The Worst

Down pillows are the worst. I understand that they were a necessity back in the day, but the thought of plucking a duck and shoving the feathers into a pillow case, only to lay my head on it later, makes me wonder what on earth people are thinking today. When the quill of a feather jabs me in the cheekbone or a feather vane wipes across my forehead in the middle of the night, it's not a pleasant moment conducive to sleep. I envision gouging my eye out with a slight move of my head. In my groggy sleep state, the feather brushing against my face makes me paranoid and thinks that there's a spider nestling into my face.

Give me that synthetic, polyester-filled pillow, the highly flammable one that will set my head on fire if I accidentally drop a cigarette onto it...in the event that I pick up smoking. Or the memory foam pillow that contours to my face and neck, that doesn't quite adapt quickly enough to me as a I roll over in bed. But no feathers, for the love of God.

Color Tips

A woman I work with can recall the name of any nail polish color she has seen. If she looks at your nails and you tell her the brand of nail polish, she will accurately name the color. Wicked. Cotton Lollipop. The Sky's the Limit. Hot Hand. Electric Lush. No matter how lengthy or absurd the name, she gets it right every single time. It's the most amazing combination of memory and site recognition that I've ever seen. She's a parlor trick with a glossy enamel finish. She says that she can only do this with nail polish because she's obsessed with the bizarre names that companies give their polish color. However, I imagine her having a secret career as a card counter or an art thief, memorizing floor plans and security laser beams, then stealthily sneaking along art galleries late at night to steal the most lucrative paintings. That, by allowing us in on her nail color naming abilities, she's coyly tipping us off to her being one of the greatest minds in thievery. I bet she wears black nail polish when she makes these heists, something ridiculously named, like... Luscious Licorice Loot. Or Mayhem at Midnight.

Dammit, I Did It Again

I always thought I was the person in my friend group that had common sense. Not the one with THE most common sense, but just common sense. When it came to career advice, friendship advice, love advice -- I knew what I was doing. Throw a question at me, and I could tell you what the "right" direction was. I felt like I knew what I was doing, like I knew who I was, where I was at, and where I was going.

And in the last three years, time and again the universe has proven to me that I don't know anything. Every moment that I've felt like my world was in alignment and I could answer questions with no hesitation -- professionally and personally -- the universe bitch-slapped me in the face and let me know that I was inherently wrong.

Today was yet another reminder that I have no clue and that I might have called things incorrectly. It's in these moments that I want to disconnect -- to become an ostrich and bury my head in the sand (but still retain the ability to run amazingly fast and elegantly) or act like a six-year-old and cover my head with the covers, like I've just felt the presence of a monster breathing down my neck, the hot air accumulating to the point that I'm paralyzed in my purple flannel unicorn sheets. (God, I miss those unicorn sheets.) However, as you get older, it's not really a possibility to hide in your bed and wait for the worst moments to pass.

It sounds so melodramatic what I felt today compared to the recent events that have taken place. With the Brett Kavanaugh trial, so many of the people in my life have shared their stories of being sexually assaulted or abused. With every story that I read, my heart breaks and makes me want to seek out the individuals who hurt the people who I care for and administer the same level of hurt and despair onto them. Fortunately, I do not have a story that I can share to align with their experiences. I have stupid decisions, but I am fortunate that they were my choice and not someone else forced upon me. I have nothing that comes to the same caliber of what my loved ones have experienced.

I spent this evening with one of these friends. As we talked, she reminded me that strength comes from within and that no one else can help you determine your own intrinsic value. It was a reminder that I don't need anyone else in my life to make me realize my own self worth -- it all comes from within -- and that those who choose to spend time with me should feel as grateful that I've chosen them as what I feel for them having chosen me. Thank you to my dear sweet friend for that reminder...

Blocked With Time

One of my girlfriends has a theory that guys you used to date know when either you're incredibly happy or at a low point in your life. It's at these moments when you least expect it that - BAM! - you receive some sort of communication from a former interest. Usually it comes in the form of a text, Facebook friend request and/or message, or a missed phone call. It's like some guys have the ability to sniff out an ex's extreme high or low in feelings from literally miles -- and lifetimes -- away.

It took me a while before I bought into her theory. Maybe I just didn't have enough old flames hanging out there to have this happen previously, or perhaps I hadn't hit an extreme high or low until a couple years after my divorce. Eventually, though, it caught up with me.

Unlike my friend, I've only experienced when I'm in an exceptionally good place in life. Maybe it's the universe's way of tethering me to the ground, reminding me that I'm lucky to have everything that I do at this point in time and not to forget where I was at previously. It's only happened to me a few times in the last year, but always gave me a little uneasy jolt. The first time was unremarkable to me -- I received a random text from a guy I matched with on a speed dating night whom I hadn't heard from in six months and the second was a guy who always randomly texted me when he was drunk -- but it made me realize that my friend's theory might have some validity.

The second time was eerie, as I was in a place where I was getting ready to leave for a much anticipated trip to Ecuador, I had just started dating a guy that I was excited about, and everything in my personal and professional life were in a positive balance. In the span of 24 hours, I heard from not one, not two, but a handful of guys I dated or flirted with over the last three years. From Facebook to texts, my former dating life pulled in on me in an uncomfortable way. Requests to get together for a drink, to have a late night rendezvous, or to restart our relationship flooded my messages in one format or another. Dog Guy, Cheeseburger Guy, Kitty, The Not-Quite-Divorced Dad, and E: the old familiars, the guys who were never going to be longterm but were learning opportunities or nice people or plain crazy. I politely declined because I am incapable of ghosting or intentionally hurting someone. I then deleted phone numbers and blocked people on my phone and Facebook account. I immediately felt a sense of relief, as if by blocking phone numbers might also smudge out the past near-relationships I had.

I had a blissful seven months of no contact from exes. Until today. While I blocked Not-Quite-Divorced Dad from my phone and blocked his ability to text me, I neglected to think of Facebook. He told me he never used Facebook, although he had an account when we dated. He still does, his profile picture of him and his son from easily six or seven years ago, the same profile picture when we met last year. Today he sent me a message to let me know that his divorce is final. He included a picture of the court petition, the legal papers that finally ended his 14-year marriage, two of those years in which he was separated from his ex-wife and in which she was living with the man that she had had the affair with. He was reaching out to me as I had told him that I refused to see him until he was officially divorced and he took me on a proper dinner date. Our "dates" were always done at a local bar around 9:00 p.m. near his house after his 11-year-old son was in bed. I haven't spoken to him in eight months, yet here he was, asking me out for that dinner. He had even selected the restaurant he was wanted to take me to. His son was excited to see me.

I congratulated him on his divorce, then followed it up by telling him that I'm in love with the man that I'm dating. It felt cheesy to say, and I wish I could say that I felt guilty as I knew Newly Divorced Guy was expecting a different response, but I needed Newly Divorced Guy to know that I had not been waiting for him, that there was a reason why we weren't together. The presumption that these guys take, that expectation that when they reach out again that I've been either waiting for them or I'm willing to drop everything to see them again. Perhaps I should tell myself that it's flattering -- some unique trait about me keeps bringing them back to me -- but I'm a realist: I imagine that I'm just one of many in their list of women that they message when they're feeling lonely or thinking through the "what ifs". We all have a tendency to reminisce, and often we hear those stories of former loves reuniting years after breaking up or separating. Thus romanticizing those might-have-been relationships. Yet at what point do we get to separate the good-ol' booty call from rekindling a former relationship?

Summer's End

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Since I graduated from college and joined corporate America – solidifying my status as a “real” adult – the end of summer has always come as a shock to me. For me, the end of summer is cemented with Labor Day weekend. All the kids have returned to school; the pools have their last hurrah before draining the chlorinated water to leave the pool eerily empty; summer wardrobes of tank tops, bathing suits, and flip flops are swapped for sweaters, scarves, and closed-toe shoes. Yet usually the week before Labor Day weekend when I leave my place I smell the hint of fall one morning. That’s really the start of the end celebration of summer.

Every summer I think to myself that I should have done more outside, should have seen or experienced more, made more of a “summertime list”, those activities that can only be done when the sun is shining and the weather is warm. Part of the problem is that Kansas City is just too hot during the summer months. The heat and humidity start sometime in May – if we’re lucky, and not before – and usually stretch into the first few weeks of September. We might experience a few nice days of 80-degree temps throughout the span of June, July, and August, but generally the temperatures are so scorching and the humidity so stifling that stepping outside for even a few minutes makes me feel like I’m melting, my face being scorched off and my body pooling into the cement, much like when Dorothy threw water on the Wicked Witch of the West.

This summer was full of firsts and, in some cases, several lasts. So while I still might have that slight nagging feeling that I should have done more that seems to linger with each summer’s end, it’s just that: a ghost of a feeling that’s perhaps more of a long-standing expectation and not reality. And, let’s be honest here: I’m a fall sort-of-girl. Being a pale, freckled redhead, the sun and I battle each other with always the same winner if I neglect to use my shield of SPF 100.  So bring on the cooler temperatures, turning leafs, spiced pumpkin, long-sleeved shirts, and boots. I have a new list of things I want to experience this fall.

Slasher

I can't stop cutting up my T-shirts.

Not in a maniacal, "I just want to slash this up" sort-of-way, but in a "I don't like tight collared shirts, I'm going to stretch the fuck out of this neckline until it stops touching my skin" sort-of-way. I don't like material around my neck: no turtlenecks, no fancy collared button-up shirts, no lacy tops. I need breathing room around my neckline.

Any T-shirt I have automatically goes into a tub in my closet until either a) I cut it up or b) get sick of all the T-shirts I have that I don't wear and donate them to Goodwill. Last week, I went on a cutting spree and sliced my Red Cross T-shirt that I received from donating blood, my Omaha Zoo Sleeping Safari shirt, and a KC Crew shirt. I tried to make them look edgy and slightly sexy, looking at Pinterest examples to hit just the right cut.

Instead, every T-shirt I cut up looked like something that had gotten caught in the midst of a tug war battle between two goats or second grader's first attempt at sewing. My off-the-shoulder shirt ended up requiring me to cut up another shirt and sew in little arm straps to prevent the entire shirt from falling off my arm. Two hours later, I had three sad looking shirts that will likely never see more than the interior of my home or maybe, at most, a night playing sand volleyball.

Yet my haphazard, messy shirts are not going to stop me from cutting up more shirts. I'm sure a metaphor exists somewhere here, the determination to explore creativity and embrace my own originality, even if it means that I'm also a little bit of a hot mess at the same time. Or maybe it's just simply what it is: I should likely stop cutting up my shirts...

Fuck Hopes and Dreams

I loathe the question "What are your hopes and dreams?" When I hear it -- whether it's a casual conversation, a deep heart-to-heart, or in a joking manner -- I have a visceral reaction and have to fight the impulse to physically extract myself from the conversation. Even if it's an extraction that looks like something out of a Die Hard movie.

It's not that I'm goalless or have no hopes or dreams, it's just such a personal topic that always makes me freeze. What are my hopes and dreams? I'm not a 12-year-old girl anymore; I don't have a dream journal that I'm frantically scribbling life plans into or a hope chest that I'm delicately placing all my trinkets into. I'm a grown woman who has suffered loss and had to reboot my life in a very surreal manner. Some of my hopes and dreams that I had defined earlier in my life are no longer possibilities, and I am good with that. Hopes and dreams are often a luxury when faced with just trying to get through the day-to-day struggles of being, well, a human being.

But I've come to realize that my main goal above all else is to be happy. It's simple and sounds like an inadequate answer to some, like maybe I'm holding back. Someone told me recently that that wasn't a real goal because, well, isn't that what everyone wants? However, for me, "to be happy" is all-encompassing and includes more than just the general definition of being happy. "To be happy" means waking up each day, looking forward to what the day might bring. To enjoy going to work because it means I have a job (and a career) that I am truly invested in with co-workers who are good, fun, hard working people. To love the friends and family that I choose to spend my time with because it means that they are kind, intelligent, witty, thoughtful individuals. To like and be proud of who I am as an individual. To not regret any words I might have spoken that day or any missed opportunities or adventures that I did not take because I was too afraid or, honestly, lazy. To experience joy in the little, mundane moments of life because it means that I'm still here, still existing.

From my perspective, to be happy is one of the hardest goals to achieve. I look back on my late 20s and early 30s -- the time in my life where I was married to someone I never should have been with, working a job that caused me anxiety and that I thoroughly disliked, and watching my stepfather slowly decline in health and then pass away -- I wasn't happy. I had fleeting moments of happiness, but nothing like how I feel today. Today I am happy. Each day I wake up, I am excited for the possibilities of what might occur, who I am going to spend my time with. This is the ultimate hope and dream achieved for me. The rest of those hopes and dreams seem minimal to that, just like tiny details that help me achieve the big goal. I have my bucket list but, if I don't make it to Norway before I die, I'm okay with that because it means that I will have chosen another way to spend my time to enjoy my life. To achieve happiness and feel joy even in the dark moments of life is the ultimate hope and dream for myself. Ultimately, it's me defining my own hopes and dreams, so it doesn't matter how simple it might sound to someone else.

Zombies Should Use Condiments

I took a survey awhile ago that was titled something like "How Long Would You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?" I flipped through the questions, answering them cockily, as if I knew I would be among the last left standing. I mean, I've watched every episode of both The Walking Dead and Fear the Walking Dead, not to mention all the movies that have been made. I read The Zombie Survival Guide and World War Z. Based on all the zombie-related information I've consumed since childhood, I have multiple survival plans in place based on where I'm at (home, work, playing volleyball, a bar) when it dawns on me that the "illness" is actually a deadly virus turning everyone into the walking dead. I've seen Shaun of The Dead: I know what not to do as well...although I know my friends wouldn't mind meeting their end in our favorite bar.

My results? Six months.

180 days until I'm gnawed on by a zombie and meet my demise. I like to think that one of my friends would stab me in the head to ensure that I don't turn, but I could see them putting a collar on me and leading me around like a rabid dog.

I'm pretty sure my results were skewed so low because I answered the question "How often do you bathe?" truthfully: one to two times a day, depending on what I've done that day. However, if necessary, I could go an extended time without bathing. I don't mind smelling -- it's not like anyone would care at that point either. I could do it.

But then I started thinking about it. Really thinking about my survival abilities, and I realized I would likely die within the first few days. While I have many weaknesses that would hinder me, I've narrowed it down to my Top 3 weaknesses in the zombie end-of-days:

1. I don't like to run. When I do run, I'm incredibly slow and I complain a lot. This does not bode well when being chased by a) zombies or b) live people who might be after me for my supplies. I'd rather just sit down and either a) let the zombie chow down on me or b) give someone my said supplies. My constant whining while running would also give away my location.
2. I like to drink beer. Well, and wine. And summer beer mixed drinks. And Moscow mules. Really, I just like to have a few drinks. So I'd throw a couple beers back, forget that I'm supposed to be on the lookout for potential zombies, and suddenly have my jugular ripped out by a zombie child.
3. I have no upper-body strength. In the event that I came in to hand-to-hand combat with a zombie and I was forced to jab a steak knife through it's skull (because, let's be real, I the only weapon I would likely find myself with in the zombie apocalypse is a steak knife), I would not have the strength to drive it through its skull. Even if it was a zombie that had decomposed to the point that the skull was a little flimsy.

All said, my meticulous zombie survival plans, diagrams, and maps won't help me with these fatal flaws of mine. When the chaos ensues, I'll be sure to pass the along to my friend or family member that I think has the greatest chance of survival and rebuilding society, and will then tell them not to wait for me if we're chased by a zombie herd. Best of luck, my friends. 

Fishing Doesn't Exist Without Swisher Sweets

I smoked my first cigar at 18. I bypassed sneaking my first cigarette before I could legally smoke and went straight to the cigar. I feel like this explains so much about my life -- why start small? While my friends all have the variation of the story of sneaking a cigarette from a family member's pack of Marlboros to try behind the family garage or friend showing up on the playground after school hours with a single cigarette to try while giggling and looking furtively around to ensure no adults are nearby, I waited to have my first smoke of anything at 18 on my senior class trip to Washington D.C.

I don't remember much of the details, other than a majority of my friends were all 18 on that class trip. Somewhere along the line, we decided to buy cigars to smoke in celebration of one of my friend's 18th birthday, which occurred toward the end of our week-long D.C. trip. So, like the classy midwestern kids that we were, we popped into a dirty convenience store on the walk back to our hotel from one of the historical sites that we visited that day and contemplated which cigars to buy. Our chaperones for the school trip -- several of my friends' dads -- watched us all with amusement. We had various levels of smokers among our group: some the occasional cigarette, cigar, or Swisher Sweet smoked while fishing; some regular smokers that spent most of our school lunch period hanging out in Smoker's Alley across the street, leaning against the brick wall of Larry's Grocery Land, slightly bored and just killing time before the next bell rang; and the rest, who had snuck the aforementioned Camel/Marlboro/off-brand cigarette. I was the only one who had not tried smoking by that point. I don't remember the actual experience, other than us opening our hotel window wide, my friends' telling me to "suck harder" to actually light my cigar and keep the smokey char going at the end of the cigar, and me being deathly afraid that I was going to slip to my death from the sixth floor of our hotel room, to which my obituary would reflect the clumsiness that has plagued me my entire life and might make a blip in the Washington Post: "Iowan Girl Plummets to Death While Clutching a Cigar Like Groucho Marx". Luckily I remained upright in the hotel room, and choked that cigar down until it was a soggy nub. 

A few days after returning home, my friends and I went fishing. On the drive there, one of my girlfriends passed me a cigarette to try. I was fascinated by the mechanics of the filter, how the cigarette burned down with each drag, how it just magically disappeared. I kept staring at the cigarette, to which my friends found entertaining: they knew my analytical mind was more curious as to how the cigarette worked versus the actual taste, nicotine, or experience of it.

Despite not trying smoking until I was of legal age, I had always been fascinated by cigarettes and smoking. The only person in my family who smoked was my step-grandmother. Her cigarette of choice was menthol Virginia Slims. I loved the way that she smelled, her perfume intermixed with a smokey, minty undertone. She had long, slender fingers that ended with perfectly shaped fingernails. I always thought she looked so elegant smoking those thin cigarettes, sometimes letting it purse out of the corner of her glossy lips while she played cards or stirred her mixed drink. I was convinced that she used a cigarette holder and carried her cigarettes in a brass cigarette case when she was younger - I envisioned her in her youth to be elegant yet bawdy and feisty, like Katherine Hepburn, all with a Virginia Slim dangling between her index and middle fingers. 

I'm pretty sure my step-grandma stopped smoking years ago, when it became less socially acceptable to smoke and more difficult to find establishments that one can legally smoke in, when her health started to fail due to the natural deterioration that comes with old age. On the rare occasion, when I find myself to have had one drink too many and I bum a cigarette from someone or when my brother and I smoke cigars on St. Patrick's Day, I still think of my step-grandma smoking Virginia Slims. In my mind, while I envision myself being as graceful and mysterious as to how she looked to me when I was a girl, even then I know that I'm nowhere the same level of delicacy that she had with it. 

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.