Amen

Why I’m not celebrating

I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now. After 9 1/2 years of pursuit, Usama Bin Laden has been declared killed by US Forces. I watched the television coverage late into the night, with very mixed emotions.

I am glad that he’s not ‘out there’ anymore. I’m not even mourning his death, really. But I cannot stomach the celebrations that I’m witnessing.

Let me say right now that I consider our military personnel separately from what I’m about to say. Their story is not our own. Their emotional attachment to this news is and deserves to be  on a different level. I understand something of their relief and their satisfaction at a job done. Something.

But for those who have done mostly nothing…those average Americans who sit at home day after day, living their comparatively cushy lives, risking nothing and sacrificing nothing…for them – because of them – I feel saddened. Weary. Ashamed.

UBL did evil things. Few would argue with that. The world is probably a [marginally] safer place without him in it…though I don’t for one moment deceive myself enough to think there aren’t hundreds more radicals lined up to take his place.

I’m not sorry he is gone.

But I’m very, very sorry that another soul has been lost.

By earthly standards, Usama Bin Laden was about as bad as it gets. He was ‘less than’ me.

But by God’s standards? He was another child. A child just like me.

A child loved and lost.

I cannot allow myself to lose sight of that, and I cannot bring myself to celebrate something so contrary to the heart of God.

I don’t generally like to hear scripture quoted in a context like this. It can seem so self-righteous, and that’s not my intent. But in the hopes that it might give you pause, or reason to look at this victory in a new light…

Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when they stumble, do not let your heart rejoice, or the Lord will see and disapprove, and turn His wrath away from them. ~Proverbs  24:17

As surely as I live, declares the Sovereign Lord, I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked. ~Ezekiel 33:11

From my feed, Facebook statuses from the past 10 hours:

‘Good News. Osama Bin Laden is in hell.’

‘Wish we had footage we could all watch on tv, Al-Jazeera style’

‘We should have a parade with his head on a stick’

‘Earthquake warning: Bin Laden is in hell and even they don’t want him.’

‘They should strap a bomb to him and blow his body to bits, let the pieces rain down over the whole [bleep] country’

Nice.

Oh and of course the numerous ‘Ding Dong Bin Laden’s dead’ posts. Cheering the fact that he’s gone ‘below, below, below, yo-ho!’

Awesome.

I’m very sorry that this nation, despised for its arrogance in much of the world, will now be making international headlines for our celebration in the streets. Much like they celebrated the terrorist attack that started all of this. Much like I imagine they would celebrate the assassination of our President. And we would be sickened by their celebrations, wouldn’t we? Because it’s evil. Because we’re above that.

Except when the shoe is on the other foot, apparently. Then we’re able to appreciate the differences.

‘But we’re the good guys!’

Right. The good guys.

Who, in that moment, don’t actually look all that different from the ‘bad guys’

Perception is reality.

Remember that while you celebrate.

Conduct yourself accordingly.

We did what needed to be done, but we don’t have to delight in it.

I take no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Sovereign Lord. ~Ezekiel 18: 32

And…the job is not done.

Happy IDA Day!

Love is in the air, right?

Blech.

I kinda hate Valentine’s Day.

The stuffed animals and chocolates and overpriced flowers and card aisles overflowing with pink hearts and mushy sentiments…make me throw up in my mouth a little.

I’m not down on love; quite the contrary. I love love. I love people who are in love.

I don’t love that people will express that love today by giving their significant other a 4-foot teddy bear.

Throw up. Mouth.

Seriously, anything done today has very little meaning. The other 364 days a year? Go to town. Love it up. Because if you bring your lady flowers on June 14th, it’s clearly because you love her and wanted to brighten her day. Four months earlier? You’re a sucker willing to pay inflated prices because Hallmark guilted you into it.

All of the jewelry and chocolate and lingerie commercials? Throw. Up.

I not-so-affectionately refer to this as IDA day – Insincere Displays of Affection.

My plans include shipping the weekend orders (shameless plug), shuttling to not one but two different Girl Scout meetings (and picking up cookies!), and hopefully squeezing in time to straighten up my studio. If I’m really efficient I’ll pull off a trip to the grocery, too.

Romance out the wazoo over here, let me tell you.

The one part of the holiday that I do enjoy is the kid stuff. The cutesy homemade cards, the decorated boxes for the school exchange, the sweet treats baked for friends. That I can do, so do it I did.

Super cute, right?

And more than that, these suckers taught me a life lesson. A friend gave me the recipe and I was so excited to make these…until I saw that 2 months later, the recipe was also printed in Family Fun magazine. I immediately felt deflated, like my cool treat was reduced to ‘Oh yeah, I saw that in Family Fun too.’

Bakingcandycanesuckersforyourownglorymuch?

{hanging head in shame}

In case you don’t get Family Fun and you’re still dazzled and want to make your own, read on.

You’ll need some miniature candy canes and lollipop sticks to start out with

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees, and lay out your suckers on a greased cookie sheet.

Be sure to use your oldest, most stained, super worn baking sheet, especially if you plan to take pictures to share with the world. That makes you look klassy.

Pop into the oven for 2 minutes – watch the clock very closely because they will melt and be ugly very soon after that 2 minute mark. Remove and quickly pinch the candy cane ends onto the lollipop sticks. They will be warm and soft, but won’t burn your fingers. Unless you’re a wimp.

Your frames should look like this:

Again, in order to keep up that klassy appearance, be sure to snap your pictures in front of liquor bottles, particularly when you are showcasing kids projects. That’s awesome.

{Responsible Parenting Note – My kids weren’t drinking. This was a Christmas gift and I used it in that nasty honey-lemon-whiskey concoction that aided my pneumonia recovery. 3 weeks prior to this. I’m just too lazy to hide the evidence. And also the bottles are FULL.}

Now you’re going to need some white chocolate and perhaps a few sprinkles.

You can melt the chocolate in a pastry bag and pipe it into the suckers, but I’m not too handy with an icing bag. I opted for a simple dish and spoon.

And then I spooned it into the suckers whilst they lay on waxed paper.

At this point you could call it a day and go for the less-is-more look

but around these parts, we like excessive embellishment.

They’ll only need to cool off for 5-10 minutes before they will be ready to wrap.

And if you’re like me, you’ll then wish you had made them sooner, since they make a nice little IDA Day decoration for the counter.

Enjoy your day peeps!

Suck it up

The football thing?  Turns out I lied.

I had intended to talk about football.

James Harrison, in particular.

I’m kinda bent about the whole thing.

But then, I don’t know…I just got kinda sick of it all.  I’m over this conversation.

His crybaby ‘take my ball home and quit playing’ declaration might have fueled my apathy.  (Apathy can totally be fueled, by the way.  Totally.)

So I’ll just summarize.

He’s a big, bad scary man.  It’s his job.

Of course he wants to hurt people. Duh. Find me a linebacker that doesn’t want to hurt people.  Except perhaps those that play for the Bears, since clearly they’re lacking.

But I digress.

Hurting people is part of the game, folks.  There is a difference between hurting and injuring, and what a bunch of Nancys we are if we fail to comprehend the difference.  You put the hurt on someone to show them you are a big, bad, scary man not to be messed with.  What exactly would football be without physical intimidation?  It would be baseball.  And seeing as how baseball doesn’t work out too well in Pittsburgh, let’s not go there.

Harrison is being fined now because he ran his big fat stupid mouth.  I’m fine with what he said, don’t get me wrong, but his timing was lousy.  The public was up in arms crying for his head on a platter, and he didn’t do himself any favors.

The hit in question?

I don’t believe it was a dirty hit, because I don’t believe it was intentional.  I won’t go so far as to agree with Harrison, who later said that there was a three foot shift.  I’m not seeing three feet here.  But there is definite movement, and I think that made the difference.

Harrison: “I’ll tell you right now, if I’m running blind and I don’t see the guy coming at me, by NFL rules, if he was to go and shoot at my knee and blow my whole knee out, that is a legal hit. All day. If you see me running blind and I don’t see you, please hit me high and knock me silly. I’ll pay your fine for you. Just don’t hit me in my knee and end my career.”

Amen.  Those guys stood up and walked away seconds later.  You don’t walk away from a knee injury.

[cue the cacaphony of emails telling me that you don't walk away from brain injuries either.]  I get that.  Except these guys did walk away.  Yes, they were fortunate – it could have been much worse.  But accidents do happen and there is risk involved when you choose to make your living getting hit.  It’s part of the game.  Accept that or get a desk job.

And if nothing else, how about the other supposedly dirty hit from that game?  Harrison nailed Cribbs and Cribbs isn’t crying about it.  In fact, he came out in support of Harrsion.

Ok, I did manage to generate a little passion there.  But it’s still negated by the retirement talk.  Good grief, dude.  Grow up.  Crap happens.  Move on.

And put the hurt on someone Sunday.

It is, afterall, your job.

And to all the pansies freaking out over this – have you ever seen rugby?  With no
pads?  Now those are real men.

Come to think of it, maybe Harrison could start a new career if he decides to leave the NFL.  Something tells me the Silverback would be effective on the rugby field as well.

There’s a chance I’m a man

Not physically.  But emotionally?  I might be transgender.

The evidence:

1)  I don’t relate well to most women.  They’re petty and catty and dramatic and exhausting.  Prior to marriage, my closest friends were all male.  Men are just easier.  WYSIWYG.  You can have a major disagreement and put it to rest permanently all in the course of an hour.  Or 10 minutes.  Everything is laid out plainly and there are no guessing games or hidden meanings.  Besides being healthier, this is also a huge time-saver.

2)  As I said before, I’m not much of a crier.  Women seem to love cry-fests.  So not my thing.

3)  Chick flicks? Not so much.  I’d pick Dirty Harry over Bridget Jones any day.  Or better yet, 007.  Or Monty Python.  Or the Stooges.  And when I recently saw Eat, Pray, Love [huge mistake] and found myself surrounded by crying women, I began squirming in my seat and counting the minutes until the movie was over and I could bolt from the spontaneous group-therapy session that had broken out.

4)  I love sports in general, and football in particular.  Football and hockey make my heart very happy, and there are few things that annoy me more than trying to watch the game with some sports-clueless woman hanging around, asking dumb questions or worse yet, talking about the cheerleaders’ uniforms.

Cheesy 80s movie. It's girlish to like cheesy 80s movies, right?

5)  I’ve always been a tomboy.  I wasn’t into dolls or dress-up as a kid, unless you count G.I. Joes and Superheroes.  I dabbled in cheerleading, but found myself much more at home on the basketball court.  And while the other girls fixed their hair and makeup, I was shooting pool with the guys.

6)  I like to build stuff.  Chairs and desks and cubbies and washer/dryer pedestals.  And right now, I’m working on an apothecary unit and some bookcases.  There is a good-sized section of the garage devoted to tools, and they are mine.  I chose them, I bought them, and I am the only one who knows how to use them.  I am the handy man in this house.

7)  I’m not squeamish.  I don’t freak out over bugs or snakes or mice.  I clean up the dead animals (we’re rural, people – it happens).  I’m not afraid of heights, and I am the one who scales the extension ladder to hang the Christmas lights from the second story.  And I’ve done it while pregnant, too.  I’m pretty fearless.  It’s not unusual to find me leading the charge to bungee jump or cliff dive or go rafting.

8)  I’m drawn to men.  You know how, at social events, the genders tend to separate?  The ladies sit in the kitchen, sipping wine and chatting about schools or shopping or home decor.  The men move outside, swigging beer and playing corn hole and talking about last night’s game.  Guess where I belong?

Except once you get married, it’s no longer acceptable for all of your friends to be men.  People gossip.  And by people, I think we all know that I mean women.  Women gossip.  They ‘talk’ about the girl that’s always hanging out with the guys, and what they are saying isn’t flattering.

I’ve never been one to care what people think – I’m not here to impress.  And so when I first married I continued on, business as usual.  My friends were there long before my husband – why should a ring suddenly wipe them away?

But I found that it must, eventually.

It’s not that I care personally what anyone thinks – quite the contrary.  Any woman who thinks ill of me for talking football with the boys is not one whom I’d ever have common ground with, anyway.   She can just stick it in her ear, as far as I’m concerned.

But kids change everything.

I want to be a mother that my daughters will be happy to have.  I don’t want to embarrass them.  And if the other moms are bad-mouthing the married lady who is always hanging out with not-her-husband men, well, at some point that will be embarrassing.

So these days I sit in the kitchen with all of the other ladies, just as I should.

But don’t be surprised to see me looking out the window, wishing I were still one of the guys.

I miss them.

Writer’s Workshop: The Story of Us

3.) What was it about that movie? Describe a movie you once had memorized.

I hadn’t planned to participate this week.  Even after reading the prompts, I thought I would skip it.  But as so often happens, I was later lured in against my better judgment.

This week you’re getting an abridged version, because I’m following my own restraint policy.
The movie?  The Story of Us.

It came out in 1999, before I was married.  Before I was engaged.

While we were broken up, actually.  While I was longing for someone else.

And something about this movie touched me deeply.  It was so unexpectedly real, and showed an imperfect love in a raw way that I had never seen before.

I’m a love junkie, you see.  I dreamed of a perfect, passionate, all-consuming love.

My grandparents eloped at 16 and 17, and were happily married for 63 years before my grandfather passed away.

My parents have a beautiful story.  That Vince Gill song, Look at Us, makes me think of them every time I hear it.

I’m not so into romance.  Romance fades.  I’m not into flowers or diamonds or sweet nothings.  But love? Real love?  Love gets me, every. single. time.

Elderly couples who still look at one another with adoration in their eyes.  Couples that marry after only a few dates, because they know they have found The One.  Love that conquers all, love that endures.

That endurance, though, is usually depicted in a romantic way in the movies.  We see all of the passion and none of the reality.  The Story of Us was real to me, and it opened my eyes to the idea of love being difficult.  Imperfect.  Not fun.

In ways small and lighthearted:

It is physically impossible to French-kiss a man who leaves the new roll of toilet paper resting on top of the empty cardboard roll. Does he not see it?  DOES HE NOT *SEE* IT?

{love Rita Wilson!}

And ways big and serious:

There’s a history here, and histories don’t happen overnight. In Mesopotamia or ancient Troy there are cities built on top of other cities, but I don’t want another city. I like this city. I know what kind of mood you’re in when you wake up by which eyebrow is higher, and you know I’m a little quiet in the morning and compensate accordingly. That’s a dance you perfect over time. And it’s hard, it’s much harder than I thought it would be, but there’s more good than bad and you don’t just give up!

This movie gave me hope that even when things were bad, there might just be good lurking around the bend.

To be honest, this movie is the reason I took my boyfriend-now-husband back, after swearing I never would.  [That's a whooooole other story]

I believe that love is a choice.  That every day, you have to actively choose to love a person.  Even when you may not like them.  Even when it is hard.  Even when it isn’t fun.  Because that’s what real love is – a commitment, rather than a feeling.

From the movie Captain Corelli’s Mandolin:

“When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.  Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day. It is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body.  No… don’t blush!  I am telling you some truths.  That is just being ‘in love,’ which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being ‘in love’ has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Doesn’t sound very exciting, does it?  But it is!  Your mother and I had it. We had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.”

This is the love that I dream about now.

Real love.

Imperfect stories.

One tree.

Writer’s Workshop – My childhood neighborhood

First just let me say that I had every intention of lightening up around here, but Mama Kat sucked me in with this one.  Sorry Jen – but I have a plan for next week!

The neighborhood I grew up in.  A tiny little village of about 200, not even big enough to warrant a dot on a map.  My house was perched on the edge of a cliff, the front looking down on the river below.

Dated clothing distracting you from river view behind us

The backyard was home to the peach tree I grew myself, planted from a peach pit, which eventually bore so much fruit my dad had to brace the limbs with 2x4s so they wouldn’t break off.

Old school slip-n-slide with small glimpse of young peach tree

There was just enough room to run around the side of the house, which is where my sisters and I tried every summer to catch a bunny in a box.  If you didn’t run carefully, you might fall off into the jagger bushes like our neighbor Tony did.  I’ll never forget the sight of his bloody face, and his assurance that it was fine because his mom wouldn’t notice.

We lived at the end of a dead end street which was perfect for bike riding.  I learned on a glorious 70s banana seat bike, which I’m pretty sure was also decked out with bicentennial streamers.

Rockin' 70s bike

Just down the road lived the Walkos, my dearest friends and second family.  They had 5 children and their house was always a blissful, happy mess.  They reminded me of The Family Circus, and more than anything I wanted to grow up and be just like Chris Walko, the most laid-back mom I have ever known.  My dad was convinced that if she were absolutely furious she’d say something like ‘Oh dear!’.  Her policy was that if it didn’t cause death or dismemberment it was fine with her, so you can see why this would be a most appealing place for a child to spend her time.

I lived at the Walko’s, in the summer especially.  We spent hours climbing trees, swinging on ropes, playing baseball on the hill, traipsing through the woods in search of broken glass… They were my friends, my brothers, my loves.  It was great playing with them, but really I wanted to be one of them.  My sisters were much older and I was lonely – at the Walko’s house I was never lonely.  We played Commodore 64 and melted crayons in the oven and ate break-apart twin pops till our hearts content.  I have not a single memory of my hometown that isn’t entwined with their family, who seemed like an extension of my own.

Me with two of my 'adopted' brothers

Pumpkin Run Park was down the side of the cliff, a long walk in the woods away.  This was where we snuck off to fish or swim or play in the old jail, and scare each other with stories about Stovepipe, all the while pretending to laugh it off.  We were young and brave and fearless and stupid, and it was beautiful.

Entrance to Pumpkin Run

We went to the lockwall and jumped foolishly off of the highest swing set I’ve ever seen, and it was glorious.

It was an idyllic, picture-perfect childhood.

Fabulous metal swing set perched on cliff's edge

And then I got older.

Suddenly the small town that had kept me safe and sheltered seemed smothering.  You couldn’t do anything without everyone knowing your business, and this is not something that a teenager particularly enjoys.

At the same time I felt very isolated.  We had nothing to do.  No fast food, no real [respectable] hangouts.  The mall or the movies were 45 minutes away.  There was no culture.  No diversity.  Differences weren’t valued in a town full of old white people.

I started counting the days until I could escape.

I began writing, and even worked for a newspaper in that big town 45 minutes away.  I rocked out to loud, angst-y music that no one else I knew listened to, and I cried at night, wondering why I was stuck in a place where no one understood me.  The neighborhood that was once so perfect and full of possibility in my eyes became a place I scorned.

And finally, finally, we left.  We moved 3 states away and I found what I had been missing.  I found diversity.  Acceptance.  People like me.

I could wear black and combat boots and dye my hair crazy colors…and still be a part of the FCA and morning prayer around the flag pole.  I could listen to the Violent Femmes and Stephen Curtis Chapman, and I could find myself – whoever that was – without being pigeonholed into a clique.  I was part of it all – the good kids, the bad kids, the outcasts, the in crowd.  I was just me, for the first time in my life.

Me and my future college roomie

And then I cried at night, overwhelmed with gratitude that I had made it out.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

All these years later, my view of the neighborhood I grew up in is conflicted.  I still feel my heart swell when I think of the Walkos.  I remember people like Mr. Hartley, who did everything in sweet, slow motion.  I think of things like my high school bedroom ode to the Chicago Bulls, and I miss long winter days spent sled-riding on the steep hill of the firehall.

Steelers fan from birth

This is the place that brought me my first love and my first broken heart.

The house that built me.

And I can’t help but feel a twinge of sad nostalgia for it all.

A simpler time, a simpler place.  The kind of childhood I took for granted.  The kind of childhood my children will never know.

When I think about it in those terms, I’m ready to move back.

[And with a quick Google search showing me that I can buy a 3 bedroom house on 2 lots with a guest house for under $100k, that sounds even more tempting]

My childhood neighborhood now feels to me like so many other things in an adult life.

Complicated.

Depressing.

Bittersweet.

And beautiful – I can’t forget beautiful.

Monongehala River as seen from Rices Landing, PA river walk

I wouldn’t change a thing – except maybe the move.

The neighborhood gang

Maybe it was a good place to grow up, after all.

More Writer’s Workshop works can be found here.

Serendipity

Serendipity is a propensity for making fortunate discoveries while looking for something unrelated. The word has been voted one of the ten English words that are hardest to translate.

In college I took a creative writing class where I was required to write a paper about my favorite word, and I chose serendipity.  It’s always been one of my favorite words, and it’s quite true about it being hard to describe – it’s more a feeling than anything else.

Unfortunately for me, I was in college long before the Serendipity movie came out, so I couldn’t even draw from that for inspiration.  I was forced to write about my own personal experiences with it, and in some instances could only guess about the eventual outcome of those experiences.  {In retrospect, it’s a quite laughable piece of drivel that I was most fortunate to receive a passing grade for producing.}

The enchantment of serendipity, though, doesn’t really lie with the word itself, but with the concept.  It’s entwined with other romantic notions like fate and destiny, and generally presented to us in a very sparkly, alluring little package.  For a dreamer like me, the draw of serendipity is almost impossible to resist.

Yet over the years, I suppose that dreamy quality of mine has been tainted with a bit of cynicism.  I’ve been burned.  I’m no longer convinced that serendipity exists, and I wonder how often we find only exactly what we were looking for all along.  Isn’t it easier to chalk the course of our lives up to destiny, instead of believing that we determine our own lot in life? I wonder how many times we make a mark in the ‘fate’ column, when really it’s a cop-out that allows us to avoid making an actual decision.

Does putting stock in a concept like serendipity rob you of your own decision-making power?  Does it take away from our sovereign God, who knew the beginning and end of your story even before He created you?

Quote from the movie:  “Holding on to concepts like fate and destiny stops us from doing the real work.”

Serendipity.

Where do you stand?

What If

Mama Kat – who by the way, sort of rocks – does a Writer’s Workshop every week.  I almost always play along, though more often than not, I do not publish them.  Not here, anyway.

I have a tendency to pick the most difficult prompts.  The brutally honest, no-holds-barred kind that are hard for me to get out and even harder to let go of once I do.  It’s therapeutic to write, and I’ve done this as long as I can remember with no need to broadcast it to the world.

But sometimes – sometimes – I wonder what would happen if I did.  What if I really did put it all out there, warts and all?  What would people think?  Would those that love me, stop?  Would they think that they never really knew me at all?  Would they be relieved to know that someone else thinks the same way they do?

I hold myself back for two reasons.  First, because if my life were ‘Sense and Sensibility’, I’d rather be Elinor than Marianne.  I’ve been Marianne and gotten burned.  Better to keep a tight rein on your emotions, I believe.  And second, because I have a ‘fake it ’til you feel it’ policy that I apply to instances when I fear my natural instinct might lead me astray.  Sometimes faking the right thing helps me feel the right thing.  Sort of like plastering a smile on your face until you actually feel happy.

So if I stopped holding myself back, what I might be putting ‘out there’ could be too much.  Too revealing, too personal, too hurtful.

Today isn’t the day I stop holding back, just in case that’s what you were waiting for.  But I wanted to share with you the prompt that rocked me last week.

1.) Lou Holtz (don’t ask me who that is) once said, “life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent how you respond to it.” Do you believe this? Describe a time when you feel like you could have responded a different way and produced a different outcome.

Can you imagine the possibilities here? For 6 days now I have been considering the many directions my life could have taken, had I just done any one thing differently.

Every reaction, every decision, perhaps even every ‘avoidance of making a decision’ produces an outcome, so there are myriad opportunities for change.  One little choice that might have made all the difference in the world.

As a person who has always been intrigued by the concept of fate, this prompt especially appeals to me.

{Maybe I am revealing too much.  Fate and Christianity don’t necessarily go hand in hand, do they?}

Yes, there are many ‘What-Ifs’, and this past week I undoubtedly spent too much time considering them.  But introspection can be healthy, right?

Now I just need to look for the learning.

If you’d like to try this out yourself, Mama Kat posts her prompts on Tuesdays.

As Good As I Once Was

I had an interesting conversation with an old friend last night, and I’ve thought about it all day.

It’s not the first time this has come up recently.  In fact, my fabulous friend Tracy even wrote about it a few weeks ago.

Age.

Aging.

Ageless.

An interesting concept, but admittedly not one I’ve devoted a lot of time to considering.  I’ve never been concerned about my age.  I really don’t care that I’m getting older.  I’ve never minded the changes that come with it, either.

The forehead wrinkles, just starting to form

The bags under my eyes, even on the rare occasion I’m wearing makeup, because I no longer have the luxury of sleep

The stretch marks on my hips that helped me usher 3 little lives into the world.

{I’ll spare you that visual. You’re welcome.}

Although I’ve not yet seen a gray hair, I really don’t care if they come, either.  Vain I am not.  I gave up vanity years ago, when I discovered that I actually like myself just as I am, and I don’t have the time/money/energy to doll myself up so others do, too.   This is it, people – take it or leave it.

But then the conversation.

It was accidental, really – just where the flow of the words took us.  And I’m sure I won’t remember the exact phrasing, but it was something along the lines of, “It’s just kind of depressing to realize that this is it.  I will never look or feel any better than I do right now.”

Well when you put it like that…

Yeah.

Humph.

So it is kind of depressing, isn’t it?  This is it.  This is as good as it gets, from here on out.

{Thanks so much for pointing that out, too, by the way.}

What makes that hard for me to accept is that I don’t really see myself as I am, even now.  I still see this girl

while sadly, the rest of you see this one

The woman you see is older and wiser, no doubt…

But the girl I see is a whole lot hotter.

And today, I am just vain enough to miss her.

I ain’t as good as I once was…and I’m not sure that I’m as good once as I ever was, either.

Drat.