What you can expect when meeting my family for the first time — and anytime thereafter really.

My grandmother WILL call you by my high school boyfriend’s name. You mustn’t take it personally. She often mistakes me for my sister/mother/aunt/nephew and on really bad days, the dog. Do not sit next to her at dinner. Regardless of who provokes her she takes out her aggression on the person to her immediate right. Whenever possible I and other members of the family will use this to our advantage.

My mother will be annoyingly hospitable. It is probably best if you “come in and have a seat,” accept the glass of water, and have that extra piece of pie. She will not stop until you do. She may also attempt to take your picture, probably while you’re eating, or worse, if you forget to lock the bathroom door. Have no fear, she will never figure out how to upload the photos from her digital camera. If she ever realizes she can take them to Wal-Mart or God forbid someone shows her how to put them on Facebook I will be changing my last name to Vadeboncoueur and moving to Canada. Feel free to follow. She will also use words like “idear” and “pronunciate” and “simular.” There is no use correcting her. The damage is irreversible.

My uncle will talk to you for hours about NASCAR, misappropriated government spending, and the effect his multiple medications have on his sex life. Even if you wrote your dissertation on any of the aforementioned topics it’s best for everyone if you do not so much as feign interest. Trust me. And whatever you do, do not go into his bedroom for a “closer look” at what I can only hope is his NASCAR memorabilia collection. If you forget this bit of information, I will not step in to help you. In fact, I will be in the kitchen taking shots of vanilla extract. Text me when it’s all clear. However, do not be alarmed if at some point in the day he farts and blames it on you. I find it best to attempt to return the favor.

My aunt will ask you where you’re from and despite the fact that the population of that state is currently 11.5 million people immediately assume she knows you because she “met someone from there once.” Not the city, the state. She will then ask you who “your people” are. This is not a racial slur. She just wants to know your last name. You’d be best served by telling her it’s Smith or risk being asked to spell it for her repeatedly. Regardless, she’ll realize she can’t remember the first or last name of “that person she met once” but nevertheless conclude you must somehow be related to them — and maybe even to me if she thinks about it long enough.

My nephew will offer to smoke weed with you. I suggest at this point you accept the offer. The rest of the day’s events will be exponentially more hilarious as a result. Just remember not to make eye contact with him while my uncle “says grace.” This will make you laugh harder. Regardless of where you meet him he will be wearing pajama pants and slippers. You needn’t worry yourself. His day job involves collecting and selling targeted customer phone numbers to various debt consolidation establishments from the comfort of his sofa. Yes, he is that guy.

On a more general note do not mention religion to anyone; do not bring up any of the following topics: Nancy Grace, American Idol, Casey Anthony, or the decline of Social Security benefits; do not ask anyone how they’re feeling or suggest that maybe the copious amounts of soda, cigarettes, and fried food led to the collective coronary artery blockages and diabetes; do not stand too close to any electronic device unless you’re prepared to fix it. And it is always safe to assume that “Willie Nelson,” “Johnny Cash,” or “Merle Haggard,” is the answer to, “who’s that playin’ on the radio?” Do not be frightened if a sing-along occurs. Yes, you are encouraged to join in.

And of course if you venture to complain about this experience to me even once I will not hesitate to retaliate. After all, these are my people.

What GoT means to me

If you have read any part of my blog and/or twitter feed then you are probably familiar with my obsession with Game of Thrones; both the HBO television series and the George RR Martin fantasy series from which it’s based. I am throwing a Season 2 premiere party this weekend – don’t take offense if you missed your invite as I only included the truly obsessed. So in anticipation of that soirée I started thinking about exactly how I came upon my own fixation, which involves daily blog stalking, chapter analysis reading, and video watching, and has progressed into unsolicited day long discussion with people whom I probably would have thrown spitballs at in high school. And that’s really just the start. I also carved pumpkins with the house sigils for Halloween and have actually purchased GoT related novelty clothing. All of which is completely out of character for me.

Although I sometimes pass myself off as such, I am really not a typical “nerdy” girl. Aside from Rock Band, I have no interest in video games whatsoever. In fact, I don’t even have the required hand/eye coordination to play Mario Cart – why does that little car spin so quickly? I have also never read Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter; a fact that when mentioned to my newfound group of friends draws blank stares and doubts as to my fealty to the realm. I have always preferred classic American literature to fantasy; so much so that I actually majored in it. And the only time I ever attended the Renaissance Festival was to stuff my face with turkey legs and beer while laughing at all the idiots in costume. So where did this unexpected preoccupation with a medieval fantasy world come from? And why on earth have I spent the last five days brainstorming where I can get old mail and boiled leather on short notice?

I realized that the answer to that question rested somewhere between one of my best friends urging me to watch because he had been such a huge fan of the books and my emotional state last April when I started watching. In the real world I was heart-broken and trying to figure out ways to cope with sudden change and although it didn’t occur to me until now, GoT gave me an escape; an entire fantasy world full of intricate stories of families and sigils and houses and castles and maps and dragons and wildlings and sex and violence; a world that didn’t and couldn’t exist in reality. And that’s when it hit me: this is why people lose themselves in video games or fantasy worlds. It’s not at all like reading a novel about a time or a life that is unlike your own, it’s about complete dedication and obsession with a land that doesn’t exist: books that build on books; stories that build on other stories; characters that you can’t decide whether to love or hate; events that you could never predict. It’s complete immersion. It’s freedom. And when you realize there are other people out there who share your passion, it also becomes a sense of belonging. At least it has been all these things for me.

So there you have it. I needed something to take my mind of things and GoT gave me that. It might be a simple concept, but it is one that I have just now fully grasped. This also explains why I am personally offended when I read uniformed articles such as this one that appeared in The New York Times claiming the TV series only appeals to those who enjoy sex and violence, and that its fan base doesn’t, “extend beyond Dungeons and Dragons types.” Sure the series has lots of sex and violence and maybe that’s why we started watching – but it has become so much more for so many people. I don’t think I’m the only convert out there. In fact, since this has been one of my main topics of conversation of late I have discovered tons of seemingly normal people who are equally excited about the show who by all accounts have never read a fantasy series or played a game of Dungeons and Dragons, and have interests that delve deeper than lesbian sex scenes. I challenge you to find a fan who even mentions the lesbian sex scene beyond pointing out the fact that it never occurred in the books and was included in the series to demonstrate how a certain “little” character was controlling the decisions of the other more important players. The dialogue in that scene is quite important in establishing the motives of that character and symbolic in that he is literally directing the actions of the women in the scene – much like he is directing other actions behind the scenes. But I won’t get into that.

And so I re-read book 2 of the A Song of Ice and Fire series and anxiously await Sunday’s Season 2 premiere of Game of Thrones so that I might continue to escape to Westeros whenever Arlington proves to be too unbearable to face.

Some of my favorite GoT links:

http://www.westeros.org/

http://tumblrofthrones.tumblr.com/

http://racefortheironthrone.wordpress.com/category/a-song-of-ice-and-fire/

An update on my kidneys

So five years ago, exactly five years ago actually, I was diagnosed with Minimal Change Disease (MCD).  MCD is basically a disorder in which your kidneys have somehow become damaged causing excessive amounts of protein to filter through. In my case the exact cause is unknown, but in many cases MCD secondary to Diabetes, Leukemia, Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and other autoimmune disorders. If left untreated, or if the disease keeps recurring, the damage it causes can eventually lead to renal failure. The major symptom of this disorder that I experienced personally is water retention in the legs and feet. I’m talking 80-year-old woman with support hose water retention.  Other symptoms include swelling of the abdomen, puffy eyes, shortness of breath, high cholesterol, etc. All of which I experienced to varying degrees. You basically become a fat, old person, who needs to take frequent naps – regardless of diet and exercise.

If you’re at all medically gifted, you can read about it here http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/243348-overview.

If you’re slightly less gifted you can read about it here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minimal_change_disease

If you’re at all like me you can enjoy the following diagram, which is how my doctor explained it in Robin-terms (I like pretty pictures):

The diagnosis – 2007

I wasn’t diagnosed quickly. In fact, I first recall seeing signs of the disease on Fat Tuesday 2007 (how fitting). After having spent way too much money on jeans at Tyson’s Corner and subsequently downing 3 too many margaritas, I noticed that my ankles had somehow mutated into cankles. Now, those of you who know me know that I’m pretty fit. In fact I have tiny ankles. So the sight of my new stubby additions was quite alarming. I initially dismissed it as a side-effect of too much shopping and drinking, but those little cankles returned pretty much every day thereafter. I went to my primary physician and was misdiagnosed or all but dismissed several times. Apparently, eating too much fast food or switching birth control can cause one to gain 15 pounds in water weight – despite not actually eating too much fast food, if any, ever.

Fast forward a few weeks to several more “dismissals” from my primary physician and me crying in a bath-tub in complete despair. I think I was most upset because nobody could tell me what the fuck was wrong and my body was doing things that I couldn’t control. I absolutely loathe not having control. My mother being a nurse finally insisted that my sister take me to the hospital, which led to the discovery that there were high levels of protein in my urine – a condition the doctor classified as nephrotic syndrome. I was immediately referred to a nephrologist who, with a kidney biopsy, was able to diagnose me with Minimal Change Disease (luckily, the lesser of a few kidney disorder evils).

Now at this particular juncture in my life I also happened to have been going through a divorce. It’s what I like to call, the year of suck. During the year of suck, I spent a considerable amount of time crying – in my car, at my desk, in line at the grocery store, in my bedroom closet, etc. I was in a bad, bad place. As a result of the diagnosis I was prescribed prednisone, which stopped the protein from leaking but caused side effects that made my face resemble Chunk from The Goonies, and mood swings that should probably have earned my then boyfriend an expensive parting gift. In fact, I basically owe an apology to anyone I encountered between February and August of 2007. Back then, I lacked the coping mechanisms I have today and therefore focused all my energy on hanging streamers for the pity party. I couldn’t understand why everyone was continuing on with life as usual. I even joined a kidney support group – some of whom I still communicate with today. I just didn’t feel like anyone cared enough about what I was going through and people tip-toed around bringing it up. Looking back, I realize I was totally overacting. The diagnosis, coupled with the daily battles with my almost ex-husband put me in a particularly vulnerable and lonely spot. Not to mention every mother-fucking pair of shoes I owned in 2007 met an early end. Let us have a moment of silence for those shoes. But even still, I was being overly dramatic about the whole thing.

After a solid year of steroid treatment, my doctor declared I was in remission; which I embraced by turning into a full-on obnoxious gym-rat. Any amount of muscle-tone I had pre-diagnosis I put back on and then some. I was also informed at that time that MCD could, and likely would, return at some point. The disease is uncommon in adults and therefore far harder to “cure.” But for whatever reason, I just refused to believe that would happen.

Present day – 2012

So present day I’m still pretty much a gym-rat. In fact, I haven’t missed a week at the gym since I went into remission four years ago.  Around August of last year I started to notice a decrease in muscle tone. I am still slender and I had gotten a little lazy over the summer, so I thought maybe I just needed to increase the intensity. Then in the fall I started noticing puffiness around my eyes in the morning and swollen calves in the late afternoon (both of which are symptoms I recognized). I was also getting out of breath way sooner than usual when doing cardio. Because of these things I finally caved and conducted a 24 hour at-home urine collection, which is the best way to test for protein loss and is exactly as sexy as is sounds. I waited three months to see my doctor for those results.

Finally, last week, the doctor confirmed what I suspected; I am in the early stages of relapse. The good news is the results are not nearly as bad as they had been in 2007. Since I knew what it was this time around and quickly identified the symptoms we’re hoping that an ACE inhibitor and strong diuretic can stop the disease before it progresses any further. It is possible that this drug treatment can stave off a full relapse.  The first day back on the meds was the worst; dizzy, light-headed, and tired, but over the weekend I felt much better.  Ultimately I’m hoping that the first round of medications do the trick and I’m not forced to go back on prednisone. I just didn’t really feel like myself on the drug. I’m also, admittedly, very vain. I can’t even stand to look at photos of myself from that year.

All-in-all my outlook is quite optimistic. After hearing the results from the doctor I allowed myself one good cry on the phone with my mom and then decided to focus the rest of my energy on getting better and staying as physically fit as humanly possible for a person who can’t retain protein. Perhaps more cardio and less weight lifting? I have done enough feeling sorry for myself for a good long while. Plus, it really doesn’t feel like all that bad of a prognosis considering what I’ve watched loved ones and friends go through in recent years.

I chose to write the blog post to collectively let old friends and new know what is going on with me without having the awkward, “oh yeah I have a kidney disorder” conversation. Several of my very good friends were there with me through the first ordeal and caught the brunt of my temper tantrums; and others probably have no idea. That’s the huge difference between me then and me today. I also thought it might be helpful to other people who are going through a similar experience. The first time I was diagnosed with MCD I scoured the internet for information and people who could relate to my situation. I stumbled upon a support group that allowed me to ask ridiculous questions, could relate to peeing into a disgusting orange jug, and made me feel not so alone. If I can, I would love to return that favor.

Happy fragments.

Hi.

I’m happy.

This is good.

But isn’t doing much for my creative juices.

The fella is pretty spectacular.

We’ve talked about taking a trip to Spain in June.

When I finish grad school.

I told him we can’t book it until like a week before.

I don’t want to jinx this thing we’ve got going.

I’m superstitious.

And still a little gun-shy.

And not really interested in labels.

He’s been very sweet about the whole thing.

We quit smoking for a week.

And then we fell off the wagon together.

Olive loves him — probably more than me.

Yes, I do hold that against her.

I pay her vet bills.

And pick up her poop.

And cry when she’s sick.

But she follows him around like he’s Cesar Millan.

Or a side of bacon.

They’re adorable when they’re snuggled up on the couch together though.

Who could hate that?

We’ve watched 11 hours of The Wire; the three of us.

Not all in one day.

More like four days.

Why didn’t I watch it sooner?

It really is an incredible show.

A little slow in the beginning.

But definitely worth the wait.

I want to show him off to everyone.

The fella.

I hope I don’t get cold feet.

Status update

A year ago, the idea of being single terrified me. I had never experienced a life where someone didn’t have my back, or check in on me to make sure I was alive, or write/text me love notes to let me know they cared. I had jumped from one relationship to the next since I was 15, FIFTEEN!  I spent a good amount of my time trying to make someone else happy; getting to know their family and friends as if they were my own; embracing their hobbies and interests; happily entangling my life with theirs. So, as evidenced by my lamenting blog posts, I was devastated last year when all that changed. I was petrified.  I didn’t think I’d be able to cope alone. As a result, I immediately started online dating (which I hated and immediately quit), allowing people to fix me up, flirting with random strangers, looking for my next victim around every corner. I thought that in order to fix my broken heart I needed to fall in love again.  In order to justify the break-up, I had to find Mr. Right — right away! But months passed and that didn’t happen. Nobody came close to being someone I could date for any extended amount of time — or maybe I never gave them a chance to be. I found myself building a wall, not letting any guy get too close, always having control of the situation. I kept going back to how hard it had been to rebuild my confidence after the break-up — and I sometimes still do. How hurt I had been that I had given my all to someone, and they had so easily turned their back on me.

And then, somehow I found myself not wanting Mr. Right to carry me away. I kept dating (for other obvious reason), but I wasn’t really looking for something serious. I started to ENJOY being single; the independence; the complete control over my social schedule; the ability to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. It turns out, I am actually pretty good at being single. I became proud of myself; proud that I wasn’t looking to someone else for my happiness. It made makes me feel powerful. And now, I find myself terrified by the idea of once again giving away that power.

Which brings me to my status update; I met someone who I’m pretty crazy about. It has only been a few weeks, but-I-just-am. And in spite of that, I feel myself holding back; not saying what I want to say; always making him text/call first – which he does. Surely I am not ready to dive back into something that could potentially hurt me in the long run, right? I mean, just because he says one thing now doesn’t mean that won’t change later. I’ve been down this road before. I had almost forgotten that lesson because things were going so well. I wasn’t allowing myself to think about the next steps. Then I met his friends — some of which are in relationships that are obviously unhappy. That meeting caused me to question how people get from here to there. I mean today he can do no wrong. He’s adorable and attentive, and just thinking about him makes me happy. Neither of us put up a fight if the other suggests what to eat/drink/watch on TV. Everything is new and perfect. How many months before the battle over What Not to Wear and March Madness causes one of us to storm out of the room and slam the door? How long before he’s correcting my grammar or I’m telling him how much I hate that shirt!? How long before we sit next to each other at a party and don’t even graze hands? Do I really want to do this again when right now I have the complete upper-hand and control over every stinking aspect of my life?

I know, I know. I have only been single a little under a year. But I feel changed. I can’t explain it really. I wonder how people feel who have been single for the better part of their lives cope when they meet someone and are suddenly expected to open up and share everything. I realize now that it’s not easy to step outside of your comfort zone, regardless of where that comfort might lie. For me, it once lied in being a part of something – someone, and now it lies in being independent and uninhibited. It’s quite ironic really. I once feared being single and now I fear relinquishing the control that comes with being single.

But really, we all know there is no question here. I do really want to do this again. I am not fooling anyone, least of all myself. I want everything that comes along with it; late nights spent giggling about our relative dorkiness; morning sex; breakfast in bed; meeting each others friends for the first time; learning about each others sorted pasts; even having our first fight. I want it, and I will enjoy every fucking minute of it. I deserve it. I don’t know if it will last a few days, or weeks, or months — but it doesn’t matter. I will welcome it knowing that this time around, no matter what happens or how long this romance lasts — I will be fine.

The evil that is Facebook

Not only is Facebook loathsome because it is saturated with status messages about changing diapers, going to dinner at the Outback Steakhouse with the, “hubs”, and praying for whatever current ailment its user might be suffering; but I would also argue it is the most torturous form of readily accessible self-mutilation available.  Who needs cutting when you can stalk your ex-boyfriends to see how hot their new girlfriend is and how happily they’ve moved on from that last chick they dated, what’s her name again?

Yup you guessed it: I checked out the ex’s page at random today, and he is most definitely dating someone. I suspected as much, but apparently just knowing he has a girlfriend wasn’t enough to feed my need for self-torture. I needed firsthand visual confirmation. Facebook is evil that way.  It provides you with some tidbit of information that, no matter how hard you try to ignore, you can’t bring yourself to X out of when it’s staring you in the face. So, I clicked. And while I wasn’t completely thrilled to see how cute she is, I would prefer if she had a horse-face and a fat ass, it really doesn’t bother me as much as I would have expected. I think, although I didn’t dig too deep, that this new lady might actually be better suited for him than I was. There are still a few very glaring reasons for why things between us didn’t work out, and I’m not oblivious to that and/or still hung up on him by any means. I’m more bothered by the fact that she was taking my spot at his family Christmas party – it felt sort of like a slap in the face as to see how easily I can be replaced. I remember four years ago sitting by that same fireplace, eating that same hodge-podge of pot-luck goodies, eager for everyone to like me. I also remember his little sister inadvertently mentioning his prior ex-girlfriend, and him getting upset and snapping at her for it. Did that incident repeat itself too?  Have I been reduced to the name that must not be uttered? I suppose it has reached the point where the answer to those questions doesn’t really matter. I have to let all of it, and them, go. All parties seem to have moved on, myself included. Which begs the question, when exactly do I delete all these people off Facebook? Is that rude? Does it show weakness? Does it even matter? Why has Facebook become such a central component of human communication and why, if I loathe it so much, can’t I let it go.

And while we’re on the topic, when do you friend someone you’ve recently began dating? Like, would it be weird to continue to date and never be Facebook friends – because I certainly don’t need to see how hot his ex-girlfriend was. It’s a torturous cycle for which I’d like to permanently extract myself. I mean, can’t I just ask him what his favorite movie/book/musical artist is? Couldn’t we just text each other how nice it is outside, or what our plans are for that evening, or where one or the other of us might be dining. Can’t I just meet his friends organically? Can’t I just sit down and show him pictures from my recent vacation (edited of course)? Do we really need to check each others Facebook statuses for this information? I know what you’re thinking. I know I’m addicted to Twitter and Foursquare. I do not deny that I have a problem. But the guy I’m currently seeing doesn’t have either of these things, and let me tell you, at this stage in our courtship it is completely fucking refreshing to not know what time he’s stopping at the grocery store or picking up his dry cleaning, or being forced to view random drunk photos of him with unknown females – yes, Facebook FORCES me. None of that is important to the current state of things. What matters most is that I feel completely at peace in his presence, that thus far I’m more than happy with how things are going, and that although we haven’t discussed it, I am confident he feels the exact same way. For the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about what might happen next. I didn’t need to check any status updates to tell me that. So, as I often do, I’ve answered my own question. I think I will continue on down the path of innocence for as long as humanly possible. I’d prefer to find out about, “that one time he ran naked through his college campus” the old-fashioned way — hungover and twisted up in the blankets together on a Sunday morning.

Oh and welcome to 2012 everyone! I for one am happy to be here.

New Orleans, what can I say?

The answer is, I can’t really say much.  My friends and I made a pact on the flight home from our recent Christmas vacation to New Orleans.  We agreed that the events of that trip would never be discussed once we were back on home turf.  We would only ever allow ourselves to say to one-another, “remember that time in New Orleans?” And then presumably we’d nod and laugh and silently think of the scandal, embarrassment, and questionable decisions that we all made while in the big easy. But we would never, ever, speak of it again.  Some things are meant to be kept between friends; and a random cowboy, a street performer, Ryan the bartender, a pack of Packers fans, the maid at the W Hotel, the doorman at the Bourbon Cowboy, multiple members of the U.S. Coast Guard, and the strategically placed security cameras of the French quarter.

That being said, I’m sure there are one or two stories I can conjure up to appease co-workers and blog readers alike, without breaking said pact.  We did experience what has now come to be known as my favorite Christmas to date and it would be a shame not to share some details, at least those details that won’t sullying my good name.

First of all, the food was to die for.  I haven’t weighed myself yet, but I wouldn’t even be pissed if I gained a few pounds.  My favorite meal would have to be the breakfast I had the first day at Stanley.  It was called the Breaux Bridge Benedict and was basically eggs benedict smothered in creole hollandaise sauce and looked a little like this (yes, those are fried oysters):

And all of the other traditional New Orleans food was just as great; beignets, muffulettas, gumbo, alligator, fried everything…I tried, and loved, it all.  Side note: since this is a blog about how great my trip was, I won’t mention the one restaurant that almost ruined Christmas Eve (eh hem, Galves), by keeping us waiting at the table for 75 minutes and then never serving us. Luckily, we had made friends at a local spot the prior night; so we sauntered up to the bar at Pere Antoine, ordered gumbo, shrimp creole, and BBQ shrimp (respectively), and watched A Christmas Story with the locals.  All-in-all, not too shabby. 

There was also a little bit of drinking over the course of the weekend, ok a lot bit.  While the Hurricane’s and Hand Grenades were fabulous and of course got us ridiculously wasted, my favorite drink was definitely the classic cocktail known as the Sazerac, made from herbsaint, bourbon, and bitters with a twist of lemon.  Right up my alley.  My hopes are that bartenders in DC can repeat this little delectable treasure which also happens to be the official cocktail of New Orleans.

Since we’re on the topic of drinking; my favorite bar in which to enjoy a Sazerac was by far Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, which is the longest continuously operating bar in North America and is completely lit by candles and a fire-place.  We spent a good amount of time here Christmas day, where we made friends with several other tourists and I attempted to join the street performer named Sticks as his permanent side-kick (did I mentioned my sister bought me a triangle for Christmas?).  My sister and I proceeded to purchase Sticks many cocktails as we inquired about his family history and New Orleans roots – it was Christmas after all.  He was later kindly asked by management to stop humoring the tourists (me) and had to leave.  I believe there’s a video of our duet that I hope never surfaces on YouTube.  Anyway, Lafitte’s is in the photo below, as is Stick’s drum on the corner.  Also of note, the boots I’m wearing were my favorite Christmas present from my fellow travelers.  I really enjoyed the low-key vibe of this place and the friendly patrons (though the wait staff seem less than thrilled to be serving drunk tourists on Christmas Day — go figure).

There may have also been some bull-riding, absinthe drinking, and talking sock puppets, but in order to fully understand the wonder that was New Orleans Christmas weekend 2011, well, you kinda had to be there.  It was basically a perfect storm of events for three single ladies looking to escape reality during the Holiday season.  And while it didn’t entirely feel like Christmas, it entirely felt like one of the most awesome vacations I’ve ever had – although my liver may think differently.  In any event, I am happy to be back.  I am also happy to see where things go with a certain air marshal that I couldn’t stop texting while I was away.  Perhaps I can put away my scandalous side in 2012.  I only said perhaps!

A farewell letter to 2011

Dear 2011;

I had high hopes for you.  While wearing ridiculous purple glittery glasses that bore your name, surrounded by good friends and the man that I so candidly loved,  I counted down to your arrival with foolish optimism for all the wonderful things you had to offer.  I looked longingly toward your possibilities.  I declared that you would, in fact, be my year.  I stood hopeful that, under your watch, all the things I’d so patiently dreamed of would finally come to fruition.

But within three short months you crushed those hopes.  You took an honest, patient, confident woman and broke her; from the inside out.  You turned the secure life I had come to know on its end.  You took away the one person I thought I couldn’t live without and left me standing alone.  And then, quite surprisingly, you showed me how not alone I really am.  You ushered in new friends from the most unexpected of places, rekindled old friendships with people I thought I had lost forever, and showed me a new kind of love.  You presented me with surprising new interests and provoked me to revisit old ones.  You reminded me how much I still need my mother, and introduced me to a much needed canine companion; both of whom kept me equal parts sane and insane.  You allowed me to make bad decisions, throw caution to the wind, and really experience life as a single woman — arguably something probably more suited for 2001, but I chose/choose to not doubt your reasons.  I choose only to accept you for what you were; a re-building year; a necessary evil that, thankfully, I didn’t see coming.  Once again, like 2007 before you, you caused me to pause and reassess everything I held to be true.  I am not mad at you for that.  I know that, where 2009 and 2010 couldn’t, you did what needed to be done.

Standing in those glittery purple glasses, I knew in the pit of my stomach that 2011 would not end as it begun, that something significant would happen.  I wasn’t wrong in that.

So what I’m trying to say is, despite all the pain and strife, I am grateful for you.  I am grateful for the lessons you taught me and the clarity you provided – though I don’t quite know what to do with any of it yet.   And thank you for paving the way for 2012.  I will once again, don more glitter than any self-proclaimed tom boy ever should, look 2012 square in the eye, and declare it to be my year.

Ok, now scram.  I never want to see your face around here again.

Robin

PS. You can take the extra 8lbs with you when you leave.

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Restless

Restless; Not satisfied to be at rest or in peace; averse to repose or quiet; eager for change; discontented; as, restless schemers; restless ambition; restless subjects.

I was speaking to a friend yesterday about his lingering feelings of discontent.  We have this discussion every so often, when one or the other of us has had a particularly trying day/weekend/week/month.  We start waxing poetic about life and happiness and the search for peace.  In this instance, he talked about feeling restless and uneasy and wanting to “blow this place up and start over.”  No, I don’t think he means it literally, but the conversation made me realize the frequency with which I have similar feelings of restlessness.  At least every few weeks, I consider ways in which I can “start over” — my job, my lifestyle, the people, the area.  And it has always been this way.  Sometimes it has led to an actual move or job change.  My current pipe dreams involve a small lazy town, near a beach – quiet and undisturbed, maybe a shop owner or a writer.  The very definition of restless suggests the opposite of all those things, so surely I could find peace there.  But what I fear most is that the small town life would amplify those feelings rather than negate them — and I am once again left thinking, can I really ever be content?

Are there other people in this world who actually feel content for an extended period of time? Am I the exception?  Those people who post photos of their babies and husband and Christmas decorations on Facebook, are they content?  What about people who practice yoga regularly or have turned to religion and focus all their energy on converting others?  Are they all content, or are they just distracting themselves from the discontent?  Is that all that life really is – figuring ways in which to quiet the boredom?  New obsessions; TV shows, booze, religion, exercise, crafts, sports, sex, other people — all things we’ve concocted to convince ourselves we’re content.  Is the key to happiness finally finding that one thing or balance of things that engross us so fully that we suddenly become, “content?”

I am no better than anyone else.  I latch on to something I can relate to/care about, something that provides a temporary distraction from the mundane, and I hold on to that thing for dear life; dance, music, people, TV shows, books, working-out.  I obsess until it no longer quiets the noise, until the restlessness creeps back in — and then I find a new obsession.  But I have never really found peace.  My friend made an interesting assessment during our conversation; maybe these people who appear so happy to the outside world have just accepted that this is what their life will be, for better or for worse.  Maybe peace lies in acceptance.  Maybe he’s right or maybe they’ve just learned to accept the lie.  For a time I fell into that category of people and I admittedly never felt peace.  Though it probably isn’t ground breaking, I for one think the world is made up two types of people; constants and variables.  That oftentimes we look longingly at the other side and wish that we could be with them: safe, content, and happy, or wild, reckless, and free.  Maybe sometimes we wish so hard that we actually make it so; and maybe sometimes we get there and wish we’d stayed.

After writing my thoughts, I came across this Sylvia Plath quote that I think sums up how I feel pretty nicely; “I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.”  And while I can’t really liken myself to the insanity and depression that plagued Sylvia Plath, nor do I anticipate sticking my head in the oven anytime soon, I can certainly relate to that statement.  I just wish I could pick a side and stay there.