41... and Done!

I was just reading over last year's birthday post... and, wow! I really sucked at turning 40!

What is it about that milestone that does so much damage to a woman's psyche?

As I ring in 41 this week, let's look back at the kind:cruel ratio that was my Year of Forty.

• The Quickest Mid-Life Crisis in History: I whined, complained and threw cyber-tantrums as I crested the middle-aged slope and fell directly off its cliff. It was a quick freefall and then I was like, "Oh, sorry about that world!" and went back about my regularly-scheduled business. I like to think that what it lacked in longevity it made up for explosiveness. Was it fair to the world? No. But the world survived it, so I'm over it too. 

• Finally Found a Home: The last thing on my "40" bucket list was to purchase real estate and be living in said real estate by the end of the year. Due to my stubbornness over price and location, it took me an entire year of house-hunting to achieve this final tick mark. (Not to mention, four different mailing addresses in the same amount of time. Believe me when I say that my year of homelessness is still confusing the local post office!) So, does signing the deed at the age of 40.8 still make the cut? It counts in my book! And, being stubborn paid off. I'm in exactly the location I had my heart set on and actually came in under budget, too!

• My Boobs are Playing Tricks on Me: It seems like much more than a year ago that I had my first breast cancer scare, but it was just last summer. Tacky as it may have seemed to some when I decided to share that journey; the conversations it started among friends and family really proved to be worth the embarrassing exchange. (Click link for a recap. To those who missed the follow-up, it was just a cyst in the end!) It seems most women at this age have had their "scares" and for someone who once favored male friendships over female, it really proved to me the necessity of the female-sisterhood. (Love you, ladies!) In other boob news, is there a once-a-decade law of physics that is keeping the bra industry in business?! It happened at thirty when the elasticity of the dermis began to betray me. New bra size! Must go shopping! And, here it is again at forty. Holy tit! As if gravity weren't enough of a foe, they've now decided to go running off in opposite directions! It's like each side is in a race to see who can reach my back first by the age of fifty!* And, of course, hello! New bra size again! This is getting old business is expensive business.

Somehow, this is the only Before/After depiction I could
find on my laptop!

• Lost Weight: I have always been cursed in the weight department. (By "American fashion" standards, at least.) I was a tall gangly child, who got called "String Bean", "Carpenter's Dream"** and the like, more often than necessary. (It's really not necessary to comment on children's body types. Ever. Or, anyone's, for that matter. Will the world never learn?!) Once puberty hit, I was hippy and bootylicious during the entire Kate Moss waif trend. Then, totally missing the boat on both ends, my body chose to revert back to waify twelve-year old proportions in middle-age, just in time to usher in the decade of the butt. I literally cried*** when that Meghan Trainor song was released because it was so catchy that I wanted to sing along, but in order to do so I had to call out "Skinny bitches"**** and lyrically agree that "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.♫" Which leads me to publicly present a challenge to today's pop stars. It's great to celebrate all body types! But, please realize that you can celebrate yours without shaming others in return. Hear that, Meghan? Nicki? Other girls whose names I forgot because I'm not entirely up to date on pop music?

• Lost My Filter: My filter has slowly been slipping away from me since my twenties. The decline has only increased in rapidity at 40. I probably cuss more than I should. I definitely give more unsolicited advice than I should. I fast-tracked from age 39 to 80 in my comfort level of thinking I'm old enough to not have to censor myself. Which is not necessarily a good thing, I do realize. On the upside, it's caused me take better care of my self-worth. If somebody wrongs me, I suddenly have no problem calling them out on it. Which is something I could have never dreamed of doing half-a-lifetime ago. Has it made me popular? Of course not! But, it's sharpened my true friendships and pinched off the ones that were sapping my reserves. Forty had no time for drama. And, forty-one's schedule is looking pretty booked as well. 

• Lost My Grandma: Forty was a terrible year of loss for my family. Both sides lost their last matriarchs. Not just that, but personally my biggest cheerleaders as well. Through all the sadness, I had the privilege of sitting with my Grandma in hospice during her last weeks on this earth. I received from her the best compliments of my entire lifetime and advice that I will cherish forever and ever. Though, it was exhausting, I still miss her every day and have never fully finished grieving over that loss. As my birthday draws near, I will miss that yearly card from her where she would underline in ink pen every word in the lame Hallmark poem that reminded her of me. And, I will forever regret every year that I was too lazy to call and thank her for thinking of me.

• Lost My Way: This year, I decided to be good. Again. Like, daily. Constantly renewing that pledge. Every morning, asking God for a clean slate and yet another do-over. I'm learning to not only speak more kindly, act more kindly and (most importantly) react more kindly. (Powder Keg Mecham, at your service!) I'm really focusing on thinking more kindly, so there are no judgmental or unfriendly comments rooted anywhere to have any chance of slipping out. This used to come so naturally for me, which means my heart must have slipped into an ungrateful place somewhere along the way. I have decades-old walls I'm breaking down. Bear with me! They were there for good reason, but I've grown too old and tired to keep holding them up. I've heard unkind things about myself this year. I don't want to produce that same kind of hurt in others. If I love you, I'll show it. If I give you a compliment, I really mean it. There's no sugar-coating. I'm too lazy to waste my breath like that. 

• Gave in to the Stereotype and Became a Fur Mama: Forty and single equals cat mama... Der! I absolutely adore this girl. And, she seems to tolerate me in exchange. (Although, she's currently glaring at me for having the light on this late at night and impeding upon her 22nd hour of sleep for the day.) Is it cheesy to say she completes me? No, just creepy? Well, thanks for keepin' it real. 

So, last year's post... What did I know? I was just a young 39.99 year-old when I wrote it. Little did I know 40 was bringing with it the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. If this trend keeps up, 41 may possibly leave me with whiplash!*****

But, seeing that I won't see another milestone for nine years is quite a relief. What's on my "50" bucket list, you ask? Let's just start with "Not Dying" and take it from there.******

No pressure this decade.

*Okay, maybe slight exaggeration on my part. They're still pretty cute for their age. Supported or not. And, healthy, most importantly!

**ie. Flat as a board.

***Disclaimer: Hormone surges may also be partly at fault for tears.

****Don't argue that the following, "...Just playin' , I know you think you're fat.♫" lyric makes up for this. No, we don't think we're fat. We're now just doubting our desirability thanks to your insensitive lyrics. Big or small, booties are soft to the touch... and that's what really matters. Trust me, I'm older and wiser. There's no need to cut others down to build yourself up. Lecture over!

*****Whiplash. Best movie of my fortieth year. Go see it!

******And, less footnotes. :)

F.U. Flu!

Well, that's a gross image above!

Even grosser, I've had every one of those symptoms within the past few days.

The flu is such a pill and an inconvenience, but a great excuse to stay in bed and vegetate.

In the past four days, I've progressed from feeling a little yucky, to blech, to barf, to "I'd better just stay in bed", to a 12-hour bout with the whiny man-flu (yes, women... it can happen to you), to "I think I can eat again!", to "Why did I just eat that?", to angry dinosaur tummy, to "I really can eat, but why does my body still hurt so badly and why is walking to the bathroom so exhausting?"

Today's flu stage is a promising one. It's the stage where I've emptied out the DVR, read all of the magazines, ran out of Netflix titles on my list, reached the bottom of my Pinterest feed and have completely explored the Internet in its entirety.

There is absolutely no other form of entertainment to be found from my bed, (well, there is always blogging... and, so, check!) which means I must now will myself back to health because I've simply become too bored to be sick any longer.

Yes, my tongue is still white from dehydration. My muscles feel like someone's been practicing electroshock therapy on them. My throat feels as if someone's been scraping it with a salad fork in my sleep. And, I can't tell if I'm still feverish, or if I've simply had my laptop resting on my stomach for too many hours on end.*

But, I've decided: Today is the day! I will get dressed even! (Yoga pants count as clothes, right?) I will wash (or, at least, change) this germ-ridden bedding! I will walk up and down the stairs without resting in between! I will set the alarm for work tomorrow! I will drink all of the water so my tongue becomes pink again! I will wash my hair and (maybe) shave my legs!

I will do it all! I think I can, I think I can, I kinda know I maybe can...

I just need to take one more nap first.

Zzzzzzzz...

*Please remember to refer me to this post if, in the future, you ever hear me whining of a sudden and unexplained bout with infertility. I fear this laptop may have fried my eggs as well.

Rite of Passage

This year-of-turning-forty is not without its rites of passage.

The latest, being my very own breast cancer scare.

[Usher me past the velvet ropes of womanhood.]

Probably half of the women I know that are my age or older have had at least one lump, bump, cyst or funky mammogram result that sent them into that multi-day tailspin until... dah dah dummm... RESULTS.

Yesterday, during a routine physical, my doctor felt something.

Now, my doctor is a chatterbox and what she felt caused a reaction I'd never seen in her. She stopped talking. Mid-sentence even! We went immediately from sharing our lack of plans for the holiday to her shoving my left boob in the same spot repeatedly while her chatty smile turned into an instant look of dread.

I didn't immediately catch on to the severity of the issue, so when I tried to continue the conversation, she finally blurted out that I have a lump.

I was stunned.

I had came in for a routine physical. I went from the high of being told we could skip the pelvic exam this year due to my previous year's shining results. We'd already covered the state of my family history, my GERD, my bum knee and I received new praise for upping my exercise routine this year.

All that was left was the easy part. Lay back, don't make eye contact and have a breezy conversation while my doctor feels me up.

She ended up taking my own hand and shoving it into my left side-boob, as if to wake me up to the fact that we were no longer talking about barbecuing on the Fourth of July. "Do you feel that?" she asked me. "Oh... yeah.. kinda," I lied. "I'm sending you for an ultrasound."

Her easiest appointment of the day suddenly turned into hushed conversations with the nurse as they scribbled in my file and crazily hurried together paperwork to get me into the lab as quickly as possible, while the nurse kept turning around to assure me how pretty I looked that day. (Ah, the sisterhood of women. Always able to deflect panic with a compliment, God bless us.)

The soonest the lab could take me for an ultrasound was to be this afternoon. All I had to do was stave off my imagination for one shortened workday before I could have answers and feel some relief.

Well, an office worker from lab called me first thing this morning with some news that she was obviously hesitant to share. The ultrasound tech had called in sick. I blurted out an, "OH NO!" Which she echoed in sympathy, "Oh no, is right..."

She then tip-toed through the rest of the conversation. I could practically sense her cringing on the other end, as if I had the power to reach through the phone line and choke her out. "I understand it's not your fault," I assured her, "but when is the soonest you can get me in? I don't care what day, how early, how late..." I found a moment to sympathize with her for being the messenger and promised myself that I would not bark at her in the manner that today's other patients must have verbally manhandled her with.

Next week. Thursday. Stupid "sick" lab tech. Stupid holiday.

My six hour wait for peace in a moment's notice had multiplied into a one-week-plus-one-day one.

Boy is my imagination is going to be testing me!

I realize this isn't usually the stage in which you share this kind of medical news. In fact, I wasn't going to share any of this publicly until I had happy results that I could turn into a hilarious blog post, typed with fingers that had been bathed in utter relief.

But, then I figured that God doesn't test us so we can keep secrets about it. 

Maybe not all women will experience cancer. The unfortunate ones don't have a choice. The brave of those ones build up the courage to share their journeys.

But,  there's also the rest of womankind. The "at least half of the ones I know" that can relate to the waiting. Good news, bad news, just hoping for the all clear. Most of them won't even end up being sick and needing treatment... but, oh, the crazy places your mind will go when you're caught up in the day-long and night-long distraction of not knowing yet.

Why should we be ashamed to talk about it? It's one of the neediest times to open up our mouths and vent.

So, for your entertainment (and maybe to pass Phase One of my "test") here is an overshare of some random thoughts that have passed through my scattered brain these last two days:

• Geesh, the first year I didn't bother with a self exam!
• I thought only big breasts got lumps.
• Why'd I go and pick the cheaper insurance plan at work?
• I'm house-hunting! I can't afford cancer right now!
• After the lab lady asked me if the lump hurts, I answered "no." After I obsessively poke myself in the breast all evening, "Ow! It hurts so bad!"
• Lumpectomy or mastectomy?
• With a mastectomy I could inherit an insurance-paid-for perfectly-shaped pair.
• Why does the medically bad boob have to be the physically cuter one?
• Should I start giving out free second-baseys so my real breasts can have one last thrill before they're severed and tossed in the garbage.
• Do they put the amputated breasts in the garbage can?!
• Should I photograph them before they're gone?
• Why do I immediately think I will be breastless in the near future?
• I'm sorry to my boobs, for always calling you small. You are not inadequate in any way, shape or form.
• This really isn't helping my mid-life crisis.
• Is someone going to make me do a three-day walk now? I really don't think I want to walk that far.
• Do I have to start wearing pink? I hate pink!
• I can't believe I was tempted to cancel my annual physical.
• Don't ever cancel your annual physical.
• I love my doctor.
• Why now?
• Why me?
• Am I dreaming?
• Should I really blog all this?

Well, too late now. I just did.

I'd love to end this post with "IT WAS JUST A CYST!", but I jumped the gun on this news and now we'll all just have to wait on the test and its results together. (Don't you love how I tangled you into my anxiety web?)

You don't have to act weird if you see me in real life. I'll accept all encouraging hugs. I welcome your own stories if you never had a chance to vent your own scare. I'll even understand if you avoid me altogether because this news made things awkward and you'd rather pretend you never read this. Fine, you never read this. You know nothing about my boobs. I can play along! When I'm in an awkward moment I overshare. I can definitely feel for those who don't.

Of course, I'm accepting all offered prayers. But, I'm not quite ready for unsolicited advice, so don't go there yet. 

And, please, don't bother my family with questions they don't have answers to. I told you everything I know so far and they're alot more private than I am. (Do you really think the men in my family want to acknowledge the existence of my breasts?) If you must talk about it, bring it to me only. 

My doctor tried very hard to convince me that I should think this is just a cyst. (But, she also whispered too much with the nurse in a panicked fury too closely to the exam room door...) I'm choosing to be encouraged by her hopeful prognosis. And, in my heart-of-hearts, I know she's probably right. She is the expert, after all.

Worst case scenario: I'm dying. But, aren't we all dying of something?

Bad case scenario: It's something and I'll need treatment. But, treatment exists. Praise the Lord!

Best case (and most likely) scenario: My doctor's hope was right and the worst that happened was that I entertained you all with my honest paranoia. 

Most bizarre of the benign scenarios: God just gave my breasts speed-bumps to deter fast men.

Don't skip your self exam this year. And be sure to make that yearly appointment!

Would-Like-to-Do-tions

I'm not a resolution kind of gal.  I'm not into making promises that I don't intend to keep. The Bible says that God delights in those who keep their promises (Proverbs 12:22), so I've always been a woman of my word. Of few words. Of very few promised and spoken words. 

If I ever make you a promise, know I've thought it through carefully and take it uber seriously. (With an act of God clause attached, of course.) It's nice to delight the Lord and others. It's not so nice to fake out.

Therefore in 2014, I resolve nothing. I see everyone posting their vows today and it's all very inspiring. So in substitution, I'll instead announce my Would-Like-to-Do-tions for this year:

• Follow the THINK rule (above) more often before speaking. Stop trying to convince myself that "is it funny?" is one of them. If there were an F in think, it'd be fink. Don't be one!
• Blog more. BOTH blogs. People are forgetting that I know more than just the state of pop culture.
• Sew more. The Christmas gift rush of quilts was back-breaking work, but satisfying. Practice makes perfect. One day the binding will come out even and the quilt-stitching free of lumpy seams!
• Taper off on the holiday feeding frenzy. More protein, less carbs. And what is a hypoglycemic doing with all of those sugary snacks? No wonder I'm feeling so lop-sided and sleepy. Nightly nacho snacks are also a holiday binge. There's no holidays left this season. Cut it down to maybe 2-3 times a week.
• Exercise more. Because everybody says this. And, let's face it, I need to.
• Go see a couple movies. Award season is upon us.
• Save my way closer to home ownership. I'd like to finally see if all of this stuff can fit into one place.
• Even though I've been scratching and saving, I should allow myself at least one vacation this year. Even if it's just a weekend trip. Even if it's just one county over. Responsibility is making me a little stir crazing.

Wait! I do have one resolution I know I can follow through on and that I am not ashamed to solemly vow for fear of punking out later:

• I vow to trim my bangs. They are starting to get in my eyes.

Happy 2014! Make it true. Make is helpful. Make it inspiring. Make it necessary. Make it kind. (And, maybe a little bit funny too...)

Cellulite... That's Right!

If there's one thing that should bond us women together, it's our cellulite.

SAY WHAT?!  Yeah, I said it.  Since nobody one else will!

80-95% of us have it (depending on which study you choose believe is most accurate.) That's a higher instance of commonality than anything else we as ladies share. 

Marital status, skin color, education, tax bracket... the only thing we women have most in common is undeniably our cellulite.  So why don't we ever talk about it?

Because it's a gross part of life that we'd like to forget is there. 

So, no, don't worry... I won't be trying to work cellulite into everyday conversation. (Got that, readers who actually know me personally?  There's no need to dodge into the nearest doorway/elevator/house plant the next time you see me coming.)  We're going to keep this to a one-time thing between you, me and the internet.  As it should be.

How many of you pick up the annual Cellulite Issue of that tabloid that you normally despise? I admit, I've never actually purchased these issues (just can't bring myself to feed the beast), but I've definitely sneaked a peek in the checkout line or if I find a loose copy left lying around the lunchroom.

Obviously, the tabloid magazines that make big bucks from their annual Cellulite Editions are doing it for the wrong reason.  They're officially in the business of knocking celebrities off of their pedestals and bent on ruining the lives of the privileged by whatever means ethical or not.  (Sidenote: That's why I've cropped all faces, captions and identifying features from the "backside" photos I've used here. It was done without their permission the first time around. I'm not about to be the repeat offender.)

But, let me tell you what I personally get out of peeking: The relief that we're all just as sexy as one another.  

If I would have captioned the accompanying pics, you may have been shocked to learn that these lumpy ladies being crucified in the tabloids are the same ones gracing the "Most Beautiful" covers of other publications. The same bombshell airbrushed in the swimsuit issue may be the next one featured on the cellulite edition's cover.

Go figure!  Even movie stars and divas are a part of the 95% of us.  We really do have something in common after all!  (And, those remaining 5% probably either lied during the survey process or are a part of the under-21 demographic.  They're not fooling us!)

My cellulite story started at a very young age. Probably early teens. That's when I started wearing swimsuits with skirty bottoms because I was one of the first of my peers to enter this passage of womanhood.  (Why couldn't the boobs have come first?!)

See, it does come on arms.
Even celebrity hottie ones!

It started on the butt and upper thighs, like it always does, and slowly crept it's way down past the knees over the following three decades.  As I get closer to 40, I'm finding it sneaks up in the most unexpected places like, Ack! My calves? What?! My arms!  I wouldn't be surprised if my ears were next. 

There's different kinds of cellulite, too. My personal brand is "skinny girl's cellulite". I've always been tall and small-boned, so unfortunately my cottage cheese has nowhere to blend within normal womanly curves. It just stands at attention, grasping to my skin as if it were in fear of falling off. (Little does it know, I'd be perfectly fine with it falling off!)

I've learned to dress to camouflage, but the "skinny girl" blend always gets the biggest reaction. People don't expect you to have it, because you look so "normal" when fully dressed. So, when that first trip to the beach, pool, spa, store dressing room with us catches them off guard, it is usually met with screams and stares. (Screams from the small children who don't know any better and stares from the shocked adults who are trying their darnedest to feign unfazed.)

In the winter, it's easy to forget about because we're covered up, shivering and forgetting to shave. (What? You're not from around here? You have to shave year-round? So sorry to hear...) But, the weather will eventually turn warmer and the cycle begins again. 

I'll buy a new pair of shorts that looked surprisingly great in the dressing room, but the truth is soon revealed in my obscenely well-lit bathroom. Swimsuit season jiggles in to greet us and I'm in a mad dash to find the last pair of swim-shorts in my size.  No more string bikinis here!

But, then the latest Celebs with Cellulite issue is released to save me just in time.  I can peek, feel at home with my famous fellow 95%-ers and be lifted back out of my shame spiral.  

What else are you gonna do? There is no cure. Yeah, there's expensive creams and treatments that really don't work. The latest trend being caffeinated lotions. I've considered trying a poor girl's version of rubbing Folgers Crystals around on my thighs, out of curiosity, but it just seemed too messy. Besides, if I did find a way to make it disappear then what would we all have to bond over?

So, why did I post this?  Some of you are probably saying this in your head, or aloud to one another as you snicker and judge me. If you haven't figured the answer to that question out yet, take a look at your own backside. I know I'm not the only one who takes a spin on the self-pity tilt-a-whirl this time of year. Misery loves company and so does cellulite. We're all in this together... at least 80% of of us. The rest of you can go eat a burrito while we join hands and ♫ We shall overcome...♫

If you take away nothing else, at least take away this: When you're people-watching at the beach this summer, don't gag and make jokes at others like the tabloid do. Remember that you're most likely sitting on a similar lump of Jello. When you catch your boyfriend or husband ogling the latest chick on the Maxim cover, don't get down, feel free to point out that if he flipped her over, odds are, she's as lumpy as you are.  

If you made it this far, and you're a daring soul... I'm not letting myself off the hook that easily. Since I've exploited the backs-of-thighs of the rich and famous, it's only fair that I exploit my own. Below, I give you:

My Cellulite.

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You're welcome!

 (And, yes, macaroni and cheese was consumed during the making of this post.  It was GOOD!)

Things the World Can Shut Up About Any Time Now

Here is a list of things I'm officially tired of hearing about at the moment:

Gabby Douglas's hair:  Gabby Douglas is a beautiful, extraordinarily talented girl.  So why the fuss over her hair?  I'm tired of hearing mothers, who pay exorbitant amounts of moolah to have chemicals drenched and a weave sewn into their  own young daughters' hair, criticizing the care and keeping given by our national hero's mama.  Her hair is, yes, relaxed and then pulled into a bun when working... like every other gymnasts' on earth.  Then, off duty, she wears the exact same hairstyle as my own teen-aged niece.  So the real question is, You got a problem with my niece's hair?   

 

Miley's hair: I absolutely love Miley Cyrus's new hairdo!  It suits her face, it suits her personality and it definitely suits her age.  So why do I keep reading headlines of shock and awe about whether there are deeper issues involved in this celebrity's haircut?  The world has no control over any one person's personal style choices and the sooner the world realizes this, the happier I'll be.  She is not really Hannah Montana!  And, besides, *secret to be spilt* Hannah Montana wore a wig.  I tried a very short hair cut myself in my twenties, the best time to experiment with extreme fashion.  I even tried to frost it to this shade of platinum, but mine turned out yellow instead.  Shocked?  Nope.  Jealous?  Absolutely.

Lindsay Lohan. Period.: Once upon a time, I watched Freaky Friday, Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen and Mean Girls so many times with my niece that I couldn't even venture a guess at the tally.  She was such a promising young actress at the time and then something went slightly off kilter.  The world took notice, then something went drastically wrong.  The world, then, never stopped paying attention, perpetuating a spiral that apparently was never to be recovered from.  World: Please, stop looking at her.  It's the only cure.  (Remember Speidi?  No?  Good.  See, my theory is now proven.)

Passive/aggressive Facebook posts featuring unsolicited parental advice: We get it, we get it... you're a good mom or dad.  No one doubted you. No one needed proof.  And, certainly no one wanted advice that didn't ask for it.  You see, being a good parent isn't a rarity.  Most parents I know are pretty great at it.  So, quit assuming you're way is best when most other parenting styles are working just as effectively.  Don't expect the world to praise you for refusing to vaccinate.  Don't expect a trophy for forcing your child to go vegan.  And, the world will absolutely not be throwing a banquet in your honor because you chose to breastfeed until the age of five.  The sooner you realize this, the sooner friends will start "liking" your statuses again. 

 

The chemicals I may be ingesting, at my own will, as a grown human being: Going along with the previous category; I myself don't need advice about my own diet either.  I have been eating meat, dairy, processed foods, carbs, preservatives and additives my entire life.  And, guess what?  I have my doctor's seal of approval!  If a number skews ever-so-slightly in a worrisome direction upon any visit, we make the appropriate dietary adjustments to correct and move on.  So, while I salute your self-control and your acquired taste for foods that taste like yard grass, while I tolerate your tolerance to ingest a product with the word "germ" in its title... I am uninterested in participating.  I eat, not for political or social agenda, but to stay fueled and living.  Seeing that I'm upright at the moment, breathing and typing... it appears that my way works too.  (Remember: It's your b.m.'s that are unusual in color and texture, not mine.)

Your political convictions: Newsflash! Your offensive critiques, exhausting Facebook rants and "clever" memes have yet to sway a single soul.  Yes, you're passionate.  You have your convictions.  But, guess what? We all do!  And, they're rarely identical.  That's why we show up at those polling stations with the little walled off booths that make one's vote private and sacred.  The way they were meant to be.

The designer names of your attire: When you're talking about your shoes, they're not your "Jimmy Choos", they're your shoes.  When your putting on your jacket, your not putting on your "Burberry", it's simply your jacket to rest of the world.  When you're digging through your purse, you're not digging through your "Louis Vuitton", it's just a bag, for the love of Pete!  If you feel the need to turn every label into a noun, think long and hard about why you feel the need to do that and then be very sad with yourself.  If you, then, still feel the need to pronounce your "Gucci"s, I'll give you a head start while zip up my Gaps and lace up my Targets.

To Do List

Everyone keeps asking me my plans for after my workplace closes this week.  I'm pretty sure, they mean what are my plans for employment.  I have a to do list.  It just doesn't have much to do with a 401K plan:

1. Get back to blogging more often.
2. Go see at least 1/3 of the the Best Picture Oscar nominees, before the ceremony for once.
3. Clean my desk.
4. Clean my room.
5. Clean my linen closet.
6. Catch up on sleep.
7. Read a pile of books.
8. Attempt to relearn how to use a sewing machine.
9. Attempt to make a quilt. (I was inspired by a Susana Allen Hunter exhibit at the Henry Ford Museum six years ago and never found the time to sit down and get to it.  Love her free-form, pattern-free style!  Haven't forgotten it after all these years.)
10. Attempt to make a Pioneer Woman-inspired owl pillow.
11. Look into opening an Etsy store (if I can manage to pull off goals 8-10. But, no pressure if I can't.)
12. Get back into painting/drawing.
13. Finish that darn Christmas project.
14. Take some new pictures.
15. Visit a museum or two.
16. Get back to the eye doctors and finally get contacts back in my eyeballs.
17. Exercise.  For real this time!
18. Grow out my bangs a half-inch.  (You should see them.  I trimmed them wet this time and they're hideous!)
19. Make a new recipe.
20. Be inspired enough to add to this list.

Don't worry.  Somewhere in the 20's will also be "figure out life" and "get a new job".  I'm still planning on being a contributing member of society.  I just need a fresh head first!

Resolution

Now that I've made my new year's resolution, I'm finding it harder and harder to blog and update Facebook.  I resolve the same thing almost every year; to be nicer, less judgmental, to block out gossip and to try to say something positive when a conversation turns negative.

This year's difference is that I made this resolution in December, back when I was still lying sick in bed feeling as if death became me, and I found myself in a week-long bartering session with God.  "Why am I not getting better?",  "No one else's illness is lasting this long?",  "Are you trying to teach me something?",  "What did I do?",  "I will be faithful like Job, but do you realize I feel like I'm dying?", "Alright, if you heal me I promise I'll really try to be a nicer person."  And, then I started to heal.

Yeah, so this trade was intended to impact only my personal sphere of human beings... But then, by default, I found that each time a celebrity would go and do something dumb/weird/gross/off-the-wall, at the point that my snark usually kicks in, I'd run to update my FB status and find myself not being able to hit the "Enter" key.  I've literally gotten as far as typing out a hilarious comment (that was sure to get at least ten likes and five LOLs) and then found myself at the mercy of an immediate spiritual twinge that took control of my arm and made be hit the backspace key.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Oh boy.  Celebrities are people too?  I'm screwed.  I even willingly let my People subscription run out!  I even skipped The Soup AND E's Fashion Police this week!  I even felt sorry, when flipping past one of those Kardashian shows, for Kim and her romantic codependency condition!

I guess my resolution has just taken on new life this year, when elevated from just a good thought to an actual promise.

There are a few other things I've learned in the last year that I like to try to carry in to the new one:

• Stress is unavoidable, only the way you choose to handle it is in your control.
• It's okay to watch only comedies if that's all you're in the mood for.  There's no need to force yourself to sit through any form of entertainment that scares you, depresses you, grosses you out, makes you feel weird inside, makes you cry when you're not in the mood for tears, or anything else that seems like a waste of your time or that just isn't your cup of tea.  No matter how many awards it may win one day or how many friendly recommendations you've been given.  This goes for music, books and tv too.  Sorry, American Horror Story!  No offense, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo!
• Fresh air is like nature's vitamin supplement.  Be sure to inhale a recommended amount daily.
• Too many months of glasses wear has officially killed my vanity.  I don't even do my hair every day!  (Yes, I comb my hair everyday.  I just throw it in a ponytail much more often.)  Makeup, also, has become strictly optional.  Not sure if this is a good or bad thing yet.
• I have finally reached the point where I can honestly say, "Okay, I really do own enough clothes."
• I tried some new foods and didn't like them.  The curiosity is over and I never have to eat them again.  At least I tried!
• Go to the doctors while you still have insurance.

I thought the biggest challenge of 2012 was going to be wading through that puddle of job stress.  I'm now beginning to think it might actually be finding ways to make you guys LOL, without compromising my resolution.

Cheers to my trying!  Hang in there with me!

2011 Highlight Reel

What can I say about 2011?  It started out as one of the happiest years ever and ended with merging crap-storm upon crap-storms, all combining to create one giant fecal tornado.

They say the Lord never gives you more than you can handle, and I know that this is true.  He's proven it to me time and again.  It's just sometimes I wish He'd let me rest in my 2010-level of strength for a little while longer because, most days, I feel just about growed-out.

Although 2012 brings with is alot of uncertainty (and uncertainty is not my specialty) I know the Lord is laughing to Himself right now because He knows all the answers to the mysteries that lie ahead.

On this last day of the year I will try my darnedest not to let job-stress, health-stress or all-around-grumpiness taint my memory of the almost late, great, 2011.

After all, we did have all this fun:

Polar bear water ballet:

Communing with nature:

Foot-fishing (A hobby to be categorized under "Things Only an Aunt Would Let You Do"):

Fundraising Fun:

March of Dimes - March for Babies

New found appreciation for sports I thought I loathed:

Animals!  Animals!  Animals!

Dinosaurs!

 Dinosauria @ The Detroit Zoo

Cranbrook Institute of Science

Enjoying our favorite staycation spot over and over and over again:

 The Henry Ford

 Loving more of Michigan:

 Which includes bridges...

 ...boats...

 ...roadside Americana...

 ...rickety attractions much too high up in the air...

...all worth it to get this image of my nephews in print.

And a whole bunch of good ol' fashion family fun:

As, I bid adieu (ie. "good riddance") to 2011, I'd also like to thank you all for supporting An Aunt's Life this past year.  It's been another highlight to add to my reel and I wish you all blessings in the coming new year.

May the Lord be my rock in 2012 and my family be my happy pill.