Reflecting on Interactions with a Stranger

About a month ago, I wrote the following Facebook post. 157 people reacted to it; 24 people commented. Everyone was touched by the power of a moment when two very different people from very different worlds connected for a few minutes and made each other's day. Here's what I wrote.

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I was waiting tables for the lunch shift today, and near the end of the shift, this old guy in a US Navy hat shuffled in. He was kind of gruff, didn't really make eye contact, wanted "a Bud and it better not be that Bud light stuff, just a Bud."

The bartender told me his name was Dave.

So I got him his beer and I got him his lunch and I stopped by to check on him a few times, and each time I stopped by, he warmed up a little bit more. He told me I was working really hard, and I told him I was a high school teacher and was used to being on my feet and moving (and thinking) constantly and trying to take care of everyone in the room.

At the end of the shift, he had cashed out and was sitting up at the bar. I sat up there too because I wanted to grab a cider and eat my cold fries. It would have seemed awkward to sit two seats down from Dave, so I just sat next to Dave.

He gruffly asked me about my tattoos and why I would ever do anything like that. So I told him what each one of the tattoos meant. And then he asked me some more questions. And I asked him some. He got on me about being on my phone, so I showed him how Life360 worked, and how I could see where my kids were. He asked me if it bothered my kids that I was tracking them, and I said no, they had to set the permissions in their phone for it to work, so they were totally on board, and they would track where I was too. I said I had a really good relationship with my kids. He talked about how he never wanted kids and couldn't imagine what it was like, but he'd heard it was really painful and really hard.
We ended up talking for close to an hour. He told me how to bet on horses and that I should go to the track. I told him how to sleep on trains in Europe, so you didn't have to pay for hotels or housing. And at the end of it he looked at me for a minute and then he said, "you are a remarkable woman."

I almost fell off my barstool. I've been called a lot of things in my life, but this was a first.

I don't know Dave's life story, and I don't know how many more years he has left on this earth. But today, I hope I made Dave feel seen. In return, he gave me the most incredible compliment I think I've ever gotten in my life.

A remarkable woman.

That's a tall order to live up to, Dave, but thank you for saying it, and for giving me the incentive to be that very person.

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Two weeks later, I was working with the same bartender when she told me about what had happened with Dave that day.

He came in drunk. He awkwardly flirted with the bartender, but she set him straight right away. She's not available. Here's your Bud, Dave.

He continued to make comments.

He tried to steal a pint glass.

His fly was unzipped at one point.

He may have been exposed. She tried not to look.

Man, Dave, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. And it turns out that you were a creep. Maybe you were hitting on me, too, and I was taking you at face value.

Does that change how I feel about our first interaction? Does it take away a little bit of my hope for humanity, my belief in the inherent good of people? Or does it simply just reinforce the fact that we are all also inherently flawed, that we all have the power to raise each other up, and we also have the power to cause great harm?

Photo by paul mocan on Unsplash

If we accept people without skepticism, they will eventually tell us who they are.

Sometimes they will be fantastic people who make our lives and the world a bit better. Sometimes they will be remarkable people.

Sometimes they will be Dave.

Sometimes they will be both.

Goddess

My good friend Alicia was packing up the U-Haul, taking the things she loved and leaving most of it behind. She tasked me with going through her closet, filling donation bags, throwing out the things that couldn't be donated. I took a few things for my daughter: a pink scarf, a frilly shirt, a skirt, a sweater. And I took one thing for me: a bright green kaftan, one size fits all. Maybe it would fit. I liked the color.

Later, I texted Alicia that I had grabbed the kaftan. "Is it the green one?" she asked. "If so, it was hand-batiked on St. Kitts! I LOVE this for you!"

I laughed. Of course it was hand-batiked on St. Kitts. I love Alicia dearly, but she and I have lived very different lives. 

But I told her "YES!" and she replied with a heart.

I pulled the kaftan over my head once, later in the week, to make sure it really was "one size fits all" and not just "one size fits some." It was big enough to fit me, flowing down to the floor. I looked at myself in the mirror. Where would I wear such a thing? I have one other kaftan that I love, but I've never drummed up the courage to wear it in public. I'm a cargo pants and hoodies girl, not a wearer of kaftans.

But last night, as I was pulling my sweaty, dirty sweats off after working in the yard all day, I couldn't handle any more clothing scratching at my skin. I saw the kaftan out of the corner of my eye. Why not? All I was going to do was fold laundry. Why not wear the kaftan?

It had these long ties hanging down the inside, dangling on the floor. I was stumped. I flipped it the other way, but that was decidedly inside-out. The ties belonged on the inside.

So I slipped it over my head, and then realized that the ties were meant to tie around my waist, anchoring the top of the kaftan to my chest. I tied them in a bow behind my back.

And then I looked in the mirror and realized: 

I AM A FUCKING GODDESS.

It was gorgeous. It was more than gorgeous. I was gorgeous. I don't think I've felt that beautiful in a decade. 

I floated downstairs and folded laundry in my goddess kaftan, hand-batiked on St. Kitts. 

I don't know where I'll ever wear it; maybe it will become my folding-laundry kaftan, and I will become an ironic domestic goddess, just for a few hours every week. 

I don't think I've ever felt that I deserved a kaftan, hand-batiked on St. Kitts. I could never imagine myself in something so bold, so beautiful.

Before now.

Photo by Logan Gutierrez on Unsplash

  

Notes From an American Across the Pond

 We have been traveling for 7(ish) days. The ish is because we were trapped in Detroit for an extra 24 hours, making our stay in Munich incredibly brief before we jumped on a night train to Warsaw. The travel gods are not fans of us (or the hundreds of thousands of others stranded all over the world) after CrowdStrike leveled the playing field and unapologetically grounded us all. Our luggage finally caught up with 3/4 of  us on day 6 -- Tracy’s luggage has now been assigned a “claim number” and has been “located,” whatever that means. Although we despise fast fashion ethically, we embraced it unapologetically, as we could get underwear and socks and t-shirts in our diverse sizes quickly and cheaply.

It’s been an incredible trip so far, full of “stop-and-take-note” reminders.

1. 
   I don’t need much to be perfectly comfortable. Two clean pair of undies, comfy shoes, a bra without wires, socks that don’t smell like French cheese, something to change into so that I can wash what I’m wearing…this is all I really need. A toothbrush and deodorant. A hair tie. 
   

1.1: the reality -- after 6 days, the ability to actually wash my hair and put on pajama pants was a tiny piece of heaven. Sign me up for the American excess. Do I need 50 t-shirts and 50 pair of shoes? No, I do not. Do I need 5-10 of each? I’m gonna say yes. Even the comfiest of shoes will give blisters after a while; even the best-fitting T-shirt will tag you as a frumpy American when everyone else is wearing beige on purpose. 

2. People in Europe are ridiculously nice. The French? The German? The Poles? Really nice. It’s not hard to be respectful and kind and if you are respectful and kind, it’s amazing how kind they are back at ya. Do Europeans stare more than Americans? Yes. That will always be unsettling, because we Americans spend the majority of our lives pretending that we aren’t looking and we are trying to avoid eye-contact. But are Europeans rude? Nah. They are just living their lives. We are the ones invading their space and demanding they drop everything and assist us, whilst also speaking our language. 

2.1: It’s not hard -- It’s amazing how far a please, a thank you, a “check please” dropped in the language of the country you are in adds to the goodwill. It’s a tiny thing, to learn how to say “thank you” in Polish. And of course I sound ridiculous saying it. But every single time, my attempt brings out a genuine smile, a head nod, and a genuinely friendly response in Polish. I think about how important it is to feel seen, and I wonder if it’s just that -- just by trying to honor a tiny bit of their language, of their culture, it shows that we respect the people here and the land that we are on. It doesn’t take much to show people that you see them. That you are thankful to be here, and that you are thankful for their hospitality.

3. The resilience here never ceases to amaze me. Germany, Poland, France - they were decimated by the war. It doesn’t really matter who dropped the bombs and who set the world on fire at this point. What matters is that these countries regrouped, these cities rebuilt, and these people are incredibly resilient. Warsaw was literally leveled in 1945, not because it was strategic, but because Hitler was angry and losing. But Warsaw rebuilt from nothing. They have every single reason in the universe to be pissed at the world, and yet they welcome us with a smile. 

3.1: We have a lot to learn --  In America, we demand they speak OUR language. We don’t bend over backwards to help the foreign among us at all. Our American exceptionalism has a lot to learn from the hospitality of others. We are the selfish, cranky tweens on this globe, and we could stand to learn a lot from our elders.

I hope I have time to write about each of the cities we’ve been in, before they all meld into one hazy memory of an incredible moment in my life with some of my favorite people. I want to write about the awesome Arab neighborhood that we stayed in in Munich; I want to write about the conversations I held in German and how incredibly kind people were to honor my attempts and stay in the German language, even though their English was probably better than mine…I want to write about the energy in the city of Warsaw and their defiance in the face of total annihilation; I want to write about the amazing airbnbs we have been able to book, and how life-changing it is to be in control of our own timing and meals and sleeping arrangements; I want to write about the need to honor our own need for rest and for vacation, even though we are in incredible places and we want to see and do everything; I want to write about public transportation and how freeing it is to be able to go to any city here -- regardless of language -- and figure out how to get from point A to point B without having to get into a stranger’s car; I want to write about the incredible food (and did I mention the Polish Vodka?) and the colors and the music and the vibrancy of life.

But for now, I’m going to reflect on how incredibly lucky I am to be here, experiencing all of this. I want to soak it in, this amazing 17 days with some of the people I love most in this world. I’m going to pour myself a shot of the most incredible Vodka I have ever tasted. And I’m going to think long and hard about what it means to be American, where war has never truly come to us, where we are fast to judge and slow to forgive, where we have the world at our fingertips, but we often can’t see down the bridge of our own noses to see -- and embrace -- what it truly means to be a member of the global mess that is humanity.

Fearless

Today, you were student of the month. Again. For the last time. Even though it was a little bit silly -- Ms. Fletcher nominated all the advanced art seniors, no matter what kind of people they've turned out to be -- but, she saved her praise of you for last. 

She said you were a badass. 

She said you were fearless. 

She said that -- no matter the challenge -- you take it on and you rise to it. 

I know that you don't see that in yourself. All the time, you compare you to me, you say that you can't power through, that you can't work so hard all of the time, that you can't be as strong as I am. But I don't know that I'm strong, kiddo. I'm just really, really stubborn. And I have a chip on my shoulder the size of a railroad tie. That doesn't mean that I'm fearless. That just means that...in many cases...I take on battles that I'm never going to win. Maybe it's fearlessness, but maybe it's also tilting at windmills. 

But you, my daughter. You are fearless. And you are a badass.

That doesn't mean that you aren't afraid, because I see you and you are often terrified. 

That doesn't mean that you don't feel pain, because I see you and you are in pain all of the time. 

But I also see you -- again and again and again -- you fall down, you get shit on, you pick yourself back up, you doubt yourself, you question everything -- and then you square your shoulders and you get back in the fight. 

You don't see the strength that I see. 

You don't see the talent that I see. 

You don't see the power that I see. 

You don't see the forever friend that I see.

 You, my daughter, are a ball of anxiety. 

But I see you. I see you as you take a minute and then pull it together, take a deep breath, and get back out there.

It doesn't matter what the future holds because you are a powerhouse. You have a fountain of strength within you. A geyser. You will tackle whatever comes your way in your own way.

You are my soul.

My daughter. 

And I am so incredibly proud of you.

Under Pressure

 I haven't written in ages. 9 months, to be exact. Maybe 10. Math is hard.

I haven't had the time -- made the time -- to write. And frankly, I haven't had the mental capacity to write. 

There are so many things to write about. Helena's senior year and all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.

Sam's freshman year. And all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.

My job. And all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.

I still love my job, although I can't pay the bills. I'm still so incredibly relieved and fulfilled that I braved the jump to Okemos, but I'm still so incredibly broke because of that decision.

I still freelance when I can find the time. I still judge for Scholastic and the New York Times almost monthly. And now, I work concessions on the weekends at KWings stadium so that I have enough cash for Helena to skate her final year in derby. I don't remember the last day I didn't work.

I haven't written in ages because there just. isn't. time.

But today I had a wake-up call. And I feel like I have to write this down. Publicly. Transparently.

Today, I found someone to cover my 5th hour class so I could donate blood at the blood drive before the fire drill that was scheduled 6th hour. I speed-walked down to the rubber gym (IDK, it's a thing at Okemos. Just go with it...) and I signed in and a student told me: "It's your gallon day! That's amazing!" and I was ready to go -- just stick that needle in me, I'm a fast bleeder, we can get this done before the fire drill -- and -- my blood pressure was too high.

Literally, my blood pressure was above the Red Cross' limit.

I couldn't donate blood. My blood pressure was too high.

I've known, for a year now, that my blood pressure was an issue. I've tried to sleep more, drink less alcohol, drink more water, move more, breathe more. But my blood pressure hasn't budged. 

There are so many reasons why. Menopause, COVID, the job change, the job itself, my weight, alcohol, the kids, the bills. So many reasons why my blood pressure is out of control.

And I know what lifestyle changes need to occur for me to get it under control.

But I haven't managed to make those changes happen. An extra 30 minutes of sleep a night and an extra bottle of water a day and an extra daily walk doesn't fix the problem.

My entire lifestyle is the problem, and that isn't going to change any time soon.

So, I made a doctor's appointment next week. I'm apprehensive. My longtime doctor left the practice and I'm stuck with someone new that I've never met. She will tell me I'm fat and that I drink too much and that I don't sleep enough and I know all of these things already, but I hope that she will prescribe me medication so that I can get this blood pressure under control. Because clearly I can't do it out of sheer will.

But I'd really like to live for a very long time.

Because I'd really like to be able to donate blood and hit that gallon mark.

Because I really want to be here to see my kids into their futures and cheer them on.

 And frankly, I'm way too busy to have a heart attack and die.

Musings on Mother's Day

 I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

I was never sure I wanted to be a mom. I was worried that I would be a cold mom. That I would resent all that I had given up to be a mom. That I'd be fundamentally bad at it. That I would regret it. I am not a mother-woman.

It wasn't until an unplanned pregnancy and a miscarriage that I realized that maybe — just maybe — it was something that I could maybe — just maybe — do.

I've never regretted the ultimate decision to have kids. I've also never regretted that I didn't manage to have a 3rd child, and I've never regretted my divorce. Sometimes the universe knows what to do.

The thing is — kids do, ultimately, ruin your life. But they ruin the life you had, the life before you had this love, this mess, this chaos, these hugs, these conflicts, these moments. 

I don't regret it.

I regret how messy my house is, how fundamentally dirty it is.

I regret what has happened to my body, the body that gave birth twice and never really recovered. Never found the hours in the day it took (before kids) to make this body "fit."

I resent — just a little bit — the cost. The fundamental debt, the working as many hours and as many jobs as I can to give these kids the experiences that I never had, that I never even knew existed, and still always existing in debt, not able to bring in quite enough to give them the experiences and life that I wish I could give them.

But I don't resent them. I don't regret them. I already miss them, as they are already pulling away, becoming their own selves, finding their own passions, hugging me in drive-by moments.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

I grew up with a mom who did her very best, but who was also running her husband's business, and trying to raise two toddlers on the side. I was the oldest-only child, only half-related to anyone, the one who never really fit in to either family. Nearly a decade older than any of my half-siblings, I was the odd duck. The ugly swan. The black sheep. The label. But my mom always let me know that she believed in me. That I was her first, and that we — she and I — had a history that was ours, alone, that no one could take away.

An I was incredibly lucky — I had a second mom as well. I had two women in my life who loved me unconditionally, no matter how awkward or odd I was. I saw two ways of living in the world, and I watched them. I learned. I loved. I knew I was loved.

As I write this, my son just did a drive-by hugging. "I love you mom. The weekend was epic. Thank you for taking me to Kentucky and for being an epic mom. I'll always be your snuggle bear." 

And then he grabbed his phone and his blanky, and he leaned into me and then his 6' tall self trudged up the stairs and went to bed (I hope). A fully formed human, a person I formed. A human whose dirty sock is in the middle of the living room as I write this. A human whose teacher I just emailed, a human who is eating me out of house and home, a human who has managed to lose all of our forks under his bed. 

A human who calls me mom.

My daughter has a field trip to Stratford on Tuesday. She has an outfit crisis. We solved it. I can take her to Kohl's tomorrow. She will be able to wear her vision. I can pick up another freelance piece. She's worth every word. 

And my daughter from another mother? She has moved on to the rest of her life. She has found her own path and forged her own future.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

It's Mother's Day, a day with an apostrophe I don't understand, a day that's never landed on "my weekend." But today I got hugs — real hugs — from both of my kids. 

Today, as I write this, both kids are asleep (?) in their rooms. In just a few years, both kids won't be here anymore. 

But these moments, these memories — they will live on. They will live on in me, and they will live on in my kids. Whatever my moms taught me, I have done everything in my power to gift to my kids. And they, in turn, will pay it forward to their future generations, whatever those will look like.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

But I have no regrets.

A Letter to My Students Who Plagiarized. Again.

Dear Students-

Remember at the beginning of the semester, when I talked about plagiarism? Remember when I said that a number of you would probably plagiarize this semester because it happens every semester in this senior-level elective? Remember when you laughed when I said that the most commonly plagiarized assignments in this class every semester are résumés and cover letters? Remember when you commented that it was stupid to plagiarize a résumé and a cover letter and I agreed?

Ope, you did it again.

This semester, three of you submitted cover letters with paragraphs lifted from the internet. Three of you also submitted essays clearly written by ChatGPT, an AI writer developed by OpenAI. ChatGPT essays are pretty obvious -- they are too perfect, too generic, too formulaic. To a student, they probably sound amazing, like "college-level writing," whatever that is. But to a human being who's been reading high school-level writing for almost 30 years, ChatGPT essays sound like they are written by a robot. Plus, if your essay only has 3 keystrokes recorded in Google docs, then you probably didn't actually write it. "Control C Control V" doesn't count as writing.

But why do you do this every year? Why do you cheat when it's always so obvious? Why do you cheat when the only person you are hurting is you? Why would someone cheat on a résumé or on a cover letter, when these documents are specifically about you and your skills and work ethics? (Last year, a student cheated on their scholarship application essay. I can't make this up.) If you aren't going to learn these writing skills in high school, when do you think you are actually going to learn the skills? How will you excel if you never do the hard work?

Students -- listen to me. You are not hurting me when you try to game the system. The only person you are hurting is you. 

We worked on these assignments for days, sometimes weeks. You chose not to work on them. You put other classes ahead of mine, other conversations ahead of ours. You decided to play games on your phone instead of working to synthesize sources into a cohesive essay. You procrastinated, you backed yourself into a corner, you panicked, and then you plagiarized. It happens every year.

But you know what you didn't do?

You didn't learn how to write.

And you didn't learn to stop procrastinating.

You didn't learn to stop making excuses.

You didn't learn to be honest with yourself.

You didn't learn to own your own choices.

But you learned how to use ChatGPT. I guess that's something.

Listen, ChatGPT is a great tool. But like any tool, you can use it to do good in this world, or you can use it to cheat yourself and others out of something true and honest.

Good writing takes time. It takes passion. It takes thought and revision and reflection. Good writing is not generated by copy and paste, and it's not generated by ChatGPT.

What you submitted was not good writing. Instead, you submitted proof of your own lack of character. When times got tough, you took the shortcut.

And I want to be clear: several of you plagiarized. But most of you did not. Props to the majority who put in the effort and did the right thing day after day.

Look. I'm writing this because I care. I care about teaching you skills that will help you in college and in your career and in your life. I'm writing this because I care about you and your future. 

I hope that -- going forward -- you start to care about that, too.

I walked out of my favorite bar today.

Not because of the food or the beer or the service, but because of the white guys down the rail. I couldn't unhear them and I couldn't stay silent, so instead -- I left. The bartender poured my full beer into a to-go cup and duct-taped the lid on. I wasn't leaving a full Edmund Fitzgerald behind.

"A Marine! They left a Marine -- who served our country -- and got a basketball player out instead!" It devolved from there. Her race, her hair, her sexual orientation, some pundit, Biden, some votes. 

I tried to bite my tongue. But "he was dishonorably discharged, you know. And committed quite a few crimes. Maybe not the Marine you are envisioning" just slipped out.

"Oh really." I was clearly dismissed. And, they jumped back to their conversation that spiraled into the Black lesbian vote and optics. "She hates America," they said.

I asked for the check, a to-go cup, and some duct-tape.

On Facebook, in response to the same claim about her alleged hatred of America, I asked: "If she hated America, why would she expend the energy and deal with the fallout of peacefully protesting during the National Anthem? If she hated America, why would she even try?"

"Oh, you're her best friend or something?" the lady on Facebook retorts. She seems nice.

No. I'm not her friend. I've never met Brittney Griner in my life, nor will I. I literally just Googled how to spell "Brittney" so I got it right. 

But my laywoman's observations tell me that somebody doesn't put themselves out there, somebody doesn't take a stand, somebody doesn't put their neck on the line if they don't think it's worth it. If they don't think it's worth saving. 

"I honestly feel we should not play the National Anthem during our season," said Griner, one of the top players in the WNBA and second in 2019 most valuable player voting. "I think we should take that much of a stand. 

"I don't mean that in any disrespect to our country. My dad was in Vietnam and a law officer for 30 years. I wanted to be a cop before basketball. I do have pride for my country."

Doesn't really sound like hatred to me, yanno?

And, look, I don't know a damn thing about Paul Whelan, other than what I've found by Googling. But I know there's a whole lot more to his story than the narrative that he sacrificed himself to serve our country as a Marine. A quick Google search tells me that his history is way more complicated than that simplistic narrative and involves many more countries than ours. TL;DR: he was court martialed and convicted and dishonorably discharged from the Marines. Google it. There's some shady shit going on there.

So.

Should a notorious, nefarious arms dealer be traded for a basketball player? I'm not an international negotiator and neither are you. But I do know that this guy had already served 12+ years of his sentence, and lots of countries have a huge interest in him, not just Russia. And Paul Whelan has a shady enough past to be worth a whole lot more to Russia than what we could give. Paul Whelan literally wasn't on the bargaining table.

Sure, Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. Maybe you don't think she deserves to be rescued. But if that's the case, say it out loud. Say it. "I don't believe that a Black lesbian woman's life is worth international negotiations that are way above my understanding." Say it out loud. But don't hide behind the rhetoric of "he's a marine and she hates America." Do your homework. And think critically, just a little bit.

Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she was going to serve time for almost a decade for carrying a legal substance -- that she has a prescription for -- in her suitcase as she travelled to her second job. Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she's also a woman. And she's Black. And she's a lesbian. And she doesn't make enough money at her first job, so she has to go to Russia during the off season and play there for her second job.

If anyone should have a bone to pick with America, it would probably be Brittney Griner.

But her daring our country to do better and be better doesn't mean that she hates it.

It just means that she wants it to step up.

I dare you to do better and be better, bar guys and Facebook woman. 

Step up. Do more. Be more. But, my god, please do some research, first.

If I was friends with Brittney Griner (and I'm not, but I totally would be, call me girl), my guess is that if there's anything she hates about America -- anything at all -- it would probably be the hatred and the ignorance that you so easily spew.

Photo by Michael Carruth on Unsplash

As Old as the Egg McMuffin

 "Hey, mom. Know how old you are? You're as old as the Egg McMuffin!"

Only minutes before, he'd been stunned to learn that I'm turning 50. "Fifty??!! But...that's half a century! I thought you were, like, 47!!" 

I remember when 50 sounded old. It still does. I see my aging idols on stage, and they still have it going on. But they are 50. They are old. Julie just died at 49. 50 has always been that threshold. Gateway to the elderly. There's no turning back now. I'm halfway to 100.

But I don't feel old.

Sure, sometimes my left knee does something wonky and I wonder if it remembers which way to bend. Sure, there was that week last spring when my arches seemingly forgot to arch and I immediately bought out all of the Dr. Scholl's section at Meijer. Sure, I dropped out of the Detroit 1/2 marathon this year because I was worried I wouldn't make the time cut.

But I don't feel particularly old. 

I got ID'd yesterday, buying bourbon. I ran a couple of miles over the weekend. I still understand the words coming out of my students' mouths. No cap. I kinda really want Taylor Swift tickets.  And every day, I feel my quads as I climb the stairs. I feel my vertebrae as I stretch. I feel the potential. 

I don't feel old.

Back in January, a million years ago and just yesterday, I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish this year, the year I turned 50. This was my to-do list. (Spoiler...I didn't do it all. Or even most of it...)

1. Move intentionally for 50 minutes each day. Walk? Run? Dance (like a formerly Baptist white girl)? Channel my inner Jillian Michaels? Shaun T? Billy Blanks? Jeff Galloway? Adriene Mishler? What does that 50 minutes look like and how in the hell do I make it happen? Stay tuned…

I mean...sometimes? Sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn't. I tried to get my steps in. I trained for the 1/2 marathon, and got up to 10 miles before life and COVID got in the way. But did I move intentionally every day? Probably not.

1. Get rid of 50 items of clothing. Don’t pretend that I’ll have time to sell it. I won’t. I really should just delete Mercari and Poshmark. Maybe I’ll do the hanger thing. Maybe I’ll Marie Kondo the closet. (we all know I probably won’t do that.) Maybe I’ll just get rid of stuff that isn’t comfortable. I can do that.

Girl. I totally did this. I got rid of a LOT of stuff. 3 boxes sent to ThredUp. 2 more dropped of to charity. I still have more to sort through, but I definitely got rid of some stuff.

1. Break the “Shopping High” addiction. Do. Not. Buy. Clothes (or shoes) in 2022. Do Not. (Except for bras and running shoes. But I will not buy impulsively. I will not buy online. I will not.)

I worked really hard on this. I did buy some things. I blame my job. They changed their mascot, and that led to some purchases. Also, harem pants came back into fashion. Just sayin...But I was a lot better this year. A lot more frugal. Fewer impulse buys. Fewer hopeful purchases. Fewer Facebook scams. I did buy clothes (mostly hoodies. and harem pants) but I broke the addiction. And, fwiw, I still haven't found a comfortable bra.

1. Drink 50 oz of pure water each day. Not coffee. Not tea. Not Coke Zero. Not Seltzer. Not Vodka. Not water with vodka. Just pure water. Drink it. (And then drink the other things.)

Yeah, no.

1. Write 50 blog posts. They don’t have to be good. They just have to be. Look, a list! Blog post #1 done.

I think I wrote 11.

1. Lose 50 lbs. I know, I know. Weight loss should never be a New Year’s Resolution. But I’m tired of feeling run-down and I know why I feel this way, and I need to value my own health more than I value a drink or some fries or my pride. 

There's a reason that weight loss should never be a New Year's Resolution. I only lost 5 lbs this year. But you know what? I don't feel tired and run-down and dragged out anymore. I'm not where I want to be, but I feel better about where I am. So...even though the scale hasn't really moved, I'm going to call this one a win.

1. Go to bed (on average) 50 minutes earlier S-Th. 50 minutes means more sleep, less alcohol, less mind-numbing. Rest more.

I averaged 30 minutes more sleep/night. Except, yanno, tonight. 'Cause that's how averages work.

1. Make an extra $50/week through subbing and save it for something special. Maybe take that trip, finally, with the girls. 

I did take that trip with the girls. And I did start the upper half of my sleeve. I haven't paid down debt. But I did save for something(s) special. And it was worth the extra work.

1. Make an extra $50/week through freelance and pay down debt. 

See above. Still debty.

1. Do something technology-free for 50 min/day. Meditation? Reading? Going for a walk? Put the phone down and just exist in the world.

I actually read a couple of books this year. And that was huge. To sit with a book, screens off, and just allow myself the time --guilt free-- to read. I can't wait for the next break to be able to read again. I rebuilt some of that reading stamina, and now I just need to carve out the time.

So, that was my to-do list for 2022. My 50th year (that I know of) on this planet.

I really didn't hit my target(s). But I also feel pretty okay about where I'm at.

And I'm officially as old as the Egg McMuffin, according to my son.

But --spoiler alert-- I always have been.

And the Egg McMuffin has been around for 50 years because it's a damn good sandwich. With or without the Canadian Bacon (I choose without, because, ewww, FLESH), it comes in around 300ish calories of reliable comfort food. It'll fill you up without making you regret your life choices.

And an Egg McMuffin? It's a classic. But also current. It's kind of fucking delicious. A perfect blend of crunchy and savory and salty and protein. It's satisfying. It's not going anywhere.

It has staying power.

And so do I.

Reflections re: my Mojo

 I've been asked several times in the last two weeks: "So, did you do it? Did you get your mojo back?"

If you've kept up with my writing this summer, you know that I've been trying to work on me, and reclaim my love of reading, my love of self, my love of writing, and some semblance of order in my house.

You also know that I lost a couple of weeks of productivity with COVID. And, if you follow me on the Book of Face, you know that I've also spent some time traveling for work and for play. All in all, it's been a super busy summer, full of some amazing moments and a lot of nature (and a lot of coughing). 

Here's a quick update on all of the things.

I didn't read all of the books I wanted to read. But I did read Kal Penn's You Can't Be Serious on a whim and it was amazing. I liked it as much as I liked Trevor Noah's Born a Crime. Other books were hit or miss; some I finished, some I put down after 40 pages, and some are overdue at the library as we speak.

I still have to go through all of my pants and get rid of the ones that will never fit again, get rid of the ones that dig into me and make me feel like a sausage. But everything else in my closet is cleaned out. 5 huge boxes to Thred Up and Volunteers of America. 10 pairs of shoes gone. Everything in my closet (except for the piles of pants) fits and makes me feel good about myself. I'm no longer staring at piles of clothing, mocking me for who I am now.

The rest of the house is as clean as it's going to be. Boxes of old toys, kids' art supplies, and old sports equipment are gone. The broken recliner and art cabinet are gone. The floors are mopped. That nasty space between the sink and the toilet is clean. That unopened jar of pepper jelly from 2005 has been thrown away. All of the mini-boxes of sugar corn pops and golden grahams have gone to the food pantry. The wrinkled apples are now a pie.

I didn't get my fitness level permanently nudged up on my Fitbit. It still says that my fitness is between "poor" and "fair." I had huge hopes of a summer of fitness, working my way back into running, getting my resting heartbeat lowered, and starting to feel fit again. I managed to drop my resting heartbeat about 10 beats per minute when I was camping, or on vacation. But here I am, the day before school starts again, and I'm right back up to where I was in June. But I also know that I AM more fit than I was. I can see and feel strength in my arms and shoulders. I can jog up a flight of stairs without holding on to the railing. And yesterday, I interval/ran 6 miles. 

More importantly, when I look in the mirror, I'm beginning to see my beauty again. I'm not as mad at the scale, and I'm not mad at myself anymore. Sure, I'm a big girl — and I'm a beautiful woman. Both can be true. Both are true.

So, did I get my mojo back?

I mean...kinda? I feel more like me. More like I can be me.

And I'm proud of me. I'm proud of my beautiful — albeit perpetually cluttered — home. I'm proud that I can go out and interval/run for 6 miles. I'm proud that I can go up the stairs without breaking a sweat. I'm proud that I can pick up a book and read a chapter, that I've built some stamina. I'm proud that I wrote about my journey this summer and that you wanted to read it.

Photo by Denise Johnson on Unsplash

And when I look in the mirror, I'm proud of who I see. It's taken me a long time to see her again, looking back at me.

She is a beautiful woman.

She is a work in progress.

She is me.