A month after my last blog entry, I find myself dating a guy that is by the nicest man I've ever been with. Tall, cute, funny, smart. Ugh. 

I had gone back onto Match at the suggestion from my friend, Ashley. I even added a new dating site into the mix, one called Zoosk! that is slightly like all the other dating sites with it's swipe right/swipe left, a variation of winks and likes and recommendations. Basically, the equivalent of shoe shopping online but with men as the main perusing options and not pumps or wedges. I approached it half-heartedly, dreading the swiping and initiating conversation and finding ways in which I could make myself clever. Most of the time I found myself on the app, it was with a drink in one hand, my phone in the other, and complaining to my friends about how stupid dating is.

This guy was the first one I went on a date with after my dating sabbatical. I almost didn't meet him; I texted him 10 minutes before our date was supposed to begin to tell him that I had lost track of time and was caught up in the middle of a project, but that I would meet him in an hour. The truth: I was watching TV on my couch, in my underwear and a tank top, shoveling chips into my mouth. It was nothing against him, but I had no desire to leave the comfort of my home to participate in what was likely to be a date that would be mediocre and lead to nowhere. I texted Ashley, whining about how I didn't want to go on a date and meet yet another guy who likely would be just another dead end. She yelled at me through text, telling me to get myself off the couch and get moving. Had it not been for Ashley, I would have missed out on what might become one of those great opportunities in life. As soon as I saw him, I was attracted to him. After an hour of conversation, I knew he was going to see him again and again...as many times as he was willing to continue to see me.

On our second date, I told him that I almost stood him up, that I was surprised he actually agreed to meet me an hour later. He was already at the brewery waiting for me; apparently he left for the hour to meet two of his friends for a drink while he waited. I can only imagine the exchange that occurred between those three men. Yet I'm glad he decided to come back to meet me after that hour.

I still don't believe that my mom was right. It wasn't because I had stopped looking for someone that I found someone. That's still asinine. You have to be open to the idea of someone to be able to let them in. But I do think my giving up on the idea of a permanent long-term relationship has alleviated some of the pressure that comes with dating this time around. Or maybe it's more to do with the actual person that it feels different and less stressful. Either way, regardless of the outcome, whether it's another month with this guy or dozens of months, I'm finally comfortable with where I'm at in my relationship status, whether it be single, single and sort of dating, or in a relationship. 

Today at lunch with my family, we somehow got into the discussion that I have stopped actively trying to date. I deleted all my dating apps back in December (good-bye Bumble and Tinder -- while I enjoyed the sweet satisfaction of swiping right and getting a match, like winning a match on the penny slot machines, I do not miss the endless messaging back and forth only to have a guy go silent when I actually suggested meeting in person), and the few guys I've met in person since then have turned out to be the exact guys that I should not be with. 

I've come to accept my future alone status, and most of my friends have accepted this is my view on romantic possibilities as they all have experienced the struggles of being financially independent, successful, 30-some-year-old women (and men) whose baggage is relatively minimum compared to the rest of the dating world. They have been the fortunate ones to somehow manage to find a person in the wasteland of online dating or, in some cases, returned to previous relationships -- with a slight internal reluctance to admit that being with that less-than-perfect person might be better than being alone. While it's not that I enjoy being alone, I've just had enough relationships with the wrong person during my 30s that I know that I'd rather spend the time with my family and friends, doing the activities that I love, sprinkled with an occasional random hookup if I feel the need for it. I've grieved and struggled with this knowledge the last four months, but I have finally accepted this and I am comfortable with it.

Which brings me back to lunch today. As my mom heard me say yet again in recent months that I am done with dating and have accepted my future life of being a single person, she said the phrase that should be a legal reason for being allowed to murder someone: "Oh, don't say that. You'll find love when you least expect it." 

Out of the peripheral of my eye, I saw my brother and sister-in-law physically brace themselves for my response. "That is such bullshit. That is what people who are in a relationship say to single people to try and make themselves feel better." My mom started to protest, but my brother quickly shut her down, "Yeah...I'd have to agree with Megs on this one."

While it might happen for some people, love does not magically find most of us. One of my friends -- now in a happy relationship with a great guy but who has struggled historically with a string of bad relationships with guys who were never as nice and kind as what she is -- likes to joke that, if that was the case, we could find our true great loves while sitting around at home, watching TV in our underwear, eating Cheetos. That it would be the pizza delivery guy who stumbles into the place, bringing a slice of deliciousness and a heart of love. And maybe that's happened to a few people, but I'm obviously not ordering pizza from the right locations.

It's not that I'm completely closed off to the idea of love, but I have better things to do with my time than troll Match.com, ask my friends to set me up with their coworker or brother's best friend's cousin, or hope that I bump into a nice guy at the grocery store. Things like hitting my reading goal for the year, watch Netflix, play volleyball, drink beer with my friends, or take my niece and nephew to a movie. It's not how I thought I would be spending my 30s, but it's definitely better than spending that time searching for what might hopefully be a good match on paper (or, rather, the internet). 

I sometimes wonder if I should be concerned that I haven't actually grown up yet. Well, I've grown up physically. Age wise, I'm far beyond becoming an adult. Work experience, paying the bills, going through major life events like death of a parent, divorce...check. But when talking about maturity and mental age, I'm definitely not there yet. I don't think I ever will be.

It's not just me that feels that way, I think. I'm pretty sure most of my family and friends view me that way as well. My ten-year-old niece and eleven-year-old nephew have a long standing joke. Whenever the three of us are doing something -- whether it's just the three of us or another family member is around, such as my brother, mom, or sister-in-law -- and the question comes up as to whether what we're about to do needs to have an adult present or weighing in on the final decision, they immediately dismiss me as being able to provide the adult opinion. The last time, my niece looked at me and said, "Well, you're an adult age wise, but you're really just a kid. Let's get an adult." And we giggled but, deep down, I think we all knew that it was true: legally, I'm an adult and can be seen as an adult decision maker when needed, but I'm likely not the best adult for final decisions.

I wonder if any of us ever truly feel like adults, or if there's a certain age that most of us feel like we mentally peaked at and that's where we really identify for the rest of our lives. I like to joke that I'm mentally a 12-year-old boy; as time has passed, I feel like there are times where that's really where I'm at. Except for I wake up in the mornings and go to a job in corporate America where I make decisions that impact people in all sorts of facets, and I come home at night to make dinner or attend happy hours with friends. Yet so many of our activities and sense of humor still feels like I'm in middle school. My apartment is decorated half-grown up -- with artwork, matching furniture, and plants -- and half-juvenile -- with sci-fi art, poop mugs, unicorns, and stuffed animals. I like to think it gives me personality and makes me relatable, but it likely makes me more weird and quirky than anything else to people who don't know me.

I sometimes wonder if where I'm at in life is directly related to this part of my personality. For example, if I spent less time watching clips of The Muppets on YouTube and more time focused on performing productive or creative tasks -- like reading and writing -- how much of a difference would that make with where I'm at in life? Granted, I have some great jokes, know "The Rainbow Connection" by heart, and have finally given up on dating because I've come to realize that Waldorf and Statler are my soulmates. And, now that I think of it, maybe that's all I need in life. After all, my new favorite "Dad" joke came from Fozzie the Bear's Facebook page:

What is a hairdresser's favorite sport?

---Curling!

Wocka wocka!

I don't consider myself an overly religious person. I believe in God, I consider myself a Christian, I (occasionally) attend church; hell, I even taught Sunday School to a group of third grade girls when I was a senior in high school. I don't talk much to my friends about my faith and beliefs; it's not that I'm embarrassed, but I'm not a proponent of bulldozing someone else with my beliefs, unprompted. I'm always happy to share my thoughts when asked. 

I am a very flawed Christian (as demonstrated by my use of swear words in that first paragraph and the content of my blog to date). I fail epically at the Ten Commandments and am constantly asking for forgiveness. In all honestly, I'm slightly surprised that the sanctuary doesn't burst into flames every time I attend a church service. 

• I constantly break the Third Commandment; my love of swear words in all shapes and forms is legendary with my family and friends. (My mom once told me that she wasn't surprised that a guy I was seeing dumped me because I "...swore too much..." I'm pretty sure it had more to do with his unresolved feelings of bitterness toward his ex-wife that played a huge part in him being unable to move forward with a new relationship than the fact that I used some colorful language one evening while playing Mario Kart.)
• I consistently struggle with the Fourth Commandment. I grew up going to church regularly; in my 20s, it moved to periodically, whenever I went home to my parents' house, and holidays. By my 30s, I attended regularly again up until the period of time I was traveling for work and working 90-hour work weeks, then found out my ex-husband was having an affair and became too afraid to leave the house for an extended period of time on Sunday mornings. Then I started going again after my divorce, only to pause attendance when I started dating an atheist who preferred to sleep in on Sunday mornings then get out of bed. I'm on the church train again, attending regularly as I've hit this current rough patch in my life.
• I was a teenage girl for eight years, so I know I failed the Fifth Amendment periodically. I'm surprised my parents didn't ignore the Sixth Amendment in regard to me at any point during this period of time.
• I admit to breaking the Seventh Commandment. (Although, in my defense, he had been separated from his wife for eight months and had filed for divorce; with my own divorce, I waited until the paperwork was final and I had officially updated all my legal documentation back to my maiden name before even starting to date again.) 
• I break the Eighth Commandment at least once a year. (The first time being when I was two-years-old and took an extra $3 doll, unbeknownst to my mother, who was too mortified to return it to the store. Now it's just an occasional pint glass, which now I'm going to end up banned from pubs for acknowledging this, so let's just say "allegedly".)
• I'm sure I've broken the Ninth Commandment at some point or another. I like to think all I've been capable of telling is white lies, but I know that I'm capable of lying. BAM! Ninth Commandment broken in this blog entry.
• I know I've broken the Tenth Commandment, the most recently for my neighbor's dog, who is the most beautiful animal ever. I've already told my neighbor (who I also consider a good friend) that I would steal her dog if it was ethically and legally appropriate to do. I also feel this way about my good friend's two cats. Once again, if kid(cat)napping was appropriate, those cats would be in my place now. 

Thus, it appears that I have only adhered to the First, Second, and Sixth Commandments: believing in one God, bearing no false idols, and not murdering anyone. Frankly, I'm too lazy to break the second command, and my fear of prison will prevent me from breaking the Sixth Commandment intentionally. Maybe it doesn't really matter, either. My confirmation pastor essentially told me that my parents were going to hell because they got divorced. If that's the case, then I'm definitely headed that route being divorced myself, and I'm nowhere near as devout or as good of a person as either of my parents. 

But I try. I might fail when it comes to my own self, but I try my best when it comes to my relationships and treatment of others. One of my favorite quotes comes from the 80s sitcom Family Ties. I always attributed it to Elyse Keaton, the mother in the series, but when I looked for the precise quote for this blog, I realized it actually was said by Mallory Keaton, the sweet yet ditzy daughter. Either way, it doesn't change the fact that the simplicity and beauty in this explanation of life has stuck with me for 30 years, since I would have seen the episode as a child, and I have said a variation of to others when asked about my own approach to life.

"The meaning of life? That's simple. Try to be happy, try not to hurt other people, and hope to fall in love."

Recently I've been obsessed with listening to 90s' hip hop. I can't quite pinpoint why. As someone who graduated from high school in 1998 and spent the next fourish years in college, I didn't listen to much hip hop music when I was actually at the age in the 90s where I should have been listening. Outside of going to the bars and the occasional hanging out with friends, I didn't listen to much hip hop. During the time when most of us were still buying CDs and Napster was just becoming popular, I was still buying CDs like...Air Supply's Greatest Hits. (Which I purchased in 1998 as a college freshman. You've never been cool, whispers my internal cool kid that never managed to escape.)

But now I can't stop listening to it. At work. In my place ("Alexa, please play...90s' hip hop. Alexa, dammit, listen to me. Play 90s' hip hop." Alexa and I have communication issues, which goes all the way down to ) When I'm walking around town with my ear buds jammed as far into my tiny little ears as they will go. Bopping my head and singing along because, more than 20 years after some of these songs came out, I finally know the words. And for the songs that I'm still learning, I just nod my head harder and start to shimmy in what I know is an awkward movement that is nowhere near resembling dancing nor moving in time to the music.

Snoop Dog. Naughty by Nature. Salt-N-Peppa. 2Pac. Biggie. All groups that I vaguely knew as a kid that I now listen to and are helping me as if they were a lifeline for the moments when I have too many thoughts crowding my head and they need to be drowned out. It's the music that I stream in the office when I'm trying to drown out the voices of people around me, the moments that I pray that no one tries to speak to me. When someone walks up behind me in the office and says my name, I can pretend that I don't hear them because Freak Nasty is telling me he's putting my hand on my hip to help me dip, him dip, we dip. It's the music that is helping to give me a soundtrack to my life when I walk downtown, so I walk with a little more attitude and jounce then if I were walking with no music or something softer, like Hozier. It helps me have that that "Don't fuck with me" air about it me, although the only people I have to worry about where I walk in downtown KC are families, traveling business people, and rich suburbanites who are venturing into "the city" for the day or weekend. So it's becomes flipped -- I feel like I am the person with the attitude and local knowledge that they're warned to look out for. Even though I myself look like a tall, yuppie version of Pippi Longstocking.

I'm not sure how much longer this 90s' hip hop obsession will last. I can only imagine what the next wave of music genre I focus on will be. While I'm hoping it's not death metal or techno, I'm open to all options at this point...

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I had a different first name, something either more conventional (like Elizabeth or Mary) or seen as something less "pretty" by many societal standards, such as Bertha. How much of an impact would something as simple as a different name that people called me by impacted my personality? Would I have been more confident? Defiant? Shy? Angry? Teased more? 

Likewise, I wonder what it would feel like to be more "average" in my looks. As a six-foot woman with red hair and freckles, I have never been able to blend in with the crowd -- but never in the head-turning, gorgeous way that most women hope to be perceived by others. I've never been called beautiful or sexy. No one has ever looked at me and wanted to look like me. I've always joked that I'm what Howdy Doody's love child with Julia Roberts would look like...if given Miracle Grow. How different would life be if I was an average height, such as 5'6? It sometimes feel like so many more possibilities would have been opened to me...a wider dating pool, more clothing options, fewer bumps and bruises from hitting my head on low-hanging objects, less questioning around whether I played basketball or volleyball or could I grab something off the top shelf for someone. 

I know I've blogged about my height before. As I've aged, I have embraced my height. After all, it's not like this is an option that can change. I will be six foot until I start to shrink due to osteoporosis or a freak accident. But the height has come forefront as I've revisited dating. Not only do I have a certain age demographic to contend with, but my dating options are then narrowed drastically further based on looking for someone close to my height or taller. It sounds shallow, but it's true: dating as a tall woman is difficult. I've done both - dated men that were taller and men that were shorter, and it's always more comfortable for me with someone my own height or taller. What can I say? I have bad hearing and a bad back, so constantly stooping to strain to hear just isn't for me, and it's condescending to ask one's date to wear lifts. 

One of the drawbacks of being single I've discovered are the times when I'm sick. I miss my ex-husband in those moments when I'm shivering, covered in sick sweat, head pounding and body aching, and all I want is for someone to bring me a cup of tea. Or to not have to crawl to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. For someone to put a cool hand against my forehead and ask if there's anything that I need.

It's rather pathetic, in those moments, to miss someone who hurt me so badly. He also wasn't the most sympathetic when I was sick, either. During the course of our marriage, I wasn't sick very often so he didn't have much practice. I didn't want to bother him or feel like a burden either, so I tried to limit my requests to simple things, like a Sprite when he was going to the store or soup. He always delivered those, but seemed to miss on the connection of the loving part, of being able to just keep a cool hand on my forehead or rub my back.

The year before our marriage fell apart, my ex-husband was diagnosed with pneumonia. Fortunately, he was not hospitalized, but he was quarantined for 48 hours and then stayed home from work for the next week, laying on the couch, bouncing back and forth from feeling decent to covered in sweat. I did my best to make sure that I kept him comfortable since that was the first time he had been truly sick in the course of our 15 years together. I made sure he had enough to drink, all his favorite beverages and snacks on hand, and rubbed his feet or back when it seemed like he needed it. We had to postpone a trip to visit his parents in Arizona, and I knew he was disappointed, so I tried not to show relief that we weren't going.

But the worst part of his illness -- the part that made me feel guilty because it made me so anxious -- was that I had to do all the cooking during that time period. Our relationship always had a careful balance in the kitchen: he did all the cooking, and I did all the cleaning after. Not because I was incapable of cooking, but because I didn't have the patience for it, and he was a far superior cook. I was always in awe of how he could whip up a scrumptious dish without a recipe and just a few ingredients at hand. I had never boiled an egg.

The first night after he was diagnosed with pneumonia and after he called his parents to let them know we weren't able to come visit that weekend, I asked him what he wanted for dinner. Knowing that we both knew I was a mediocre cook at best, I was expecting him to request something simple, like tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. (He was a pescatarian, who rarely ate the fish part of being a pescatarian.) However, when asked, he looked at me with a straight face and said "How about Pad Thai?" At some point, we had acquired a Thai cookbook, which I don't think either of us had ever opened. I thought he was joking but, when he opened the cookbook and pointed to the recipe, I knew he was serious. With a sigh and a feeling of absolute panic, I took a photo of the recipe and headed to the grocery store to buy the ingredients, many of which I had never heard before. (For example, I ended up spending 45 minutes in the grocery store looking for the bean sprouts and, as I was nearing tears and ready to give up, found them in a plastic bag with tongs in the produce aisle.) I ended up making the Pad Thai -- with tofu, for his sake. It was actually decent, and my ex was mildly complimentary toward it, which was good for him.

The next few days he insisted that I make all sorts of dishes that he knew I had never made before. He leaned against the counter in the kitchen and walked me through making vegetarian chili; I had never made chili, let alone cooked with soy crumble before. Stir fry with rice and vegetables; baked salmon and rosemary seasoned potatoes; some other crazy meal after crazy meal. Each meal I panicked and had extreme anxiety over, wanting to make sure that it met his approval. Finally I asked him why he was asking me to make such complicated meals, thinking that it was maybe an excuse to hang out in the kitchen with me and talk since he was home alone all day without anyone else to talk to while he was sick. He just laughed and said, "Because I wanted to see if you could."

During the last ten months of our marriage, when things were falling apart and he was barely speaking to me, he stopped cooking. I did all of the cooking during that time period, and I discovered that I could do it independently, that I enjoyed it as well -- other than the underlining reason of why I was doing all the cooking. I scoured Allrecipes.com, clipped recipes from magazines, flipped through that damn Thai cookbook, and tried them. I learned how to cook soy crumble, tofu, and all the vegetarian "meat" substitutes. Each dish was an elaborate way to prove my love to my ex, to show him that I was capable of creating something from scratch just for him. It was one of those illogical, desperate attempts that I made during that time to show him that I was worthy of his love.

In the end, I had a collection of recipes that I took with me when I moved out and filed for divorce. It also made me a good cook, a skill that I've been able to use for myself, friends, family, and those I have dated since my divorce. And for the people I've made the Pad Thai recipe for, they all given me rave reviews.

Watching the 2018 Winter Olympics is mind blowing to me. Seeing such extreme athletes who dedicate their lives to training for sports that are incredibly taxing on their bodies, psyches, and livelihoods. The downhill skiers who twist and turn to maneuver their skis 75 miles per hour down a snow covered mountain; ice skaters jump triple sow cows and pull their feet backwards so that it touches the back of their heads while spinning like tops; skeleton racers hurtling head first 100 miles per hour down a curvy, ice covered track.

Seeing so many personal triumphs and wins while simultaneously witnessing devastating falls and spills is breathtaking, awe inducing, and inspiring. The Olympics is a reminder of how people come together to root for others and share heartbreaks and triumphs without having met that person. All the demographics fade away as we anxiously watch and hope that that athlete completes his or her event flawlessly and to the best of his or her ability.

It's incredible to watch. And it makes my knees hurt. This is a new reaction for me watching the Olympics. Maybe that's a sign that I'm old now. Because I have the awe and the appreciation for the skills and talents that these athletes have, but now all I can think is: "My body would never recover from bending that way." or "Dear sweet God, if he crashes, he's going to break his neck." It reinforces the notion that I am not a thrill seeker, that I have a keen awareness of my own mortality, and I know that I am so uncoordinated that to attempt any of these winter sports -- even in a safely controlled environment where I might be wearing pads and held upright in a safety harness -- would end in disaster. But obviously this is why these trained athletes are at the Olympics, and I'm watching from the warm and safe position on my couch...

I think I'm having a midlife crisis.

According to Wikipedia's definition, I'm a little on the young side with a midlife crisis typically occurring between the ages of 45 to 64. In 12 days, I turn 38. So, technically, I'm just a few years early. Which makes sense...I've always been told that I'm mature for my age. Or incredibly juvenile.

A midlife crisis for a woman on average can range from two to five years.

WHAT THE FUCK, Wikipedia?

Two to five years of reflecting on my own mortality, questioning where I am at life and what I have (or have not) accomplished, and then trying to self correct or spiral into morning depending on my personality inclinations? This average timeline blows my mind. How sad. And I am so fucked.

When I recently mentioned to a good friend who is the same age as me that I thought I was embarking on a premature midlife crisis, she said that she likes to think that there's not just one midlife crisis, but potentially a spattering of life crises: moments across our lives when triggers cause us to reflect on our lives. (This theory might likely be a variation of a "mid-life stressor".) Otherwise, when else do we really pause to reflect on where we're at in life, where we have been, and where we are going?

So I'm going to continue to reflect as to how I got to this point in my life and where my future path will take me: midlife crisis, life crisis, or midlife stressor. I also need to stop reading such depressing entries on Wikipedia...

I've always wanted to be a writer. The type of writer that tells a riveting story, that captures the attention of the reader, draws the reader in, and then change's that person's perspective of life...even if just for a fleeting moment.

But I lack discipline and the self-motivation to write on a regular basis and, therefore, ever be a "successful" writer. So many excuses from life. Busy with work, busy with family and friends, too many books out there to read on my own, too many other activities to distract me. Too busy to try to see whether I could succeed or fail.

It's been three years since my last blog post, and there's no excuse other than a lack of effort. In three years, I've experienced the death of a parent, the unraveling of my marriage, divorce, restarting my world over, watching my mother restart her world, trying to date for the first time in 16 years and before a time of social media and dating apps, losing friends and gaining friends, going through my first post-divorce relationship breakup, and dating until I couldn't feel any more and could care less about whether I find someone new.

I decided to start writing again for one reason only: I've been feeling like a hypocrite. Last week, I attended a middle school "Career Jumping Day". Essentially, a speed dating-esque event where groups of three to four eight graders sat at a table for eight minutes with an adult, talking to the adult about what his or her job is and asking questions around what specifically the adult's career entailed. At the table to my right was a police officer; at the table to the left was a med student. Across from me was a gentleman whose job it is to train service dogs...and he brought a beautiful black lab with him. The room was filled with firefighters, police officers, med students or doctors, lawyers, and who knows what else. Then there was me, a manager of a team of technical writers at a computer software company. I can speak to my job for more than eight minutes and keep the time filled, but to make it sound exciting and interesting to a group of teenagers was a little bit of a struggle, especially considering the professionals I was surrounded by.

While I did my best to sound interesting and hip to a group of kids who I realized I could be a parent to and then some, I thought my advice and answers to their questions were good. I didn't quite pant myself on the back, but I came close. When I tried to fill some of the lulled conversation with a particularly shy group of students, I asked them if any of them knew what they wanted to do when they graduated from high school. They all said no, which surprised me. Even at a young age, I knew I was going to have a job that involved writing. Granted, no child likely ever said "I want to be a technical writer when I grow up!", but I knew words, sentence structure, and grammar were going to play a key role in my future.

I tried a different tactic by asking them what they were interested in. One boy shrugged and said, "Video games." To which I said, "You can build a career off of that. Find something that you are passionate about, and you can find numerous career paths that involve some form of your interests and passions. And that's how you'll more than likely find yourself happy in whatever career you choose."

It seemed like sound advice. After all, that's an indirect route to how I found my career, which I love. I never thought I would be a technical writer - hell, I didn't even know technical writing was a career - but here I am, managing and technical writing away. And it suits me. But I also realized that I have moved away from the writing portion of my role and more on the people management and strategy side of things. Therefore, where is my writing?

So I came back to my blog today. I had to reset my password and fiddle with my browser cookies to come back, but here I am. Likely for random, infrequent intervals of blogging, but I returned to the roots of what I love and what directed me into the career that I have. Thank you to those middle schoolers for reminding me about what I want to be when I grow up.

I've always thought of time in terms of chapters. I imagine it's because of my love of books and reading that this is how time appears to me. It always helped me to feel like I was moving forward with my life, a clear division of the beginning and what will eventually be the end. Perhaps a little like a Tolkien book, where the story is epic with melodic flow to the writing, but glacially slow moving pieces where there's so much description and filler that it's slightly boring.

The division for me has always been simple: the first chapter was the shortest, infanthood to pre-kindergarten. The second chapter was elementary school; then junior high school; Chapter 4 high school; Chapter 5 college, and then Chapter 6 the longest: work. Chapter 6 stretches in definitely until retirement, then the chapter post-retirement, then being an elderly person, then death. And perhaps there are subchapters to Chapters 6 and 7: marriage, children, grandchildren, divorce, friendships, trips, promotions. The major milestones that come with life. The easiest, most comfortable chapters were the early ones; really, Chapters 1 through 5 encompassing clearly defined timelines where there might be surprises -- both happy and tragic -- but a relatively linear plotline. It's Chapter 6 and beyond that has always made me nervous and overwhelmed me, the unknown. Perhaps beyond the life events like marriage there are the age milestones: driving at 16, voting and smoking at 18, drinking at 21, the major ages of 30, 35, 40, 50, 60, and beyond. But, for me, it was always chapters and never in terms of years.

Until today. Today has shifted my concept of time beyond chapters and subchapters to just a concept of one year. It was one year ago today that I sat in a small hospital room with my parents and brother, waiting for the oncologist to walk in and deliver the inevitable news that we were so strongly hoping wouldn't come: the decision to stop treatment and let my stepfather's cancer progress naturally. 

One year ago today. April 30, 2014. I can't tell you what I was wearing, but I could describe the color of the room; the shakiness of my family as we sat anxiously waiting and trying to make jokes; the yellowness around my stepfather's face and eyes because his bilirubin numbers were high, much higher than yours or mine are today; the redness of my brother's eyes as he tried not to cry; the half-sob, half-hysterical noise that came out of my mother when the oncologist verbalized the decision; the numbness that set in as I watched my family momentarily come undone. The oncologist said my stepfather would have a few months, and six weeks later he was gone.

When we walked out of the hospital room, my brother pushing my stepfather's wheelchair, we all stopped to use the restroom since we all had long car rides back home: my parents back to northwest Iowa; my brother and I back to Kansas City. When I came out of the restroom, my parents and brother were standing in a tight circle embracing each other. And my stepfather turned to look at me, his eyes wide, full of unshed tears, and slightly wild. "Meg..." he said, and pulled me into the circle. As we stood there, hugging and crying, others walked by us toward the cancer center, trying to avoid looking directly at us as if we were a lunar eclipse that would immediately turn their own prognosis into a void of despair.

And I was angry. I worry today that maybe I didn't hug my family tight enough that day, that maybe my stepfather didn't feel my love, that the cancer that would later rob him of his ability to speak and provide coherent sentences acted as a block in that moment. We eased him back into the wheelchair, and then we went to the main lobby where we stood together in uneasy shock waiting for the valet to pull my parents' car around.

 My stepfather then asked my mom to take a picture of my brother and me with him. It's the last picture the three of us ever had taken together, and you can see the oncologist's decision in that photo. My dad is unnaturally yellow, his smile an erie semblance of what it normally was. My brother's eyes are rimmed in red and bleary, an obvious indication that he has been crying. And I'm smiling sadly, my face slightly blurred as my mom's hands shook while she was taking the photo from her iPhone.

One year ago today is the true start to the loss of my Jerry -- it wasn't the day of his death. It was the day that treatment stopped and the cancer eroded his liver to the point that it isolated him in a way that he couldn't communicate with us. I started grieving for my stepfather before his death. And shortly after he died, life happened and I found myself compartmentalizing my grief to the point that I stopped it all together. So today's one-year mark exemplifies the beginning of the end. One year is the shortest -- yet somehow the longest -- chapter to date that I wish I could rewrite.

Growing up, I used to meticulously keep track of the books that I read in a 3-subject, lined, spiral Mead notebook. It was just a line-by-line list: book title, author, page numbers, and dates I started and finished the book. No column lines to separate the list -- just a line-by-line listing. Once my family had our own computer, I kept my list in an Excel spreadsheet. I kept the list all the way through high school, college, and my first years working. Then I discovered the website goodreads.com, which has become the high-powered, online database that I use to keep track of the books I've read, the books I'm currently reading, and the books that I want to read. You can have "friends" on Goodreads, similar to Facebook. Facebook, for book lovers. So, even thought I deactivated my Facebook account one day in a fit of annoyance, I've kept my Goodreads account so that I can keep track of the books I've read. 

As a kid, I used to think of how expensive things were in terms of books. $50 for a pair of jeans? That's five books. $125 for new glasses? That's easily 13 books. You get the picture. In elementary school, we used to get the Scholastic book order form. It was essentially a four-page pamphlet of books that you could buy through the program at school. I would take the Scholastic catalog home, pull out a calculator, and add up how much it would cost me to buy every single item for sale in the catalog. Usually just one time but, on occasion, I would add it up together two or three times. To have that much money that I could buy as many books as I wanted...what an incredible thought. My parents were firm believers in reading, and they would always let my brother and I purchase at least one book. When those books arrived at school and the teacher distributed them to the kids in class who had ordered books, it was seriously the best day of the month for me. I usually had the book read by the next day. 

Even now, I find myself thinking of money in terms of books. As books have gotten more expensive and become available through online media formats, I've had to adjust my calculations and estimates. It makes me nauseous to think of how many books I could have purchased for the amount I paid for my car. I'd easily be set for the next few years. 

I don't read as much as I did growing up, which is always a challenge that I have every new year -- I set goals to read at least two books a month. It always seems like a strange goal to set for myself when I used to read more than two books a week. When I read more than two books a month, I do a little happy dance and feel accomplished -- amazing how things change from childhood to adulthood. A few years ago I bought new office furniture, which included a beautiful bookshelf. The top bookshelf is reserved for those books that I have purchased but have not read yet. I won't allow myself to buy another book if it can't fit on the top bookshelf. Thus, I put myself on a "book buying sabbatical", which usually doesn't last too long. I love books. The weight of them, the shape, how new pages smell when you first open a brand-new book. In an effort to clean out the shelf, I'll go on a book reading binge. It's the more dense, challenging books that hang on this top shelf the longest. I've been meaning to read Anna Karenina for easily eight years -- it looms over me. My goal for the end of 2015 is to have this top shelf cleared off. To do that, I likely need to start reading now and take at least one day a week off work. 

I'm not sure where my old notebooks of book logs ended up at; I do know that the Excel version of my book tracking have long since been lost due to changes in computer software platforms and the use of high-density "floppy" diskettes no longer being standard use. Hopefully Goodreads gives me a heads up before they shut down their website so I'll at least have a chance to export the list of books out of it.

I've always loved sending greeting cards. Despite the invention of email, which allows for a quick, easy, and cheap form of communication, I still find myself drawn to sending cards through the "snail mail" as opposed to sending a just a text or email to wish someone a happy birthday message, holiday greeting, or thank you. Email still feels so impersonal to send these thou.

It's always been a challenge for me to send the most bizarre, eccentric cards that I can find, and I try to avoid sending the same greeting card to multiple people, with the exception of a few, such as a favorite sympathy card I discovered years ago that still is printed by Hallmark's Fresh Ink line of cards. (And maybe I should rephrase from referring to it as my "favorite" sympathy card...)

But one of my favorite greeting cards that I send most frequently is one that Jerry discovered. I feel like I might have blogged about this previously, but I can't help but want to tell it again as we near Mother's Day and I get ready to send a card to my mom. Several years ago, we were in the card aisle at HyVee where Jerry was searching for graduation cards to send his students. He happened to veer toward the birthday card section, where he found a card that perhaps only a select few -- those with a nerdy inclination toward grammar jokes -- might find amusing. It was a picture of two young women in conversation, perhaps sitting in the food court at a mall.

On the front of the card, balloon conversation bubbles pop out of their heads, as one girl says to the other, "Where's your birthday party at?"

The other girl responds with, "Don't end a sentence with a preposition."

On the inside of the card, the first girl asks, "Where's your birthday party at, bitch?"

Jerry fell into the category of the select few who might find the card entertaining. He literally guffawed, then started laughing loudly. His laugh was so contagious to me, that I started giggling, which spurned him to laugh louder. We stood like this for several minutes, leaning into each other, laughing ridiculously loud, me snorting for air and Jerry snickering. That's how my mom found us, laughing to the point that Jerry and I were in tears. She shook her head at us, slightly bemused by what might be so funny, but I imagine mostly exasperated by our lack of composure and maturity in that moment. It's one of those memories that still makes me laugh and brings me sheer happiness thinking about it -- Jerry's amusement and laughter over a simple card, my mom's pretend annoyance at us.

A month or two later after that incident, I sent that card to Jerry for his birthday. I then quickly discovered that they printed that same card for pretty much every major holiday...Valentine's Day, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, Halloween. The question varied slightly with the holiday, "Where's the Christmas party at?" "Where's the Easter egg hunt at?", but the inside answer of the card always fixed the preposition the same way: "Where's the Christmas party at, bitch?" "Where's the Easter egg hunt at, bitch?" And I sent them all to my mom and Jerry at each holiday, for several years. I know I sent the Christmas card one to them at least three times.

When Jerry died, I took a brief break from sending the card to my mom. It was the joke that Jerry and I shared, a moment that reminded me of his sense of humor and wit, how he could be silly and loved a good joke. But at St. Patrick's Day, I found the card again. Enough time had passed that I knew I needed to send it again to my mom. When I saw her after sending her the card, she asked if I was trying to tell her something by sending a card that ended with "bitch". I laughed, and reminded her of the story behind the card. She laughed, and once again shook her head in mock exasperation. Even years later without Jerry there, she pretended to be bemused by our antics.

I can't wait to send her her Mother's Day card. This time, the two girls on the front have a slightly different exchange. The one girls asks the other: "Do you know how much mothers have to put up with?"

The other girl responds with, "Don't end a sentence with a preposition."

The inside answer doesn't change. And I can definitely imagine how much mothers have to put up with, bitches.

I love bruises. It sounds masochistic, slightly insane, but I've always loved physical bruises. Not the pain that comes with them, but the aftermath of the bruise. To me, bruises are fascinating as to how they emerge -- first an initial red bump that turns into a deep, dark blue that's almost black that slowly fades into a kaleidoscope of shades of yellows and blues and greens, turquoise and violet. The colors can be dazzling. Not to mention the varying sizes and shapes that bruises can take form in. How a gentle bump can create a bruise the size of your fist, or a complete pounding on the leg will result in a barely-there smudge of color, just a pale shadow on the skin.

For me, the bruises have always been a sign of surviving some battle. From a tough dive on the softball field to chasing after a lose ball on the basketball court to wrestling with my brother to accidentally ramming my hip into the kitchen counter, a bruise shows that I'm tough, that I have accomplished something. Even if I did not emerge from the situation a winner, it shows that I fought.

This past winter I played in two different indoor volleyball leagues. On Wednesday and Thursday nights, I participated in a six-on-six co-ed rec/intramural volleyball league. While my team was neither skilled or hardcore about playing to win, we had fun. And we occasionally dove for the ball. My intramural volleyball days are much different than my days of high school volleyball. I'm older; I don't move as fast or jump as high, I'm not as focused, and have no strategy other than to have fun and try to win while also trying to make sure that the team we're playing against is having fun too. But the biggest difference is that we don't play wearing kneepads. So when I dive for a ball, there's no cushion to protect my aging knees. And when I dive, I don't bounce up like I used to -- body parts crack, I sometimes need a teammate's hand to help me crawl off the floor...and the next day I ache.

But the bruises have been amazing. The last day of play in my Wednesday night league was actually an all-day tournament. By the end of the end, I had floor burns and bruises galore on my knees and forearms -- there truly was an unblemished area on my knees. In the last two weeks, I've watched the bruises turn fascinating shades and slowly fade away...and I've been delighted.

I realize that these bruises I'm talking about are superficial and self-inflicted choices due to me carelessly throwing my body about; I've been fortunate enough not to have been subjected to a situation where my physical bruises have come from someone else. But recently, as I've watched the post-volleyball bruises turn colors and slowly fade, I wonder what the colors of emotional bruising might be. I envision them to be brilliant reds and oranges that turn to magenta and copper, then eventually giving way to softer hues of pale pinks and yellows. Unlike physical bruises, those emotional bruises don't go away -- the pinks and yellows are there permanently, like the soft, raw colors of spring. And, unlike volleyball bruises where they fade after a week or two, the reds and oranges stay for an indefinite amount of time -- days, months, years. Until they fade into the pinks and yellows that don't quite go away, that stay in undertones but make for one beautiful pastel arrangement.

I'm eagerly awaiting the next few weeks until spring volleyball begins. During the spring season, we move outside to sand volleyball courts, where the sand provides more padding against our dives than the unbending indoor courts and provides fewer opportunities for bruises and scrapes. But we still dive, which means maybe there will be an occasional bruise to watch...

I’ve always loved my birthday. I realize that might be egocentrical or perhaps just a given but, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed more and more of my friends seem to shun their birthdays or ask that the day go quietly by, unnoticed and uncelebrated. As if by not acknowledging their birthday with fanfare, they aren’t aging.

While the passing of time doesn’t go unnoticed by me and I sometimes am bewildered how I’ve gotten to my current age – my freshman year of high school was 20 years ago – I can’t imagine letting the one day that is all about you – about me – go unnoticed. I am that obnoxious person that has a countdown going two months before my birthday, and I typically remind my family and friends daily as we enter into the 30 day and below mark (“Hey, only 29 days until my birthday.” Or “Just a reminder…only 17 days until my birthday.”) Yesterday six-year-old niece, who turns 7 on March 7, (12 days after my birthday), started talking about her birthday and what she wants for her birthday. And I blurted out, “Yeah…let’s not get in front of yourself. Remember, my birthday comes first.” I said this. To a six-year-old. Then proceeded to ask her what she was getting me for my birthday. When she tried to turn the table on me and ask what I was getting her for her birthday, I immediately brought the conversation back to myself. I obviously am up for the Best Aunt of the Year award. J

I blame my mother, really, for my obsession with my birthday. She always did her best to make the day as special as possible for each of her kids. As a working mom, she always had to leave early in the morning to make the 35-plus mile drive to Sioux City to ensure that she was in her classroom or, later, counselor’s office, well in advance of the first bell of the morning and before her students started arriving. Due to her early schedule, she usually didn’t see us on the morning of our birthday before we left for school. So she would leave out the Birthday Breakfast for us: doughnuts or our favorite sugary cereal (which we normally didn’t get), a favorite candy bar, a card or small birthday gift, and the Birthday Balloons. Two small Mylar balloons that she recycled and saved for years, putting out for my brother, my stepdad, and me on our respective birthdays. When not in use, the Mylar balloons were stored in the cupboard above the refrigerator. She would also leave treats out for us to take to our elementary classmates when we were grade-school age. The birthday kid would then be able to choose what restaurant we ate at for dinner, and my brother and I would each be able to bring a friend with us to have dinner. My mom also made these elaborate birthdays cakes for us. Smurfs, unicorns, Popples, sports – she made the best themed cakes. She’s always laughed off her cake decorated skills, saying that she’s sub par at best, but I always loved her birthday cakes and the decorations – to me, they were perfect. I don’t know where she found the time to make them or to even figure out how to make the icing decorations – it was a time before Pintrest, YouTube, and AllRecipes.com; she had to use whatever  she could find – sometimes a stuffed animal to look at, sometimes a comic book. It was incredible.

One weekend last May, when brother and I and our families were home visiting my mom and stepdad while my stepdad was sick and dying, I opened the cupboard above the refrigerator to promptly have a stack of napkins fall on my head. My mother – who has always kept a well-maintained, clean, beautiful home – has a little bit of a dirty secret: she stuffs things into cupboards and drawers. So while the surface of the house is usually clutter free, sometimes the drawers look like an episode of hoarders. Well organized and clean, but still crowded. She’s sentimental and often struggles to rid items that are associated with positive and loving memories. My parents’ house is also an older home – built in like 1922, so there’s not much in the way of closet space, so every square inch of space is used to the best and maximum capacity.

I dragged a kitchen chair to the cupboard and proceeded to empty the two large shelves. As I went through the shelves, I pulled out napkins and paper plates from every holiday theme that one could possibly imagine; “Happy 60^th Birthday” decorations from years earlier; margarita glasses and cozies and party favors…the list of random items went on and on. Some things I just threw away, while others I knew had to go back in the cupboard. Others were piled into a box to take to Goodwill. When my mother discovered what I was doing, she flipped out. And suddenly I was on an episode of Hoarders. As I threw things into the trash can, she pulled them out and claimed she couldn’t part with them. So we then went into barter mode: out of the 15 can cozies, she could keep 5. She could keep the margarita glasses if she got rid of the mismatched bar glasses. This went on for a while, with my mom referring to me as “heartless” at one point. I prefer not heartless – just practical and a minimalist.

When it got to the Birthday Breakfast Balloons, I hesitated as to whether I should throw them away or keep them. My brother and I were no longer home on our birthdays for the special birthday breakfasts, and my stepdad wasn’t going to live to see his next birthday. At that moment, the Birthday Breakfast Balloons were a sad reminder of what growing up and becoming an adult can mean. So I threw them into the trashcan, where I imagine they ended up in a landfill outside of Correctionville, the Mylar likely having been crushed and the plastic sticks cracked and broken.

A week after cleaning out the cupboard, I woke in a cold sweat from a dream about the Birthday Breakfast Balloons.  I intensely regretted having thrown those damn balloons away.  I felt so guilty. Rather than throwing them away, I wish I would have brought them home with me so that I could have used them with my own husband or future family, sharing that simple but meaningful tradition with my own family. Now, two days before my birthday, I keep thinking back to those Birthday Breakfast Balloons and the family celebrations that we used to have. And I’ll miss being able to talk to my stepdad on my birthday.

But I still look forward to the one day that’s all about me. To telling my friends and co-workers and complete strangers “It’s my birthday!” and then doing one of my silly dances that looks like Elaine from Seinfield. I plan to embrace my day and my age. Because, if you think about it, there’s no real alternate to getting older – you either get older or you’re dead. So why not celebrate and acknowledge the day? My Grandma Bernie recognized that. She survived cancer at the age of 39, during a time when survival rates from cancer were small and unusual. She knew that every birthday after being remission was a gift, and she never shied away from telling someone her age when asked. She was proud of that number, knowing that her number could have ended at 39. She had another 40 years of life, and she was remarkable.

So on Tuesday, you might want to avoid me if you don’t want to hear repeatedly me discuss my birthday or how the day is all about me. I don’t want gifts – I just want to spend time with my family and friends, a reminder how fortunate that we are to have each other. As obnoxious as I might be shouting out, “It’s my birthday, biotches!” and making them give me high fives. Because it’s all about me. Well, and my parents for giving me life. So they get to celebrate and be acknowledged as part of the day that’s honoring my birth. 

I’ve always loved video games. I blame it on having an older brother who is a total geek, who loves all things gamy and electronic and gadgety. The first game I remember ever playing is Frogger, on an old Apple black computer that was hooked up to a small TV screen. We’d have to load the floppy disc into the computer, being careful not to touch the inside circle rim of the floppy disc. The computer base was heavy, and I remember we were always careful not to bump it. There were also joysticks that we could plug in and use to play games…but I don’t remember what games we played. I just remember that the joysticks were often difficult to navigate. I’m not sure what happened to that old Apple computer base – I think my brother had it in his basement for the longest time. It’s still probably there, gathering dust. Or it's since been thrown out by his wife, who doesn't always appreciate his desire to hoard old devices on the thought of "some day" or "what if" thoughts.

When I was in middle school, my parents bought my brother and me a Sega system. Not a Sega Genesis or Nintendo, just a basic Sega system. So we missed out on hours spent playing Super Mario Bros. and The Legend of Zelda – those games were special treats when we visited friends who had the more expensive Nintendo system. But our parents had told us that the Sega had better graphics and images; that the system was higher quality. While I still don’t know a ton about gaming systems today – just that I like to play and the differences between certain platforms and megabits – my brother holds to the statement that this is true: that we were better off having a Sega than the Nintendo. My favorite games to play on the Sega were Safari Hunt, Ghostbusters, Wonder Boy, Double Dragon. Video games appeal to my obsessive side of being able to dive into something, and then just sit and play and think and strategize. With Safari Hunt, I loved the soft “pew, pew, pew” sounds the system made when you shot a panther or how the armadillo rolled into a ball and bounced off screen when you hit it. Ghostbusters had weird driving scenes where you would navigate the Ghostbuster hearse through the streets of New York City, trying to vaporize ghosts that were flying through the air. And I loved Wonder Boy -- navigating through maps, jumping to stab things with Wonder Boy's sword, gathering coins and potions. Double Dragon was a special treat when we went to visit my dad in Michigan. He had purchased a Sega system as well, and we had different games that we played. My brother was always the black-haired guy dressed in red, and I was the blond guy dressed in blue. My brother occasionally would turn on me and beat the shit out of me in Double Dragon, but more often than not we would team up to defeat the bad guys as that was really the only way you could win the game. To this day, whenever I see a Double Dragon video game in an arcade, I stop to play. While my round kick skills aren’t quite what they used to be, I always find myself drawn to that game. When we were in college, my brother lent the Sega to one of his friends, and we never saw it again. I imagine if one of us still had it, we would probably spend hours sitting in the dark, deeply caffeinated on Mountain Dew, smelling slightly like BO and basement, playing Double Dragon and Safari Hunt. Our spouses would love it.

Since then, we’ve graduated to Wiis and X-Boxes and adult-geared video game bars like Dave & Buster’s and Gambols. I try to avoid video games as much as possible as I’m slightly obsessive when it comes to those things. Years after the popularity of it came and went, I still wish I had purchased Guitar Hero, but I’m pretty sure I would never sleep or leave my house if I did own it and as I tried to master the “guitar” riffs of legendary songs by The Beatles, Tom Petty, and Pink Floyd. The only games I have for our XBox are games that need to be played connected to the Kinnex, meaning that it requires moving my heavy ottoman in the living room so that I can stand up to play. It’s too much of an effort, so I can safely say that my time is not spent playing video games.

But my all-time favorite video game is Ms. Pacman. I realize that that probably makes me a typical girl, but I love the power pellets. Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and Sue. The different fruits at the different levels. I am completely obsessed with that game and love to play it whenever and wherever I can. There are a couple bars in my neighborhood that have either the upright video game or the tabletop video game, and I love to play. I’ve started carrying around quarters for that sole purpose, and will randomly pop in places just to take a whirl on Ms. Pacman. While I have yet to be able to get the high score on any of the Pacman machines around town, I take pride that I recently blew the mind of one of my co-workers who had no clue that I could own Ms. Pacman. A self-proclaimed video game nerd, I believe he thought that it would be an easy victory to beat me in high score, at which he failed miserably. Despite multiple attempts, he has yet to outscore me on Ms. Pacman.  

I imagine it’s the escapist element of playing video games that I’ve always enjoyed. In a video game, you can take on a different persona, explore a different world, eat things and blow things up and win things without ever a) having to leave your own home and b) not having to worry about the impact or repercussions (I mean, you play Grand Theft Auto, you don’t have to worry about going to jail, right?). And for a nerdy, tomboy girl like myself, it makes it an easy way to bond with my brother or talk with my guy co-workers or friends. And there’s nothing better than an intense game of Ms. Pacman, eating all those power pellets and avoiding Sue.