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!

I'm Okay, You Need Therapy

It’s been almost 240 days since I embarked on this adventure to give up, give in, or give it all I’ve got. I like to think of myself as the Kenny Rogers "Gambler" of the 21^st century. I know when to hold ‘em and all that. By my calculations, 2015 is 60% complete (give or take a percentage point) and now seems like a perfectly good time to pause and consider what I’ve learned.

I think we reach a point in our lives when we stop learning a lot of new information and instead, we re-learn and reinforce something we’ve always known to be true but likely tried to outrun, outsmart, or ignore. Consider, for example, my deep thoughts for 2015:

1.    Life is short and time is fast. There is no pause, no replay, and no rewind button. I know that time doesn’t always feel fast – like when you’re having a root canal, waiting in line at the DMV, or sitting in traffic. And while there are moments when the time seems to go agonizingly slow, it really does move awfully quickly. How did I get to be 42 years old when just yesterday I was three years old and crying because Sesame Street was over? Has it really been 25 years since I graduated from high school?

I grew up watching cartoons like the Jetsons, set in the future that featured things like video-conferencing, watches that double as phones, and cleaning robots – in an age where we had rotary dial phones that were tethered with long cords and where there were only five channels on the television. I can hardly believe that I’ve lived long enough to see the Apple watch, FaceTime, Skype, Roomba, and for the love of god, DRONES.

I’ve lived long enough to have experienced loss. All my grandparents have passed away and I have nothing more than photographs and memories (and my Grandma Mary’s wedding ring). I’ve lost money; I’ve lost teeth and skin elasticity; I’ve lost my temper; and I’ve been unceremoniously dumped. I’ve lost track of people I once called my very best friends. And I’ve lost dear friends to tragedies that are unspeakable. For the record, flying cars and talking dogs are cool – loss sucks.

2.    There is no time like the present. (See also: life is short). If life is short and time is fast, there is no better time than right now to chase and catch your dreams. Buy the red leather purse. Say hi to Rob Lowe. Finance your car payment and use the extra cash to pay for a trip to Italy with your better half.

True confession: this is not my strength. I am a control-freak and an obsessive planner. We use the Google calendar for everything in my house. I use it to remind myself to pay bills; to schedule workouts; and to plan date-night. I am almost never in the present because I’m either beating myself up about what I should be doing or could be doing or did wrong. Rumor has it that meditation will help with this. See also, My Strength, Not.

I’m a work in progress. Spending a week in Italy with my beloved was both a testament to my extreme planning (I may have been counting down the days to this trip for the past 23 months!) and a true opportunity to just be. As our lives get busier and busier with various minutia disguised as importance, taking the time to be together and go on an adventure reminded me of the why. Why I go to work every day. Why I married this guy. Why I am so damn blessed.

3.    I’m okay. You, on the other hand, probably need help. Ha, ha! Joking! Please don’t hate on me on the internet. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but it’s a big deal to me. I have spent most of my life feeling like I should apologize for my very existence. When I go to the movies, I make sure my big head isn’t in someone’s way. When I sit in meetings, I marvel at how much smarter and more articulate and better educated everyone else in the room is. I spend much of my time feeling like a fraud – a big, fat, lazy, stupid fraud. I’m not sure where I got the idea that everyone else in life had a secret decoder ring and a playbook. The logical part of brain understands that I’m not part of some conspiracy theory where everyone else is amazing and I suck. But tell that to the irrational part of my brain and the voices in my head!

When I travel for business, I read self-help books on the plane. If that plane goes down, damn it, I want to be the best version of me possible. (Again, I joke!). And although I am a work in progress and I stumble from time to time, I’m really trying to remember that I am okay. I am enough. And for the love of god, I wouldn’t talk to another human being on earth, not even my worst enemy, the way I talk to myself. I’m breaking the cycle of abuse. Or at the very least, trying to.

So, the progress report . . . .

Give Up: On the idea that I need to be perfect.

Give In: I’m flawed but so are you. And we’re both okay. Actually, I am pretty awesome.

Giving It All I’ve Got: 240 days and counting with MyFitnessPal. I sometimes forget to track, but I am more intentional than ever and I think I might be doing less mindless eating. I haven’t weighed myself in a month (I don’t want to hate myself based on the numbers that might show upon the scale) so I can’t tell you if this is helping or not.

On the physical fitness front, I try. I know that Yoda would not be impressed since he is all, “Do or do not, there is no try.” But he’s green and he talks like an asshole, so screw Yoda. I see Big Bad Trainer Aaron as much as I can afford to (time and money wise); I bought a Jawbone Up fitness tracker with a Groupon and am trying to move more and sleep better. I see incremental progress and I have to train myself to be okay with that. As long as I’m not getting worse, I’m getting better. And I’m okay.        

I recognize that I am starting to sound like a broken record – and I also am smart enough to know that my personal transformation is a marathon, not a sprint. This caterpillar needs time to become a butterfly.

Love Life (and Rob Lowe, because, HELLO!)

"Life is unpredictable and has very different plans for all of us. There will be heroism and tragedy; each new day has the promise of both. Learning to live in (and accept) that dichotomy provides the adrenaline to always move ahead and be grateful for what we have. It can power us all to great things if we recognize it. It can be the source of our greatest possibility, to know and to feel with every level of our consciousness that we are alive. That this, right here, right now, is our life . . . Our life is ours. It is the only one we will ever have. And we should love it." – Rob Lowe, Love Life.

I don't know about you, but I find it oddly comforting to discover that Rob Lowe is a human being. I mean, he's obviously a delightful specimen of what a human being can be and arguably more talented and determined (and hotter) than most of us – and yet, he is, at his core, wrestling with the very same challenges that I, a middle-aged, middle-class, middle-manager struggle with in my own journey. What is my purpose? Am I living up to my potential? And am I really doing what I should with my one and only wild life?

Admittedly, I'm stuck on the "all Rob Lowe, all the time" channel at present, since I was fortunate enough to hear him speak at a conference last week. Not only did I have the privilege of a front row seat, mere feet from the very same star whose Tiger Beat posters plastered my bedroom walls, I also got an autographed copy of his book and had the chance to have my picture taken with him. While hearing/seeing/meeting Rob Lowe was a bucket list moment for me, he was the icing on the cake. The conference I attended, the inaugural Work Human event, could have been designed with me in mind. Each speaker, each breakout session, each topic seemed plucked from my anthem and I had the honor of hearing some of the world's thought leaders give their perspective on why we all need to give up, give in, or give it all we've got. From Ariana Huffington to Adam Grant to Shawn Achor to Rob Lowe, the message was clear. The time has come to recognize and embrace our human fallibility. We're people, not robots, and the beauty of our existence lies in our humanity. We are all deeply flawed and we are all deeply capable of amazing things. We will screw up – sometimes in spectacular fashions – and it is in the moments where we marinate in our mistakes that our true greatness emerges. It's not falling down that makes us special, because we all fall down (thanks a lot, gravity!) but rather, it's our ability and willingness to pick ourselves back up. Some of us gracefully dust ourselves off; others of us take a moment to feel sorry for ourselves; and some of us check out our bruises before we get up and try again.

When I packed my suitcase for my trip to Orlando (and to Work Human), I wasn't expecting this conference to get under my skin and nourish my soul. Rather, I was looking forward to warm weather, sole control of the TV remote, and of course, Rob Lowe. I planned to catch a nap on the plane ride down so I didn't have my usual self-help books or slapstick Melissa McCarthy movies on my Kindle this time. Instead, I put in my ear buds and listened to Tony Burroughs audio book, Get What You Want: The Art of Making and Manifesting Your Intentions. I listened to the first couple of chapters and quickly realized that this isn't the kind of book you're meant to listen to. Rather, you're meant to spontaneously open the book to one of the 120 messages in the book and receive the wisdom that to help you in that moment. In spite of my failure to follow instructions, I listened and kept an open mind and I set a single intention on that Delta flight; to learn something new and to be inspired at the conference. Mission accomplished.

When I left Orlando 72 hours later, that whisper of discontent that follows me everywhere I go and makes me both question my sanity and wonder whether I'm fulfilling my destiny was still present – but it was definitely a whisper this time versus the shouting I've been enduring as of late. When I arrived in Orlando, I was in a state of chaos. When I left, I was in a state of gratitude. The only thing I changed was my lens. I wiped the dirty fingerprints and smudges off the lens I was using to view my life and suddenly, I was able to clearly see and count my abundance of blessings. And that, my friends, is the essence of giving it all I've got.

As a result, I'm actually wearing big girl pants a lot more frequently now. (Sorry, fuzzy Cookie Monster pants. I'll be back for you again soon, I'm sure!) Here's the latest progress report:

Give Up: I've given up the pity party I've been hosting and attending on my own behalf lo these last few weeks. Just because I'm wearing big girl pants doesn't mean that I'm also wearing rose-colored glasses, though. I still have sleepless nights; I still have long days; I still have gray hair and an extra ten pounds I can't shed. I still worry about paying the bills; losing all my teeth; and whether or not my boss likes me. I still second-guess myself; say mean things; act ungrateful; and leave toothpaste spit in the sink. And . . . I'm actively giving up the glass-half-empty view on life. I am one of the luckiest bitches I know. I own two houses; I have a sassy new car; I have a husband who is my rock and my cheerleader; I have a job that allows me to have all these things; and in a few weeks, I'm going to Rome with my husband because I can. I'm relatively healthy; I love my pets; and damn it, my teeth are just as white as Rob Lowe's!

Simply put, I'm giving up on a scarcity mentality. I have everything I could ever want and more and I will embrace a grateful mentality of abundance.

Give In: I'm almost 42 years old – although on the inside, I am the same insecure 14 year old I was just yesterday. I have to stop comparing everyone else's outsides to my insides. And I have to embrace the fact that at 42, I'm middle-aged. I buy clothes at Coldwater Creek and J. Jill, not Forever 21 or wherever the young people shop. I have gray hair and age spots and gravity is moving some of my parts to places I'd rather they not go. I can't stop the aging process but what I can do is be grateful that God has chosen to grant me 42 years (almost) on this planet and be thankful for each day.

Give it All I've Got:
172 days of food logging on MyFitnessPal and I've actually lost some weight! I'm about four pounds away from my goal weight – and I'm still working out with Big Bad Trainer Aaron so I'm building muscles while evicting fat. I hate to admit it, but I think food logging works. Perhaps I could have saved myself some trouble (and several pairs of fat pants) if I'd embraced this notion earlier.

I also recently bought a fitness tracker with a Groupon. It was a smoking deal for a Jawbone Up, and like MyFitnessPal, I have a love-hate relationship with this device. I love how it makes me more mindful of what I'm doing but I hate the daily shaming when I fail to reach my step goal. However, in the spirit of giving it my all, I simply take it all in stride and try to be a little better today than I was yesterday – and on those days when I'm not, I don't give up – I just try again.

I'm also giving all I've got to being the kind of person I can be proud of. I volunteered to teach a resume writing workshop for a college class the other day. I helped several broke students develop resumes that will hopefully help them get jobs and make their mark on this world. I say please and thank you. I tell people I appreciate them. And I generally try to not be an asshole, which can be harder than it sounds, but which is also generally good advice for all of us.

With gratitude,

Princess D . . . trying not to be an asshole but not giving up my tiara.

Ps. Don't we make a nice couple?

Blog Like No One is Watching (Reading, Whatever)

It’s been over 30 days since I last put fingers to the keyboard to tell my story. Since I write as a form of self-care / free therapy and not for an audience, there really shouldn’t be any sense of guilt or shame associated with my failure to maintain and update a blog that is likely read by no one (other than my husband and my mother, and I can’t even guarantee that they’re reading this.) And yet . . . one of my greatest strengths is my unique ability to should all over myself, even when there is absolutely no rational reason to do so – which is exactly what’s been going on lo these last four weeks.

I caught myself jotting down a “should do” list while sitting at the airport the other day. Not surprisingly, it contained the usual items like exercise, clean my closet, walk the dog, and go to the dentist. (Sidebar: I notice that I write about going to the dentist a lot. I want to go on record as explaining that I am not, in fact, a Snaggletooth but I am in need of a dental implant to correct an unfortunate and gory incident that occurred at the clumsy hands of my former dentist several years ago. This process is both time consuming and costly. I can have tooth implanted or I can purchase three used Korean cars. I hope I’m making the right choice.) I was shocked and horrified, though, to note that I listed “update blog” on my “to-do” list! How did my hobby, my writing project, and my tenuous grip on normalcy get all mixed up in this musterbation scheme? 

Have I truly fallen off the wagon? Am I giving in where I should be giving up? Giving up where I should be giving it all I’ve got? Am I secretly making and breaking resolutions? And does anyone other than me actually give a crap about my progress anyway?  Who am I kidding? Even I’m not that interested in my own story. 

Before I launch into my progress report, I need to ‘fess up. I’ve fallen off the wagon a bit. While I’m trying to give it all I’ve got, I’m definitely “shoulding” on myself these days. I’m living with a whisper of discontent (which occasionally escalates in volume to a full-on shrieking howl) and I can’t figure out how to silence it, which means that I spend a lot of time in my own head. When I’m not trying to figure out the meaning of life, I’m hosting a pity party for myself because here I am, middle-aged, and I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to be doing with my one wild and precious life.  Instead of giving it all I’ve got, I’m obsessing, ingesting inordinate amounts of empty carbohydrates, and napping like it’s my paying job.  All this shallow introspection is exhausting, which makes me want to eat more salt, fat, and grease, which in turn makes me want to nap again. Lather, rinse, repeat and you get the idea.

What’s my problem, anyway? Whatever it is, you can bet it’s some kind of first world, white girl problem. Although who am I kidding? I crossed over into middle-aged white woman problems a long time ago, and I have the hot flashes to prove it. Is it just another bout of my friend, clinical depression, paying me an unwelcome extended visit? Is it a midlife crisis? Is it menopause? Is there some weird reason that as women we feel compelled to link every mood swing to our damn ovaries? Whatever the reason, I’ve got a case of the Weltschmerz. I somehow thought that by my 40’s, I’d have life figured out. I’ve kissed frogs, found a price, moved into a castle (if you define castle as, “split level with excessive wood paneling that looks like the set of Three’s Company and that is conveniently located right next door to my in-laws,” then yes – I do in fact dwell in a castle. Should you use some other definition, well, bite me.) and I have a FICO score I’m not ashamed of. With the exception of my chronic hypertension, depression, and my current dental woes, I’m healthy, building wealth in my 401(k), and if gray hair is any indication, also quite wise. 

But . . . I can’t sleep at night; I can’t stay awake during the day; and days when I actually wash my hair are so few and far between that they qualify as holidays in several developing nations. Every morning, when my feet hit the floor, I don’t think about how grateful I am to be alive – instead, I wonder, “Is this all there is?” and on work days, “Can I really do this for another 20+ years?” The voices in my head are a broken record – and frankly, they are singing a tune I don’t much care for. Yet I’ve been stuck.

Have I given up on giving it all I’ve got? Not exactly. But progress has been slow as I’ve fallen back into my old ways, old habits, and the valley of self-pity. Here’s the current scorecard, for anyone who is either reading or keeping score:

Give Up: Aside from giving up on basic hygiene and any socializing that requires me to bathe; put on big girl pants (I like to wear my furry Cookie Monster pants all the time, thank you); leave my bed; or interact with humans, I haven’t given up much by design. I realized belatedly that I may have given up on myself, which is not exactly the way this little experiment was supposed to pan out. I’m disappointed to find that I’ve abandoned my writing; ashamed at what I perceive to be my lack of determination or willpower or whatever it is that normal people have; and wondering when I decided to throw up my hands and act like a victim of my own life.  WTF, Princess?

Give In: I’m going through the motions. I get up, I go to work, and I show up and do what I’m supposed to do. I put one foot in front of the other. I’ve given in to the depression and I’m ready for it to move on. I feel so disconnected from everything – like I’m watching my life happen on the world’s least interesting reality program – and although I nod, smile, and respond when and where it’s expected, I’m not really present. If anyone has noticed, they haven’t commented on it, which leads me to believe that we’re all awfully busy being lost in our own heads and our own shit and most of us are preoccupied with the “all me, all the time” show anyway. I’m ready to change the channel, personally.

Giving It All I’ve Got: I’d love to tell you that I’m giving it my all, but let’s keep it real. I have to give it all I’ve got just to get out of bed and fake-function as an adult. I have good days, I have bad days, and I’m proud to say that I haven’t abandoned the goals I shared with you at the beginning of the year – but I’ve had to learn to be gentle with myself and to practice forgiveness when I don’t meet my own unreasonable expectations.

150 days of food logging on MyFitnessPal has helped me be a more mindful eater . . . most of the time. I have cheat days – some by design and some by accident – but instead of lying to an app that I’ve voluntarily installed to help me be healthier or giving up on food logging, I log my dates with Ben & Jerry and vow to try harder tomorrow.  Guess what? I’ve even managed to lose some weight – and more importantly, I now think before I eat . . . most of the time. 

I’ve missed a few workouts with Big Bad Trainer. But I’ve tried to compensate by getting some cardio in, and I even bought a “wearable fitness tracker” with a Groupon to help motivate me to be more active. It primarily serves as an additional source of guilt and shame, but I’ve been wearing it religiously and I do catch myself parking further away from the door or squeezing in a quick dog walk to increase my step count for the day. In other news, no woman ever achieved 10,000 steps a day while wearing heels and a suit. Unless she’s a mutant.

I’m still thriving – my eight week experience has extended beyond eight weeks, and it’s become part of my regular routine. Since I’ve managed to lose about five pounds – due to diet, exercise, or Thriving or some combination thereof – I’m going to keep doing what works.

Lastly, I’m giving all I’ve got to being a cheerleader for the people I love. I am so proud of my high schooler for completing a very challenging junior year with honors classes, AP tests, jobs, teenage hormones and anxiety, and two trips abroad. She makes me proud every day and I can’t wait to see what her senior year and beyond bring. 

And then there’s my prince. He started interning at a treatment center two weeks ago – and it is so inspiring to watch him spread his wings and fly.  I’m only marginally jealous of the fact that he’s figured out what he wants to be when he grows up while I continue        to struggle with that question in my own life. J

I haven’t given up yet – I’m still writing and still fighting – even if no one is reading or watching!