You Are Here . . . For Now.

One of the craziest things about middle age is that you often have as many chapters behind you as you do in front of you. On your life’s map, “you are here” appears right smack in the middle – and for many of us, the more colorful chapters are behind us as we continue in our quest to “make it” in this strange adult world. Sure, you might crank your car stereo and blast a little Paradise City in your mid-priced imported automobile as you make your way to your middle management job at some behemoth conglomerate – but you’re not cutting class and driving across the state at 80 miles an hour to catch a Jayhawks or Babes in Toyland show at First Avenue. You’re not existing on a diet comprised solely of coffee, diet Mountain Dew, macaroni noodles, Raisin Bran, jello, and Busch Light beer.  You’re not writing checks for $3.02 at McDonalds when the urge for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese becomes overwhelming and then praying that it will clear the bank. You earn more than minimum wage now, after all. You probably have a mortgage and a 401(k) and health insurance – and it’s probably been at least ten years since you’ve run out of toilet paper. You take vitamins now. You exercise – not for fun but because you’re trying to stave off old age and death. If you still have hair, congratulations. It’s probably grey. And these days, you color it not because you thought blue hair would be a fun change of pace but because you’re too embarrassed to face the millennials at work with your old lady hair.

Welcome to middle age, where we eat our vegetables and floss. The high-high and low-lows of yesteryear have been replaced with a steadfast predictability. Maybe you’ve accepted your fate. You’re not getting any younger, smarter, or more attractive. Your bucket list likely contains a few completed items and may even have a post-script of “don’t kick the bucket” scribbled on the bottom. If you’re like me, you may be on version three or four of your bucket list – as you’ve come to accept that you’ll never be America’s Next Top Model; you won’t win the Amazing Race; and you probably won’t be discovered and cast as the leading lady in any blockbuster movies. I’ve come to see the world through middle-aged eyes; eyes that require corrective lenses while driving, according to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I sometimes forget that not everyone in my age demographic shares my perspective. Just the other day – a day when I was admittedly fired up and feeling particularly angst-ridden about life, the universe, and everything else – I was conversing with some dude at work about middle-age and ended whatever epiphany I was waxing on about with, “Well, I’ll be dead in 25 years anyway.” This dude happens to be a mere 361 days older than I am and I fear he hasn’t spent nearly enough time pondering his inevitable mortality because he cocked his head to the side and said, “Really? I figure I have at least another 40 years in me.” I wisely abstained from bursting into an a cappella version of Only the Good Die Young, muttered something about adult diapers, and let him continue on in his blissful ignorance.  I should get an award for that kind of restraint.

Since my emotional age is hovering somewhere around 13 and my physical age (if my cardiovascular endurance is any indication) is somewhere around 136, I find middle-age fascinating. I occasionally pause, look around and wonder, “How in the hell did I get here?” I was a weird kid with an active imagination, paralyzing shyness, enormous teeth, and a terrible haircut. I was taller than my teachers by 4^th grade but my height did not make me graceful. I tripped, fell, and blundered my way through gym class, praying for the power to become invisible. I escaped into books and my favorite place was the library or the bookstore. I loved books so much that I wanted to own all of them so I could read them over and over and over again – and that paved the way for a minor crime spree where I “relocated” about 100 books from my school classroom to my own personal library. I was eventually caught and brought to justice and the books were returned, but I sure did miss them.

When you reach middle age, people assume you have an interesting story to tell. I don’t know if mine is all that interesting, but it’s mine – and I certainly never imagined that somewhere between 30-70 years on earth would have brought me to this place. What do you remember most when you look back on your life? Do you remember the first time you fell in love? With a troubled boy you met at a youth group Christmas caroling event, who smelled like Downey fabric softener and Marlboro Reds and happily ever after? Of course you do. You still have that homemade Valentine he sent you in a box of memories in the basement – even though he slept with your best friend and broke your heart. Every time you hear Air Supply – or Metallica, oddly enough – you can smell the fabric softener, you can feel the St. Austin’s gymnasium, and you are suddenly transformed to a 14 year old girl with a bad perm and acid washed jeans feeling all the feels.

When I was 14 or 15 or 16, I had all kinds of ideas and dreams about the rest of my life. I was going to save the world. I’d be a teacher; an actress; an author. I’d fall in love, have 2.5 perfect children with the perfect husband. (And by the way, I had him all scoped out too. His name was Pete and he was perfect. He was also incredibly kind and patient and although he knew I had a mad, crazy crush on him, he never mocked me. He did, however, impregnate and marry my arch rival when we were a mere 18 years old, but they have lived happily ever after.)  I’d have a career, a family, and I’d make my mark on the world. At 18, I went on some dates with a guy who delivered Hostess products for a living. I called him “Twinkie Tim” and I didn’t mind that he wore blue polyester pants. He had access to fruit pies and cupcakes, for Christ’s sake! I was never afraid of a little hard work – and although I was lucky enough to go away to a fine, fine liberal arts college, my heart was never far from Minneapolis. I was too young and too focused on “what’s next” to fully appreciate and enjoy my college experience. Instead, I graduated early and tried to start my adult life right away. Of course, with a liberal arts degree and a teaching license in the middle of a medium-sized recession, it was a struggle. I worked lots of jobs and kept trying to “adult” – and I kept searching for my happily ever after with a boy who captured my heart in 11^th grade and for the rest of my life. (His name was Nate. He was WAY better than Pete.)

My more successful friends went on to graduate school; became lawyers and doctors and police officers. I wore a headset and made outbound calls to people who missed payments on their Target Red cards. I made popcorn at a movie theater. And I sold cigarettes and milk at the Qik N Ezy and endured all the horrible jokes that went along with that. Note: it would be years before I became either “qik” or “ezy”. (Sorry, Mom.) I never planned or expected or dreamed of working in business. In fact, there was a time when I would have peered out at you from behind my John Lennon sunglasses and told you that I refused to work for the man. But 20 years later, I find myself working at a Fortune 15 company where I’m earning a stupid big paycheck (considering my total lack of knowledge, skills, and experience). How the hell did this happen?

There’s a whole lot of reasons how and why I find myself where I am today – but I’m struck by the profound influence a handful of people have had on my trajectory, and it’s those folks whom I’d like to talk about. To every single high school principal who refused to give me a full time job . . . I say thank you. There are many great teachers out there – my baby brother being one of them – but I’m not sure I have what it takes to mold young minds. Not hiring me forced me to find another path. To Joe Kalkman, my former boss and mentor: you saw things in me I didn’t see in myself. You knew I was a Maximizer before I ever knew there was a thing called StrengthsFinder. You knew that I would take something good and I would not rest until I made it great. You gave me an opportunity to create a world class, memorable recognition event and you gave me the latitude to make it my own. In spite of all the turmoil and grief that my personal life brought me, I will never forget what we did at Disney World. I’m the only person I know who teared up at the Animal Kingdom – and you showed me that I was capable of making a difference. You also helped me open the door to my first “real” HR job at Best Buy – and that changed the course of my career.

To Kal Patel, the smartest and kindest leader I’ve ever known . . . I’m sorry you got stuck with a rookie HR generalist. I had no idea what I was doing and you needed someone to help show you the ropes. You talked about networks and nodes and I nodded like I understood, but I mostly was just trying not to wet my pants. Over time, we began to understand each other. You took all kinds of chances on me and you are the single most influential leader and mentor I have ever known. Your generous gift became the down payment for my first home – and buying a house all by myself is one of the proudest moments of this ghetto princess’ life. I’ve bought other houses since then, but I will never be as proud as the moment I closed on my first house in Powderhorn Park. You introduced me to my idols, Gary Hamel and Liisa Valikangas. At the moment when I needed something to believe in, when I needed to know that things happen for a reason, you invited me to consider resilience. You gave me the space to introduce an entire company to the quest for resilience – and while we didn’t save the company from its inevitable fall, you surely did save me from my darkest hours. You believed in me, yes – but more importantly, you showed me that hope and faith were not as elusive as Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. You created the space and the opportunity for me to believe again.

As a kid, I was not only a book thief but also an avid reader. One of my favorites was the Choose Your Own Adventure series. I loved being in control of the story – and each choice I made would open up a new and different path. In life, we can’t control our stories entirely – but we can choose our adventures by aligning ourselves with inspiring allies like Joe, Kal, Gary and Liisa. I want each of you to know that the lessons you shared with me? They mostly stuck. My story exists because you wrote a crucial chapter . . . and for that, I am eternally grateful.

 © 2016 Princess D

I've Got 99 Problems . . . And I'm ALL OF THEM!

I’m a lot of things. I’m tall; middle-aged; and involved in an epic love-hate relationship with my teeth and the professionals I pay to care for them. I’m a wine drinker; a pizza lover; a voracious reader; a community volunteer; and a reluctant role model. I’m an unhappy size 10 with questionable hygiene and a gym membership to a cut-rate “bring your own towel” joint that smells like a dirty sneaker. I’m an animal lover; a registered voter with scheduled jury duty (yay, me); and a recovering fingernail biter. I’m a homeowner; a raging introvert; and I have no idea how to wear eye makeup. None. Was there a class on this that I missed somewhere along the line? I’m a music lover who can’t carry a tune but who sings her heart out anyway. I’m lucky my parents didn’t name me “Grace”; I’m incapable of small talk; and I’m terrified of birds. I find everyday life thrilling enough and I don’t understand you “thrill-seeking” types who ride roller coasters, bungee jump, or jump out of perfectly good airplanes. I’m hypertensive and living with depression. I’m not a real writer but I play one on the internet – not for any audience (although if you’re reading this, thank you) but because the act of writing things down helps me create order from the chaos inside my mind. So . . . I’m a lot of things. But one thing I hope I’m not is ordinary, with trite a close second.

After I finished kissing frogs, found a prince, and decided to buy the dress and the tiara, I stopped seeing my elfin therapist. (He looks like a Keebler elf. A really compassionate Keebler elf.) I’m a big therapy advocate – for other people. You, for example, would obviously benefit from working with a mental health professional. I, on the other hand, am a therapy graduate. It’s just that level of smugness that will bite you (translation: me) in the ass. Graduate or not, I noticed I haven’t been my normal level of awesome lately. I’m short-tempered and I threaten to hit someone with my good whacking shovel a minimum of 30 times a day. My favorite response to any inquiry or statement is, “Shut your word hole.” (My second favorite response is considerably more vulgar. And – if you receive any unexpected, anonymous gift by mail, simply do as instructed. You’re welcome.)

If it was just an anger management problem, I’d suck it up, take up kick-boxing, and move on. But it’s more than that. I’m feeling a lot of sadness on behalf of my posse, too. As a socially awkward, raging introvert with near crippling levels of shyness, I don’t have a lot of friends. I’m a workaholic so I absolutely and truly suck at keeping in touch with people, and at the end of a long day of work, no matter how much I may adore you, I’d rather retreat to the safety of my bedroom and my Cookie Monster loungewear. This is a long prelude to the fact that my inner circle may be small, but if you are part of my posse, it means I choose you over loungewear, which is no small feat. Lately, my small but powerful posse has been struggling with all kinds of grown-up stuff like divorce; infidelity; infertility; addiction; illness; death; elder care; job loss; financial struggles. Their pain has become my pain, and my heart breaks to see these amazing, brilliant, beautiful people bear these incredible burdens.

I had a few brief flashes of clarity that precipitated my (likely overdue) return to the Elf Therapist. After spending an evening with a friend and his family recently, I found myself on the verge of tears for the next 72 hours. I’m not suggesting these two events are related in any way – I mention it only because the waterworks threatened to begin as I embarked on a long drive home in the dark on unfamiliar roads, and I was trying to listen to Siri direct me; wipe my eyes so I could see; and prevent snot from dripping onto what I felt was a fairly sassy ensemble. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure my outfit was procured at some tragic old lady store like Coldwater Creek, so the whole snot thing was a non-issue since I’m going to have to burn it anyway. After walking around the office terrified of springing a leak, I decided to suck it up and I contacted the Elf. He replied immediately and like the nicer men in my life, he let me down gently. He doesn’t see patients anymore. He, too, is a therapy graduate. Now he runs the practice. But since I clocked a lot of hours on his lumpy couch between 2006 and 2010, he was willing to make an exception. Could I come in on Monday at 2 PM?

Well, Elf, as it turns out, I have a job. So 2 PM on Monday isn’t super-convenient for me, but I was so low that my knuckles literally dragged on the ground when I walked.  At 1:55 PM on Monday, I found myself in the throes of a panic attack while I sat and waited for the portal to hell Elf Therapist’s door to open. The cognitive part of my brain understood that therapy is useful and beneficial, my stupid reptile brain (and Catholic upbringing) decided that it would be a swell time to deliver a heaping, wagon full of guilt and shame. I kept waiting for someone (my boss, maybe – or my mom) to show up with a “life” report card that reflects my current failing grade.

We exchanged pleasantries, the Elf and I. Oddly, I felt like going in for the hug – I mean, this guy has been by my side and has heard some shit, to put it mildly. Yes, he’s on the payroll and I get that you’re not supposed to hug the help (not to mention my general aversion to touching other people) but these are my feelings and this is my blog and I wanted to hug my therapist but I didn’t. He’s quite petite, being elfin, and I worried that I might break him. Or that he’d have me arrested. He has a new, rather nice and decidedly unlumpy couch, so I sat down and we got down to business.

It was almost an out-of-body experience. I could hear the words coming out of my mouth and I was appalled. My so-called problems are so trivial in comparison to the very real strife other people are faced with every day. Frankly, I’m both bored and embarrassed at my inability to unfuck myself – a thought I articulated in my therapy session. The Elf was unfazed, but he said two things that stuck with me. First, he wanted to talk about “five year old me” and I went from zero to enraged on the express train. Middle-aged me doesn’t give a flying fig newton about exploring how five year old me was the only girl who didn’t quit the T-ball team or how that’s the year we moved into the house where we had bats in the attic or how five year old me saw my mom cry for the first time when we learned that my grandfather died. Can we stick to what’s relevant, please? The second thing he said was considerably more profound and less irritating and it was this: “You’re not going to uncover any new issues. We all keep returning to the same central themes, better and worse, for the duration of our lives.”

I’m going to be honest with you. I think I took the news that there’s no Santa Claus better than I took this little gem about my central tendencies or themes or whatever. You see, my central issues – the very ones that brought me to therapy in the first place so many years ago – are the three things I fear the most. They’re ugly. They’re trite. And they’re ordinary. To hear that I have a lifetime of revisiting the same smelly trash I thought I got rid of years ago was not exactly welcome news. Needless to say, I’ll be back to therapy on April 11^th. And I’m packing my good whacking shovel in case the Elf decides he wants to talk about four or six or ten year old me.

The final paragraph of my blog is usually where I whip out my ribbon and tie everything up in a beautiful bow. I high-five myself for giving up, giving in, and giving it all I’ve got. Sometimes, I do this not because the words are in me but instead, because I should. I hate to disappoint you and me – but I’m not doing it this time. Life is messy. I’m messy but I am most decidedly and blissfully alive, and as long as there is life in me, I’m not going to should all over myself.  

©2016 Princess D

Confessions of a Secret Optimist

Shameful confession: I’m an optimist. No, worse. I’m a secret optimist. Maybe it’s a side effect of a steady diet of Walt Disney, John Hughes films, and Sweet Valley High tweenage romance books during the 1980’s. Or maybe it’s a side effect of my clearly undiagnosed mental illness – I’m not just depressed, I’m delusional.

I’ve been on a diet since 1986. I’ve gained and lost and gained and lost the same 10 pounds 500 times. Which means I’ve lost and gained 500 pounds in my lifetime. With a track record like that, I’m not sure why Bob Harper and Jillian Michaels haven’t recruited me for a very special Biggest Loser expose. With no real track record of any lasting success, the only explanation for my ongoing battle of my bulge is my stupid secret optimism. Every app I’ve downloaded (I’m talking to you, MyFitnessPal – and your rotten friends MapMyWalk and Jawbone fitness tracker); every nickel I’ve spent on protein shakes and vitamin concoctions; and countless gym memberships and personal training packages are nothing more than proof that I optimistically, blindly believe that one day, I will be a size 8. Frankly, I have a better chance of being struck by lightning, but dare to dream, right?

Of course, there is no greater testimony to my optimism than the infamous frog blog. Between hundreds of bad dates with bald frogs, fat frogs, faux frogs, potentially gay frogs, and the amount of psychotherapy required to maintain any semblance of self-esteem after being dumped; told to “unfriend food”; and lowering my standards so much that I considered a two-time convicted and registered sex offender as a potential mate led me to the brink of bankruptcy. (Not my finest hour, FYI.) You can read more tales of a desperate single gal here if you’re not caught up on all the gory details.

After kissing so very many frogs, I finally hit pay dirt. The last frog I kissed turned into a prince and I married him. And after the fairy tale wedding and the honeymoon is over, nearly three years later, I want to tell you something. Marriage is hard. There are nights when I fantasize about smothering Randy with a pillow just to quiet the snoring so I can get a peaceful night’s sleep. He never imagined that his happily ever after would involve a woman incapable of putting the toothpaste cap on securely and who always leaves her dirty shirts inside out in the laundry basket. I never expected to be married to the human version of the Energizer Bunny. This man literally pops out of bed each morning like a piece of toast, ready to start the day. I require significantly more sleep and caffeine to face the day.

After nearly three years of marriage, I’ll admit it. I can’t stand Randy’s driving. It’s terrifying and it makes me car sick. And he would gladly tell you that he might prefer a more domestically inclined gal – or at least one who can boil water without burning it. He hates the way I make coffee and load the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I’ve given up on having a dining room table that is used for, you know, dining. It’s become a makeshift desk for Randy – even though he has a perfectly good home office downstairs. He wonders why I put so much effort into looking decent for the office and then revert to Cookie Monster lounge wear the minute I return home.

And after nearly three years of marriage, I’ll gladly tell you this. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my life. I love my husband who, although he snores and is a terrible driver, allows me to be 100%, authentically me and loves me anyway. I don’t have to pretend to like football or shitty music or dumb TV shows to impress him. He loves me just the way I am, which probably means he’s a secret fucking optimist too, God bless him.

Is there a point buried somewhere in all this? As we say in our best Fargo accents, “You betcha!” When I think about giving up, giving in, and giving it all I’ve got – I’m struck by how this adage applies in nearly every situation. Consider marriage. I’m giving up on the idea of a perfect fairytale romance – because that’s not how real life works. I’m giving in to the reality that neither one of us is a real joy to live with 24X7 and there will be amazingly wonderful days and some shitty ones. I am giving all I’ve got to making sure that we live happily ever after.

Nate's Legacy

I can’t really justify spending the money to build or buy my very own DeLorean time machine, but I often wonder why Enterprise or Hertz doesn’t have one available for a weekend rental. I don’t want to see my future or rig a lottery win in my past – although neither one of those would suck – but instead, I’d use my weekend time machine rental to rewrite the script on some conversations that seemed inconsequential in the moment but that have stuck with me years later.

What would you say if you knew that this was your very last opportunity to talk to your best friend? Would you say I love you? Would you tell him how he inspires you to be a better person? Would you compliment her artistic talent and tell her how you admire what she stands for? This question is top of mind for me today as I replay the last conversation I had with my beloved Nate 15 years ago.

When he stepped out of my car that slushy, wintery February day, I didn’t realize how precious and fleeting time was. If I’d known this was the very last time I’d see his face, hear his voice, and be able to talk to him, I probably wouldn’t have been such an asshole. Sure, I was tired. I was under tremendous stress at work; worried about money and my weight and probably my teeth; distracted; and needy all at the same time. My patience was non-existent, my compassion was on strike, and I was in a hurry to get to the airport to catch a flight that would take me 827 frequent flier miles away from home – and Nate – at a time when he needed me more than ever.

In hindsight, I can clearly see and feel the depths of Nate’s pain that last day we spent together. He wasn’t himself. He struggled to be present with me and he was obviously distracted. In that moment, I didn’t recognize what was happening, and I made it all about me. Was he mad at me? Had I done something wrong? What was his problem? Why was he behaving this way? It never even dawned on me that he was buried under the weight of his emotional and physical pain and it took every ounce of strength he could summon to get out of bed to go through the motions of living. How I wish my vision was as clear real-time as it is in hindsight!

My last words to this amazing, sweet soul aren’t worth repeating. In fact, they shouldn’t be repeated. To anyone. Ever. Under any circumstances. As I left him that day, I remember being irritated that he didn’t get out of the car faster – and then I sped away, assuming that we’d have 50 more years to make memories and express gratitude. A few days later, the phone rang in my Memphis hotel room with the news. Nate - the boy who’d captured my heart in 11^th grade and held it for the next decade and the man whom I imagined living happily ever after with – had taken his own life. And he died without ever knowing how much he meant to me.

There was a funeral, of course. We sang “On Eagle’s Wings”. The casket was closed, presumably because the self-inflicted gunshot to his head made an open casket a gruesome impossibility. I sobbed uncontrollably and simultaneously tried to rip the casket open so I could climb inside. The priest had to restrain me and I’m not proud of the fact that I cursed a priest, in God’s house. Trust me when I assure you that it takes a special kind of asshole to ruin a funeral. (But be not afraid: I confessed my sins and the very same priest absolved me. Eventually.)

The USPS doesn’t deliver letters to heaven, or whatever version of the afterlife you may choose to believe in. And I wrote letters to Nate anyway. I delivered pages and pages of letters to a mound of dirt that gave way to a headstone in the cemetery I could see from my balcony, reminding me that Nate was gone. I wrote page upon page of apologies for failing him. If I were a better friend; a better woman; a kinder soul – perhaps he would have, could have shared his burden with me. Maybe I could have written a different ending to our story.

I didn’t just write letters, though. I sat at his grave every single day for a year, and I talked to him. Out loud. I told him all the things I wish that I’d said when he was alive. I begged for forgiveness. I apologized for being cold and weak when he needed warm and strong. Nate was a better person than I could ever hope or dream of being, and his death cast a dark shadow over my soul. Why would God take this gentle, kind man and leave a shrieking, selfish, priest-cursing asshole behind? And so, between my letter writing and my grave-talking, I made a promise to Nate that has become my very moral compass. I promised to live a life that honors his memory and that would make him proud.

And guess what? Some days, I know he’s proud of what he sees. Other days, when I binge-watch Real Housewives or when I cop an attitude with a server at Applebee’s, I can feel him cringe. (And really – he should. WTF am I even doing at an Applebee’s?).  I try and there are days when I succeed and there are moments when I fail so spectacularly that I could drown in a river of my own shame.

Suicide cuts one life story short every 12.3 minutes. 105 people will take their own lives today in the United States. Untreated mental illness killed Nate and robbed all of us of his shining light and joy; a loss I feel profoundly every day, even 15 years later.

When you get your hands on that DeLorean time machine, let me know. I’d like a few minutes to return to 2001 to flip the script on a conversation that should have started and ended with, “I love you.” 

Giving Up is the New Giving It All You've Got

In the quest to give it all I’ve got, I need to come clean with you. There are days – more than I’d care to count – where I don’t want to give it all I’ve got. I want to give in, give up, and go back to bed. The idea of forsaking my warm bed and horizontal position for verticalness to take a shower requires an energy investment akin to running a marathon. Up Mount Kilimanjaro. Barefoot. Summoning the energy to brush my teeth and tame my crazy (and obviously greasy, since the whole showering thing is an investment I’m simply not that interested in making) hair requires vitamin supplements and no less than two very large cups of coffee. And when I’ve finished my lackadaisical grooming efforts, I am simultaneously exhausted and wondering why no one is handing me a medal (or at least a cookie!) for my Herculean effort. Welcome to 7 AM in my house.

Eventually, I’ll also dress myself for the day. If you thought grooming was bad, you definitely don’t want to bear witness to what it takes to get me dressed for work. Most mornings, I realize that I either hate all my clothes; left all my pants at the drycleaners and am forced to wear the stupid skirts that are lurking in the dark corners of the closet (that will require me to also wear tights and let’s be honest – we don’t even know if those clothes at the back of the closet even fit anymore – and no one likes wearing tights!); or everything I try on makes me look like a frumpy, middle-aged soccer mom slash linebacker. I probably have the fur of several pets clinging to my backside; my shoes are salt stained and may or may not be missing a critical section of their sole; and the notion of dress for success is a cruel joke. Getting dressed is the success, folks.

I grab my purse, my gym bag, and my rolling laptop bag that contains everything I’ll need for the day, including an odd assortment of cables, pens, and wadded up tissues. Why don’t I throw them away? Well, that just feels like a lot of work. It’s probably cold outside and a smart person would wear gloves, but I lost my right glove a month ago and I haven’t replaced it. I keep the left one in the car as a reminder of better days . . . and as a means to protect at least one of my hands from frostbite when I gas up the car. I’m very, very lucky to have a heated garage (this is a relatively new development in my life – I used to park on the street and have the Minneapolis snow emergency rules committed to memory) so I don’t dread getting into my car. I am, however, incapable of backing my car out of the garage without collateral damage and panic attacks, so my devoted husband takes care of that little nuisance for me every day. We all win when I don’t hit the house, garage, landscaping, mailbox, or my husband’s car. Trust me.

I check my calendar and queue up Pandora. My Pandora stations are my secret shame and also one of my only sources of joy. I like to bounce between a station called Hair Bands, which features the finest selections from Guns & Roses, Motley Cure, Skid Row, Warrant, Poison, Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, and Cinderella and  a station called 90’s Country, which brings me back to simpler times when I lived in the 56267, attended my first and only WE-Fest and after many, many beers thought I could line-dance like Billy Rae Cyrus. I either bang my head or croon, depending on which Pandora station I select, mutter affirmations and swear words to myself as I think about the day ahead, and I drag myself to work if it’s a work day. And let’s assume that it is.

I arrive to work, where my first major hurdle is parking the car. I’m grateful that my employer provides covered parking – but I’m curious why the architect who designed this particular structure chose to place giant concrete columns in every third parking spot. This is not an exaggeration. These concrete obstacles create unique opportunities for door dings when you enthusiastically open a car door or for massive bodywork for those of us who are not good at parking, driving, and spatial relations. On a good day, I’ve arrived early enough to snag a parking spot that is not flanked on either side by a concrete auto-body terror. On a bad day, no amount of White Snake can soothe my nerves as I maneuver my “28 payments remaining” car through the concrete jungle. Once parked, I check my text messages just in case and then I dig deep to summon up the energy to exit the relative safety of my little German automobile. This can take up to 15 minutes. I take a deep breath, give myself a pep talk that usually sounds like some variety of, “get your lazy ass moving, sister!” and so it begins.

I work. I do stuff. I answer emails, talk on the phone, go to meetings, create pivot tables (I do that now. It’s a real thing. Yay, me) and mediocre PowerPoint presentations. I enjoy my job and it’s only those rare moments between meetings where the exhaustion hits me and I wonder how soon until I can go back to bed. After work, I might go to the gym – not because I like exercise but because I love my trainer and he brings me joy with his silly songs and weird dance moves. If I don’t go, I feel guilty because I paid for the sessions and he drove all the way there and I’m a failure at time management and also fat and weak. Better to just go. I might host a book club or attend a human services committee meeting or help with homework or proofread a paper or interpret survey results or rewrite a resume or provide interview coaching or help someone with a job search. And eventually, I’ll rip off my stupid suit, return to my pajamas, and stuff my face with something that’s probably not good for me and obsess about all the stuff I have to do tomorrow. Maybe I’ll pay bills or do laundry or take someone on a college visit or buy toothpaste. I need to schedule a periodontist appointment and a physical and my biometric testing. One of these days, I should call my parents. I should hang out with my nephew. I should go to rowing class. I should stop eating nachos. I should floss more. I should moisturize. I should take a goddamn shower.  I should stop shoulding on myself.

I return to my bed, realizing that every muscle in my body hurts as if I’ve gone nine rounds in a wrestling ring against Hulk Hogan, The Rock, and the entire starting lineup of the Denver Broncos. Since I probably didn’t even exercise today, that’s weird but I’m too damn tired to think about it. I shut my eyes and wait for sleep, which will be interrupted at least 30 times by a combination of dogs needing to pee; cats trying to get comfortable by wrapping themselves around my neck; husbands snoring; and my inability to regulate my body temperature. I’m cold. I’m hot. I’m sweating like it’s a paying job. I’m cold again. I’m middle aged and likely menopausal. Can I get a break? I just want to sleep!

I see the rest of you out there in the real world, and I wonder how you do it. How do you shower regularly, wear cute clothes, raise your families, have great and meaningful jobs, cook nutritious meals, run marathons, do hot yoga, and never run out of toilet paper? You never seem to forget a birthday or ignore your friends because the very act of keeping yourself alive and functioning is all you’re capable of. And then I wonder what my problem is. I have a great life. I should be celebrating every waking moment because my life is so awesome – and if any of you really knew what was going on in the dark recesses of my mind, you’d either slap me or give me a well-intentioned pep talk.

But here’s the thing. This thing I’m describing? It’s real. And it’s what it’s like to live with depression. I don’t need a pep talk, or a Snickers bar, or sunlight or meditation or reminders of how lucky I am. I know that. But depression isn’t logical and it won’t be reasoned away. You can’t sit depression down in front of the jury and present your evidence like you’re Johnny Cochran. Depression is guilty. It knows that. And it really doesn’t care. Certainly, there are steps that I take to manage my depression and they work pretty well most of the time. But sometimes, I forget that I am living with depression. The symptoms disappear and I’m taking regular showers; talking to my friends; and the laundry crisis is under control. I start to think, “Hey – look at me! I’ve conquered this thing! Screw you, depression! I win!” and I stop managing it like I used to. Depression loves my arrogance – and when it shows up to knock me back down a few pegs, depression sweeps in with a vengeance. See also: paragraphs above.

This is my depression and my story. Maybe your depression looks different and comes with a side of insomnia. There are an estimated 14.8 million of us living with depression – and I guarantee you that there are more than 31 flavors. If you’re lucky enough not to be part of this staggering statistic, I envy your clean, shiny hair and please know that I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls and text messages. I hope understand why. I’ll get back to you just as soon as I summon up the energy to take a shower.

Furiously Happy or Just Furious?

I’ve decided that 2016 is the year I’m going to be what blogger Jenny Lawson describes as “furiously happy.” 16 days into the year, I’m acing the furious part of the equation but the happiness piece seems to be alluding me. Perhaps it’s because there is a perpetual arctic breeze blowing up my pant leg and when I dare to leave the comfort of my home, my snot freezes to my face in less than half a second. Perhaps it’s because I have regressed and have been caught “shoulding” on myself more than I care to admit. Perhaps it’s because this is what it means to be a grown-up. It could be any or all of those things or something else – bottom line is, furious is well within my reach, happiness is a little slipperier.

As some of you know, I made an unexpected and serendipitous career change right around Thanksgiving. I still work for the same behemoth company – but I am playing a very different role and I am working in an entirely new part of the business. The learning curve is steep – and I am humbled about twelve zillion times a day when I realize that I know what to do but not how to do it, and I am forced to ask someone for help. My workdays feel very different now than they did just six weeks ago. They are certainly more exhausting but also more fulfilling. I find myself leaving earlier in the morning and finishing later in the evening, and when I return to the ranch, it is off with my work clothes and into my loungewear ASAP.

Ever the optimist (or perhaps I’m just delusional), I miscalculated how much energy a job transition would require, so I’ve continued in my attempts to be all things to all people, including my biggest critic (me) at the same time I’m trying not to get fired from my new job. I will take some responsibility for this, but not all of it. Oh no. Not this time. I’m only too happy to find a scapegoat in Wharton School professor Adam Grant. You see, I had the pleasure of hearing Professor Grant speak at a conference last year – and his talk was so compelling, I decided to watch his video presentation and read his book, Give and Take. Worse, I suggested my entire book club read his book – so I had plenty of opportunity to absorb the concepts and reflect on ways to apply this to my life.

“Why has Adam Grant stolen my happiness,” you ask? Pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of tea, and I’ll explain. The subtitle of his book is “why helping others drives our success” and focuses on the importance of our relationships and networks for our collective success. No one can do it alone and all that jazz. Sounds reasonable, right? I help others, I am happier person. What’s the problem? The problem is the concept of the five minute favor, which was one of my key takeways from the book. I’ve built a house of “five minute favor” cards and damn if it isn’t crashing down around my ears right now.

Technically, the five minute favor is not Adam Grant’s unique invention – that credit goes to a gentleman named Alan Rifkin. (Yet I admire Alan Rifkin and I totally want to fight Adam Grant. Odd.) The five minute favor is this – you should be willing to do something that will take five minutes or less for anyone. Sounds reasonable, right? I mean, surely you can give someone five minutes to answer a question, edit their paper, give them directions, or whatever it is. What kind of crazy bitch picks a fight with a Wharton professor and best-selling author over the notion of putting good karma out in the world?

That was a trick question. It’s me, the crazy bitch in the mirror. I adopted this practice of five minute favors after my book club meeting in October – but really embraced it around the holidays. Here’s what I discovered, in no particular order:

·         Ever heard the phrase, “death by a thousand papercuts”? Pretty sure you can achieve rage by a thousand five minute favors.

·         What starts out as a five minute favor often turns into a series of five minute favors over time that will suck up hours and hours of hours of your time and energy

·         While I am blaming Adam Grant for this, I think we all know that the real problem is me and my inability to say no and set a damn boundary.

If you’ve asked me for a favor recently, don’t worry. This blog isn’t about you (sung to Carly Simon’s You're So Vain). It’s about me. I’m tired. I’m cold. I want a gold star for doing things like remembering to put gas in my car and having dental insurance. I love helping people, especially when I can find a way to help someone unlock their dreams and achieve their goals. And I’ve come to realize that there are only 24 hours in my day and if I don’t manage them a little bit better, I’m going to wind up furious, fat, and exhausted for the foreseeable future.

Could there be a more opportune time to remind myself of my mantra? It’s time to give up (on the things that are keeping happiness out of my grasp); give in (on the things that make me unhappy – it’s part of life and suck it up, buttercup); and give all I’ve got to squeezing the crap out of the joy that I find in everyday life. It’s time to stop “kinda, sorta” trying unless I’m going to be satisfied with “kinda, sorta” results. Spoiler alert: I’m not.

The Year in Review: Giving It All I've Got

The great thing about being a “wanna-be” writer and sporadic online blogging whiner is that you set your own rules. You set your own deadlines. You set your own hours. And you are obviously writing for yourself because who on earth wants to read this drivel anyway? (Hint: no one, not even you.)

An entire season, including two solstices for those who are counting, has passed since I’ve updated my blog. You probably thought it was safe to surf the internet again but I’m back! There is no good reason for my recent blog sabbatical other than the rather lame excuse that giving it all I had started to take up an awful lot of my waking time and energy, and the time I might have spent writing in my blog was earmarked for sleeping. But I’m awake now, and as we count down the final days of 2015, I find myself in an oddly contemplative mood and now seems as apt a time as any to reflect on how that whole, “give up, give in, or give it all I’ve got” thing went.

I tried. I really did. I tried awfully hard to stop should-ing all over myself. Some days were more successful than others and old habits die hard, and as it turns out, I am a compulsive list-maker. (Who knew?) If shoulding all over yourself was an Olympic sport, I would be an uncontested, repeat gold medalist – but even this old dog was able to learn a new trick or two in 2015.

The Year in Review

Give Up - Of my anthem’s three options, giving up is one of the wiliest. It teams up with “give in” and all of a sudden, you convince yourself that it’s okay to quit this thing that you’ve always wanted for yourself. That’s not quite the spirit that this anthem intended. Those days I canceled on Big Bad Trainer Aaron’s workouts because I was too tired/sore/busy and then put a gold star on the “give up” board? Wrong! I caught myself giving up on things I shouldn’t, like missing a workout or a date with an old friend because I was “busy” with something else. I’ve learned to be mindful of my moods and my innate desire to throw in the towel and curl up on my bed. When I want to give up, I pause. Do I really want to give up? Or do I just not want to do this thing right now? There’s a difference. And being aware of it has kept me in the game.

I have managed to give up a few things I’m proud of this year, though, including:

• Biting my fingernails! Sure, I might pick at a rough cuticle every now and again but my fingernails are no longer considered a low calorie snack food. I’ve discovered the joy of the shellac manicure. It dries in seconds and the polish doesn’t chip or crack so I can rock nails in a variety of bold and zesty colors.
• Cleaning my house! Okay, not really. But after my husband started bringing home a paycheck and we rebalanced the household budget, I discovered a little extra money that wasn’t there before. Sure, I could save it or use it on manicures (!) but instead, I’ve hired a cleaning service to come in once a month and deep clean the palace. Does it get furry between cleanings? Sometimes. But do I feel guilt and shame about the state of my house’s cleanliness anymore? No, no I do not. And that’s worth the $100 monthly investment in my book.
• Acting like a victim. Life isn’t something that is happening to me. It’s happening all around me – and I can choose to star in the story of my life or let someone else write the script. If I don’t like my hair, I can cut it. If I don’t like my weight, I can exercise and diet. If I don’t like my job or my boss, I can find something else to do. Guess what? I did all of the above this year.
• Whining about paying the bills. I put on my big girl panties, whip out my checkbook, and I pay the bills with only a minimal amount of cursing, mostly under my breath.
• Avoiding the dentist. I’m not sure I can fully count this as a win, since my now regular visits to the dentist have introduced a new specialist into my life, the periodontist. Both of them will be able to retire at a young age based on the amount of disposable income and insurance monies I have devoted to my teeth this year. Dad, take note. Your investment in my pricey orthodontia was not in vain.

Give In – Some might describe me as stubborn. Those who choose such adjectives to describe me may also discover my size 8.5 lodged in their backside, since that is a very unflattering way to describe your princess. I prefer the term tenacious to stubborn, FYI. As a very, very tenacious individual, giving up isn’t something I do well. When and if I do give up, the very act is usually accompanied by shouting and gesturing.

But even a princess knows that compromise is part of life, and when I got out of my own, possibly stubborn, way, I gave in when I needed to:

• Helped my husband write and edit his schoolwork without whining. Trust me – I was going to get roped into helping him one way or another, and it was easier to just do it and shut up about it. I have not, however, given up on my hope that he will learn to respect the house rule of “THERE IS TO BE NO TALKING DURING THE REAL HOUSEWIVES.”
• Acknowledged that I am a woman of a certain age. I shop at J. Jill. I color my hair because I have to, not because I want to. And I’m too old to apply for a job at the FBI or the CIA; I’m too old to donate my unused eggs as a surrogate; and I’m of an age where regular screenings for a variety of types of cancer is part of my yearly routine.
• Re-evaluated my goals in areas where I feel “stuck” to determine whether or not I even want these things anymore.
• Maintained my weight all year. I gained some, I lost some and I’m pretty much exactly where I was a year ago.
• And I surely gave up on some of the stuff I thought all grown-ups do but I didn’t feel like doing – like writing a will and hiring a financial planner. Maybe next year. Maybe never!

Give It All I’ve Got - I didn’t often feel like I was giving it all I’ve got in the moment, but with the benefit of hindsight, I can see that I managed to do some pretty noteworthy things in 2015, including and in no particular order:

• Celebrated two years of marriage to a pretty cool guy
• Set a goal to achieve my SHRM-SCP certification (it’s an HR thing and it’s as boring as it sounds) and achieved it. I passed the certification exam last week.
• Successfully delivered the change management for a project that touched over 150,000 employees at work – a project that had me shaking in my shoes – and did a pretty good job.
• Took a vacation and went to Italy with my better half
• Appointed as a member of the Golden Valley Human Services Fund Commission where I get to help raise money for charitable organizations that serve Golden Valley residents and their families.
• Helped my father-in-law and husband grow a big pumpkin. It wasn’t a giant this year. But it was fun.
• Religiously logged my food with MyFitnessPal.com. I think I missed logging maybe 10 days all year, and although my weight is the same, this has helped me learn to be a more mindful eater. Now I just need to do something about it!
• Reconnected with old friends, thanks to the miracles of social media. From my 9th grade pen pal from San Francisco (who married the very same boy she dated way back then!) to my high school classmate I hadn’t seen in 20 years to former colleagues . . . it’s great to see what these amazing people are up to.
• Started a book club! As I was packing for a business trip, I tossed a book into my bag and realized that it was one of about 30 books I not only wanted to read, but that I wanted to talk about with other people. So, I invited everyone I knew to join me for pizza and a discussion about Arianna Huffington’s book Thrive. I couldn’t believe that ten amazing women showed up to eat and chat. I asked if they’d come back again for another book and another discussion and they said yes! Thus, “Pizza and the Pursuit of Happiness” was born. It’s a guilt and shame-free book club that meets every other month (or so). We’re currently reading Shawn Achor’s Happiness Advantage for our January 7th book club meeting. (Hit me up if you’d like to learn more).
• Expressing gratitude regularly. I wish I was doing this daily but I’m not quite there yet. I’m using an app called Gratitude Journal and trying to remember to journal/log something every day. I’m a sporadic app user but getting better, and I’m committed to incorporating more gratitude into my daily life.
• Took a leap of faith in my career and am trying something new. I’m only four weeks in so check back later for more. This counts because I saw something and I went after it. I wasn’t the obvious choice, it wasn’t a slam-dunk, but I gave it my all and voila!

Here’s what I didn’t do in 2015:

• Set any resolutions
• Lose 10 pounds
• Run a 5k
• Learn to cook
• Save more money
• Beat myself up for not doing any of the above-mentioned items!

Giving up on resolutions – and a solid attempt at not shoulding all over myself – were among the better decisions I made in 2015. Resolutions are so 2014. In the meantime, if anyone is looking for me, I’ll be over here, giving it all I’ve got.

Happy New Year!