me ridiculous email "surveys" that I never answer because they ask questions like: If you died and were trapped in a bubble and could see no one for the rest of eternity, what three things would you take with you? And then they get upset when instead of saying photos of my family or inspirational novels I respond with beer, birthday cake and Jimmy Buffett. I just don't think about being trapped in a bubble of the afterlife. I prefer to think about life.)

My doctor, the ever-wise, blue-eyed comedian that he is, says running cannot make my knees worse. It is up to my discretion and my pain tolerance, at this point. That’s sort of like putting me behind the counter at an ice cream shop and telling me it is up to me what to do with the ice cream that day. Does he not know me at all? I have permission, I CANNOT CONTROL WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

There’s another side to this, though. It’s the me side. The side that cannot wait to get on the road for 500 miles just to complete 178 more with my team. A team of men and women of all ages, from all over, of all different abilities. The fun, the running, the work, the up all night, the celebration, the smell of the van after fifteen hours or more. I cannot wait.

So there might be a little pain. So I might be slower than I’d like. So I might stink. Might. Might. Might. If I can’t make it any worse by running, then I’m going to go ahead and make everything else better.

I won’t live in the might, I’ll just live anyway.

Token Things

This afternoon, when packing my suitcase (hello, procrastination) I was trying on clothes just to make sure nothing fit weird or had holes in it or something else equally as likely to surprise me when I'm thousands of miles from home, or a Super Target. As I rolled things neatly into place in my bag, I came across a strange-looking wooden token. At first, I could not figure out where this might have come from or how it got into my tote. There was some lettering on it, but it was mostly rubbed off and looked like it had spent a lot of time in someone's pocket.

I looked at the token, turned it over in my hand and searched every file in my mind about when and where I could have come across the thing. As it often does, my mind wandered, and I thought about all the traveling I've been able to do over the last year. I've been with friends and family, tasted new foods, stamped the passport, stood at the top of mountains and at the edge of the sea. I've run, I've been lazy, I've taken long drives down highways that were once only a place I'd read about. I've seen the sun rise in the East, set in the West and many places in between. I've met remarkable people, heard incredible stories and have been continuously reminded that being with people, talking with them, and connecting with them is an amazing privilege.

It is truly a small, small world and also, it is a blast. I have and have had more fun than anyone ought to be allowed. For all the reasons I feel confused or somehow lost, there are a thousand more to make me feel profoundly blessed and at peace. I can't explain how the things in my life, like work, writing, running and travel balance me. To have the opportunity to be rewarded and challenged by the life you choose is a very special thing.

The last couple months have not painted a perfect picture. There has been death, anger, sadness, strife, bad news, worse news, and many an akward moment. I thought about this as I held that token in my hand today, and the memory came back to me. The token, at least as I've known it, was laying in a crack in the sidewalk as I trapsed in front of a small shop on a humid, sunny, perfect island day. In a quiet mood and waiting for dinnertime, I bent down to pick up the token. It ended up in the pocket of my shorts and a few days later, while on a boat docked in the Caribbean, the token fell out of my pocket and onto the ground.

"You dropped this," said the man who'd been intently cleaning the boat.

"Oh, thanks. I have no idea what it is, I just picked it up the other day."

"It looks like a token... I wonder what it will buy?"

We laughed a little, and joked a lot about what you could get "these days" for a token. We talked for a while but never seemed to come to any real conclusion, though I do remember laughing for a good twenty minutes about the hilarity of the word "squall." (Say it a lot of times, you'll laugh too.)

Though I still don't know what that token was meant to buy, for me, today, it bought a memory. So I'll take it with me on this trip, too. With any luck, it will buy a hundred more.

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I'll be away for the next couple weeks doing the token Caribbean things: sitting, watching, sailing, snorkeling, thinking, breathing... you know. There is a chance, if I take advantage of some friends, that I'll be able to post a bit while I'm away. I know that if I spend twenty minutes laughing about random weather terminology, my bloggie friends are going to want to know, right?

Heh.

So anyway, I'm off for now. Thanks for taking the time to come to my blog, both new and "old" alike. That human connection thing I was talking about earlier? Yeah, that includes you. And you... and yes, even YOU.

High-Profile Survival

Over the weekend, yet another relationship split has been in the news. Prince William and Kate Middleton's break up has been a top story on several news websites. And of course, following any high-profile break up, there's loads upon loads of speculation as to "what went wrong."

London tabloids, often leading the pack in "reporting" celebrity splits, wasted no time jumping on the assumption train. It was pressure from the Queen, one says. Another says it was Prince Charles who urged William to break off the relationship if he could not "commit to marriage." Yet another says the fate of the relationship was neither influenced by family nor the two people actually in the relationship but rather, a royal summit.

None of these, in their ever scandalous tabloid nature of course, are suggesting that maybe they just broke up. Maybe it just didn’t work. And when there’s any suggestion of Kate, at the age of twenty-five, deciding that she didn’t want the lifestyle of a princess, well that’s just squashed immediately. Not that I claim to know anything more than I’m reading in the news (which equals basically nothing) but if that might be the reason, well I can certainly relate to that.

Just before I began this blog, I had made a decision to no longer be in a relationship that, though no crowns were being placed on any heads, certainly felt high-profile at times. I dated a man who was a very kind, intelligent person who also happened to already be married. To his career, that is. He was a physician, a surgeon in fact. Anyone who has ever been married, dated or otherwise in any relationship with a doctor knows this: It is not a job; it’s a lifestyle and a calling. It is first, last and best. I saw this from the beginning and it’s not at all something I ever held against him. In fact, I admired it about him. Up until we met, I had never witnessed anything like it. I never knew someone could dedicate their entire life to a career of helping people like he did.

In the time we dated, which I’ve heard since was a “record breaking” duration for most doctors in their residency, there were numerous instances in which I felt our relationship was under intense scrutiny. Looking back now, I can see it was mostly because, well, he was a catch. In addition to being in his residency, having graduated at the top of his class and giving his spare time to research and international medical outreach programs, he was also very popular. No one had to tell me this, it was one of the reasons I was attracted to him in the first place. He was friendly, and before I had any inkling as to what his work was, I was impressed at how easy to get along with he was. This, of course, translated into all of his life. People liked him and therefore, were very critical of who else did, too.

Any event we attended, any time we’d run into anyone somewhere in town, it was a little like a test. A pop quiz, really. When you go to a baseball game, in your shorts and tank top, the last thing you’re really planning for is to run into five nurses looking you up and down like you have arms growing where your ears should be. I was assured by my boyfriend that this wasn’t an issue but when it happens enough times, it stays on your mind.

There was also the issue of time. While I don’t claim to be the most available person in terms of time, dating this man was sort of like what I’d imagine scheduling the launching of a space shuttle would be.

6:04 – meet for dinner (not 6:00 because, well, the only thing that starts on time is surgery)
6:04:42- wait while cell phone is answered
6:05- order dinner to go, emergency call
6:06- say “bye and see ya later”
10:00- finally eat dinner, reheated
10:00:25- boyfriend passes out because he’s worked eighteen of the last twenty-four hours

The time we were able to spend together was, at best, erratic. This also made life challenging when it came time for those stages in a relationship where you meet each other’s friends and, when you meet the parents. In the end, it resulted in me meeting a few of his friends, which also happened to be fellow residents, (because yes, that part of hospital life really is like Grey’s Anatomy) and him meeting about as many of mine. We never did meet one another’s parents, either (and this had little if anything to do with my hesitation to bring people home). Yes, it was strange.

That wasn’t really what any of it came down to, though. The demanding schedule, the exhaustion, the scrutiny, those things can be overcome, I think. The real contributing factor, the one it took me months to be able to accept, is that it just wasn’t the right relationship. Toward the end, which also happened to be toward the end of his residency, I started talking about taking a trip together. He started talking about getting married and moving across the country. At first, I thought we were just on different pages. I thought if I’d give it time, I’d be ready. For the move, a marriage, a lifetime with this man. But I wasn’t, I never got there.

Eventually, we had to break up. Taking a step back and looking at our relationship, there were loose ends all over the place. There were parts of our lives, personalities, likes and dislikes, and life goals that just didn’t match up; that weren’t going to match up. Love was, as wonderful as it could be, not enough. It too would have faded. So we (yes, shockingly, WE) made the decision to break it off. To this day it remains one of the hardest yet least regrettable things I’ve had to do and I think that’s partially because things looked so right to everyone else; which I’d use to fool myself into thinking it was right for me, too. The question of “why did you break up?” could not have been answered by the standard replies. It just was.

That’s why it’s so odd to me that we’re fascinated by break ups in the media. Heaven forbid people in their twenties (or any age, for that matter) decide that things just aren’t going to work and they need to go their separate ways rather than spend any more time on something that’s not right. Maybe that’s what William and Kate think, too. I don’t know, of course, but let me assure you, it’s likely not nearly as interesting or scandalous a process as the tabloids might have us believe.

Believe: to have confidence in the truth, the existence, or the reliability of something, although without absolute proof that one is right in doing

UPDATE: I meant to add this before now but this "Believe" exercise thing is, apparently, something well known on NPR. I don't know who came up with it or how it came about, but I think it's awesome.
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Well first she did it, and I thought "wow, I cannot attempt that." Then, she did it and I thought "dang, this isn't going to be easy." Then, she did it too and I thought "this is just too much."

But, like most things I do, I wasn't one hundred percent sure about it and yet, I did it anyway. After all, I am, if nothing else, a believer.



I believe that it’s okay to like stuff. I believe we are too hard on ourselves for wanting to consume what’s out there. The issue isn’t spending or buying, it’s control.

I believe happiness is a choice. Every thing, every day. Digging through crap will result in finding a pony.

I believe in the little things, like holding a door and saying “good morning.”

I believe life is very, very short but too long a journey to travel alone.

I believe our bodies are a gift, and we should make every effort to learn to love and treat them as such. I believe we are built to break a sweat.

I believe in kindness, and empathy.

I believe in the power of family, babies and puppies.

I believe you can find peace on the sea, at the top of a mountain or on your living room sofa.

I believe we were created, because I believe there are things that science just cannot explain.

I believe there is absolutely no replacement for education.

I believe music should move you, even if it’s just dancing in the car.

I believe you should approach every situation as if those involved have the best intentions. You will sometimes be disappointed.

I believe, when all else fails, you should laugh.

I believe the ocean has the capability to cure.

I believe shoes should not hurt your feet. This is probably also why I have forty-two pairs of flip flops (a.k.a. “thongs” for my Aussie friends).

I believe in Fall football, drinks with friends, and Sunday afternoon walks.

I believe you can make friends anywhere. I believe I have.

I believe a group, whether your soccer team or your entire nation, must believe in itself to succeed.

I believe we have a responsibility to our planet. I believe most of us don’t take this seriously.

I believe in questioning “the way we have always done it.”

I believe some things are worth the calories.

I believe in travel and broadening your horizons.

I believe harmless superstitions are healthy.

I believe in working hard, and playing hard.

I believe, even with all this, I’m really only on the cusp of knowing all I will truly believe in this life.

As It Should Be

I'll never get used to coming back from a trip. I'd like to say I'm the exact same person when I'm sitting in front of this screen as I am when I traipse down a beach (even if I'm in multiple layers of clothing) but I'm not.

The person traipsing down the beach has worries and troubles, just like the one in front of this screen. The difference is, while I'm away, traipsing down a beach, everything seems a little more possible. When I'm laughing and running with friends, the responsibilities of life are just that. They don't weigh on me, they don't keep me up nights, they certainly don't call after I've left the office and ask what drive I stored a file on (even though I sent an email stating that exact fact). They just fade a little.

Now, sitting here, everything just seems a little more heavy and a lot more there. The dates to keep, the bills to pay, the conversations I have to have but don't want to are all here, right in front of my face. They scream "you can't ignore us now! haha!" And all I want to do is close my eyes and take myself back mere hours to a time when I could concentrate on something else. Where decisions didn't have to be made and life seemed pressure less. Where I seemed confident and fearless.

And maybe that's what I miss the most. I miss the girl that lives, for a few days, like she has no cares. (Sidebar: I don't really know if that's the right approach, though. After all, I did get a speeding ticket and that is definitely something to care about.) I know that's always in me, but you tell me when you see a bill staring you in the face for carpet replacement that you feel as good as when you're eating ice cream and staring out at the ocean. It is not the same.

Of course we all know that. We all know there are ups and downs, good and bad and I think I'm good at that. I think I can take a break and fully enjoy it. I think I can write a check for a bill and well, not enjoy it but at the very least, take it for what it is. The area that needs work? Getting used to living with both. My mind believes it. My brain understands it. My heart, and the kid in me, want to lay on the floor and flail around and whine that it's just not fair!

Part of me, somewhere between my heart and mind, between the whiner and the logical thinker knows that's just how it is. That's vacation. That's friends. That's running. It's all as it's supposed to be, even if paying bills sucks.

Time for Something

Sitting back at work for the second day in a row with a box of bricks for a head, I'm sort of realizing it's getting near time for a change. Maybe it's just the fact that I'm sick, frustrated that I can't think clearly and have watched one too many beach breaks, but something just feels off. Of course, it also could be the fact that nothing smells good, tastes good or sounds good right now, either. You could put a bacon cheeseburger buffet (four out of five of my favorite things) in front of me right now and I'd be only mildly impressed.

I've been accused before of being a planner- always thinking about and plotting the next step before the current one is complete. Right now, though, I'm less in the mood to plan and more in the mood to do. No doubt I will be just as anal as ever about it, but that feeling of accomplishment might actually push me a little further than just thinking about it. Imagine that.

The little "business" a friend and I sort of started a couple months back is just that: little. It's a fun hobby that brings in extra cash but I feel now just as I did soon after we started, it's not going to be the main event. But maybe that's it, maybe there is no one "main" event. The common thread in anything I have done, do, or will do is ME. So somehow, I need to get a handle on that. I know what I want to do, and what I'd like to do, but can I do it? Can I keep the wheels turning? Can I take steps I've never taken before?

The short answer, I think, is yes. But not because stars are aligned (though that would help) or magic is happening (also helpful) but because I'm willing to do it. I'm willing to do the work. It's different now, at least I hope it is. I think my expectations are real, and my heart is in it. Sure, I'd still like to go back to school or fill my time with doing crafty-type things (as several of my blog readers and I have shared with one another in the past) but now, I want to concentrate on a real shift. A real move toward something different.*

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*I don't actually plan on physically moving at all. For now.

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Housekeeping:

Help me, please. If you fancy yourself at all a smarty or blog superstar, I could really use some info. I will repay in cookies- promise.

Did anyone, when switching from old to new blogger have issues with their sitemeter or statcounter? Where did you put the code in the new format? Am I missing something or am I just slow? 'Cause it ain't workin' for me.
Thank you, thank you.

I think I'm going to Katmandu

Well, the concert was a blast. It was the most ridiculous amount of fun and music and dancing I've had in a while. I'm not really one to not enjoy a concert- I love the music from where ever I am and am a big believer in the cheap seats. However, after being in the thirteenth row last night, I highly recommend it. It's almost like you forget about the 50,000 other people behind you. Almost.

And, I gotta say, I'm amazed by a sixty-one year old man that can pack an arena and rock out like that for over two hours, including two encores. That's worth my zombie-like state today, of this I'm certain.

I made friends, though, with a lot of the crowd around me. My friend and I (she ten years older than me) were the only people in sight under 40. For this we received a lot of ridicule. When the lady to my left pulled out her Bob Seger ticket stub from 1977, Toledo, Ohio and the lady to our right showed us her tour t-shirt from Summer 1986, we were both asked what we were doing in those years. My, you should have seen the looks when I said "well, in '77 I had yet to be conceived and in the summer of '86, I was basking in the glow of Kindergarten graduation."

They were seriously doubting I even knew how to spell Bob Seger, much less had any idea of what the music would be. I, of course, proved them wrong when three lines into Roll Me Away the lady to my left and I had one arm around one another and the other waving in the air together, singing along. Ah, the power of music!

Now I am more than sufficiently tired and, lo and behold, endlessly lucky because I'm taking off work early today on a SUPER secret mission. A mission so important and secret and confidential I can reveal not a detail. The only thing I can say is I'm not going to Katmandu. Not yet, anyway.