More change has happened since my last post. I am newly engaged. That man in my last story, that carried me to the train? He’s going to be my husband.
It’s pretty damn exciting and life has been really, really good.
I’m slowly adjusting to New York City. I spent the first couple of months trying not to get lost, in a daily, semi-panic that the newness of this massive place inflicts on you. So, the writer in me didn’t observe and relish all the delicious characters that had been laid out to develop and absorb. The people all seemed to have the same faces, and each street felt like the one before because I wasn’t paying attention.
Time has passed, and I am easing into a moderate comfort level in moving around the city. For the most part, I only get lost half of the time now, and it’s much less dramatic than the early days. I have a love-hate relationship with the subway. It is a well-oiled, functioning tube of transportation. It’s easy to understand, relatively safe, and marginally clean.
For the most part, the people follow the rules and go with the flow: let the people out of the train before pushing your way in, stay to the right on the escalators if you’re going to stand, and let the people on the left walk up. Make room, move over and squeeze as many people in as possible and try to be polite. Avoiding eye contact is best, but sometimes you have to look at their eyes. Because they all have a story.
A cloud of desperation and anticipation hangs in the air in and around the subway. Everyone is just trying to keep it together while being smashed like sardines in a can. The single mothers, dragging their kids around, the yuppies in their suits checking their email, the senior citizens holding onto their bags of groceries; all essentially trapped together, racing through a tunnel to get to where they need to go.
There is absolutely no privacy on the subway or on the streets. You are inches from stranger’s faces. You breathe in the exhales of coffee breath or a garlic-filled lunch, smell the body odor of the non-showered, and virtually taste the perfume of overtly saturated women.
There are no private conversations. Fighting and couples breaking up in public is a common occurrence. Business deals, first dates, parenting strategies, they all happen on the subway. Bring your headphones, or you will be an involved witness to this narration of life you did not even know existed.
But I think that this is all part of the rush of living in New York City and why people love it. The excitement, the anxiety, the energy, it’s the constant entanglement that keeps you going. You never know who is going to sit next to you or what part of your history they will be in your memory. They have a story, you have a story. You are all intertwined in each other’s lives for brief moments while speeding through time and passageways, waiting for the doors to open and continue on with your day.
From there take the 4-5-6 subway to 14th ST-Union Square.
Walk up the stairs facing the backs of hundreds, and feel the swarm of New York City punch you in the gut.
The air is thick with the aroma of hot dogs, gyros, pretzels, and anxiety. Oh, wait, that’s coming from me. Minus the hot dogs, gyros and pretzels.
I have moved to New York.
Many changes have happened since I last blogged. And fittingly enough, it was about accepting impermanence in my life, and what do you know? It turns out; Chicago was not going to be permanent.
I am loving it here. Truly. I could not be happier than to be surrounded by so much LIFE. So many restaurants, museums, parks, theatres, shopping; the list goes on and on. And I am here with the man who swept me off my feet in a matter of months and brought me here to land with him. What could be better?
Hmm. Well, there have been some complications. Read more »
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,700 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 5 years to get that many views.
Lately, these two feelings have been flowing through my blood stream, intertwining with each other and coming back to settle in my heart and brain.
Something inside me definitely changed when I turned forty. A switch went off, and suddenly, everything and everyone came into focus.
As perceptive of people as I thought I had always been, I now realize I have been very naïve, way too trusting and well, honestly, kind of a schmuck.
I have always looked for the good in people. It’s a trait from my grandmother that has been a blessing and a curse. That woman could find something sweet in an ax murderer. Unfortunately, I can be the same way.
Sometimes, always looking for the good in people blinds you to the bad. Those little red flags that I was always willing to overlook are now screaming at me as they blow in the wind.
I think people mistake my acts of forgiveness for being gullible. I get excited about promises made to me and then am actually shocked when people don’t follow through. I expect every man in my life to be as reliable and loyal as my father and it’s just not going to happen. I am learning this as I go. Hence, the disappointment.
Regardless of the glow of sarcasm that surrounds me, I am a people pleaser. I care far too much about what people think about me or how they feel. I am a sponge that absorbs other people’s emotions and energy. I carry around this extra baggage that is not even mine and it becomes a self-imposed burden that I can’t shake free.
Turning forty and becoming single has been terrifying and wonderful at the same time.
On the positive side, I am really coming into my own and figuring out who I am. This can only be achieved by being alone for a while. I am enjoying my creative side and embracing it. I am starting to surround myself with people who are also in the Arts and it feels like home. I am meeting people who share the same passions as me and we are having some really great conversations. I finally get to be me. I’ve never been a conformist and surrounding myself with like-minded people reinforces my desire to just do what I do.
With my newfound awareness, it’s amusing now when people treat me as they always have and their looks of surprise when I don’t respond like the ninny I used to. I’m sort of done with the bullshit.
I’m tired of making excuses for people and their behavior. That is on them. I will, however, accept responsibility for the way they treat me. People will test you to see how much they can get away with and for how long. I can’t control that, but I can control how much I tolerate.
Impermanence is understood by Buddhists as one of the three marks of existence, the others being dissatisfaction (Nothing found in the physical world or even the psychological realm can bring lasting deep satisfaction) and non-self (simply to promote the ideal of sacrificing personal interests for others’ interests.) I am working on accepting impermanence.
It is key to acknowledge this to be able to grow. Relationships don’t last, people come in and out of our lives, and we all die.
We hold onto to things and people far longer than deserved, just because it feels safe.
Life is unpredictable and as hard as we try to squeeze and grab the good things in our lives, the bad is inevitable.
Excitement is all around me though. I am embracing my fears by doing things I would have never done before. Sometimes it brings elation and empowerment. Sometimes it brings pain and leaves me licking my wounds the next day.
The point is, whether it be excitement or disappointment, I’m trying to remember that nothing is permanent and to stop holding on to people or ideas that don’t bring value to my life.
“Whatever is impermanent is subject to change. Whatever is subject to change is subject to suffering.”—The Buddha
Clarity. I am thankful that the fog has cleared and I am able to see people for who they are, and that includes me.
Self-control. I am thankful that I am changing the way I react to things. I am keeping myself in check where needed and trying to learn from past mistakes.
Balance. Not just in yoga handstands, but thankful for learning balance in life. The Ying and the Yang of work, fun, relationships, family, and everything in between.
Inner Peace. I’m not quite there, but I’m on the right road. I am thankful that I am learning to accept my faults and oversights and forgive myself. On the opposite side of that spectrum, I am learning to stop being excessively forgiving to those who continually hurt me.
Family and Friends. I have a great family and I am thankful for their support and love. They are always there when I need them. My friends are fabulous as well; they have seen me do the ugly cry, the happy dance and close their eyes as I drive down the wrong way on a one-way street.
Harrison. This crazy ass cat has turned my house upside down. He has ruined most of my shit, wakes me up at 4 a.m. every morning and poops non-stop. But, he is my snuggle buddy, my lover bug and my heart.
Bacon and Vodka. Well, do I need to say more??
I am also thankful for being healthy, having a job, and being able to share my passion of writing to all of you.
So, I hope today everyone enjoys their turkey and mashed potatoes, their uncles passed out on the couch in a tryptophan coma, flag football in the yard, too many crying babies, that drunk aunt who just won’t shut up, grandparents that you see not often enough, and most importantly…LIONS FOOTBALL!!!
Thank you, thank you, thank you!! Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!
I have lived in the city for three years now and I finally got busted.
The parking meter gods at long last found me and took me down.
In a really big way.
From day one of living here, I have been pretty diligent about paying for parking. I always pay the maximum amount it allows, look at the time it expires and will leave mid-sentence in a restaurant to run out to put more money in.
In other cities I’ve lived in, getting a parking ticket was sort of a joke. In Ann Arbor, it was five or ten bucks. In Detroit, if your car was still where you parked it and had a ticket on the window, you just sighed with relief that it didn’t get stolen.
But in Chicago, I knew it meant big bucks. Fifty big bucks. That is money that can be spent in so many better ways. Fifty big ones could equal a haircut, a cute shirt from Banana Republic, a couple cocktails or even ten cups of over-priced Starbucks coffee. I can definitely be lazy, but for that kind of wasted cash, I always made sure to pay those damn meters.
In the back of my mind, I knew there would come a day when my luck would run out.
Of course, the night it happened, I just happened to be bragging to my friend’s at my local bar about how I had made it three years without a single parking ticket.
People were amazed and in awe (ok, maybe not in awe.)
The patrons were laughing about their own stories of owing hundreds of dollars for unpaid tickets, and how it took them one week in the city to start accumulating them.
Outwardly, I laughed with them. But, inwardly, I was appalled and it made my stomach hurt imagining all those fees racking up and having that kind of stress hanging over one’s head.
Someone even talked about a friend of a friend who owed four THOUSAND dollars in parking tickets. That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
So, when I initially pulled up to my favorite watering hole, it was happy hour and I only planned on staying for some food, a beer and to finish up some computer work.
I paid the maximum, and noticed it was only good until six o’clock. Knowing they check meters until nine, I tucked that time frame away in my head and knew I would have to come back out if I decided to stay longer.
I sat at the bar, ordered some chili and a beer. I pulled out my computer and started the energy sucking process of entering data about my day in the field.
After an hour or so, I was starting to fade and was about to close up shop and head home.
The problem with frequenting my beloved local bar (you know who you are) where everyone knows your name (Hello, Norm!), is that eventually, a friendly face always shows up.
And that’s exactly what happened.
Two of my favorite people walked through the door (they will remain nameless to protect their innocence and shameful drinking) and thus, changed the course of my parking meter history.
The conversation flowed, the music was great and there were copious amounts of laughter.
At one point, I looked at my watched and saw that it was almost six o’clock. I leaned over and looked out the window. My car was not even a full block away. The windshield was absent of any tickets and for the first time EVER, I shrugged my shoulders and said, fuck it.
Now, this is pure and utter laziness. It wasn’t raining, snowing, or even that cold out. The car was not a mile down the road, around the corner or under a dark bridge somewhere. I could literally read my license plate.
But, I just turned back around to my friends and continued on, mentally willing the meter maids away from my car.
So, here it comes.
My right of passage to finally becoming a true Chicagoan came an hour later, in the form of a bright orange envelope flapping in the wind under my wiper.
*side note: I realize that I need to do many more things to become a true Chicagoan. Like taking the bus, the train, and rooting for the Bears (will never happen.) I am working on it.
At any rate, I approached my car laughing, mad at myself for it finally happening, but figured, fine, its fifty bucks and now you’re official.
I whined about it to my friend whom we’ll call Wasabi Fred (don’t ask) as he grabbed them off my windshield.
Yep, that’s when I realized there was more than one ticket.
At first, I assumed they came by twice and double fisted me. So, great, now a hundred fucking dollars.
But as Wasabi Fred got into the car with me, I noticed he was being oddly silent as he reviewed the tickets.
“So??? Two tickets, a hundred bucks, right??” asks me.
That’s when he gives me the pity look. That look where the mouth takes that upward, sideways cringe and the eyes turn into puddles of, shit, I’m not sure how to tell you this.
Wasabi Fred then calmly told me that the second ticket was for not having the new Chicago city sticker. And that it was two hundred dollars.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I have always renewed the damn sticker. And when I say, always, I mean the last two years.
I saw it on the News months ago and knew that I needed to go get it and simply forgot to go do it.
TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS.
It makes me want to vomit just thinking about it.
But, here is where the story becomes amazing for me. And I didn’t notice it until this morning. As I was looking the tickets over, I started laughing as I realized how what I saw on the ticket encapsulated how really funny and ironic my life always is:
My “Officer”- aka Meter Maid- was: TLOVE
I’m sorry, but that shit is funny. It’s like P.DIDDY or ICE T or JAY-Z wrote me my tickets. I imagine TLOVE is a smooth operator. He wears dark shades and is always licking his lips, talking his game to the ladies.
TLOVE is an Officer of the City by day, but he is all party at night. I just know it.
Or….TLOVE could be a middle-aged woman who hates her job because everybody hates the Meter Maid.
Regardless, I now have to go buy the new City sticker for $100, plus the $250. Family members may be getting jars of olives for Christmas this year.
I wanted to be a little “citified” by getting ONE parking ticket, but instead I am probably contributing to a manhole cover for Michigan Avenue.
New State line sign proposed by me:
“Welcome to the City of Chicago, where, just when you are ahead in life, we drain your bank account.”
Thanks to my laziness and TLOVE, I have arrived.
I had the pleasure recently of puking and driving.
It was this past summer. I was headed to Michigan for the weekend. I was hung over and tired.
As I was driving down I-55, I noticed in the back seat that I still had leftovers from my dinner the night before. It was some kind of chicken wrap.
Now, being that my car is parked in an underground garage, I justified it had been cool enough in there all night and my sandwich was probably fine.
So, I had a couple bites. About the third bite in, I realized it just didn’t taste right. And not just not right, it was terrible. At first, I was mentally crossing that menu item off the list of things I would never eat at that restaurant again.
Then, as I could feel the physiology of my body start to change, two thoughts came to me immediately:
- Shit. How much did I drink again last night? My memory flashes to a medium-to-heavy vodka night and eating had not been a priority. Stale liquor is swishing around in my gut, and my liver is refusing to do any type of detoxifying at this point.
- Did you just eat a couple of bites of a left over in-the-car-all night sandwich that has some sort of cream sauce on it?
I am starting to sweat now, my stomach is starting to roil and the panic is setting in. I am flying down the interstate, going about eighty, cars are passing all around me and I have to puke.
The stretch of highway that I am on has very little shoulder on either side. Not enough for me to pull over and not be at risk of having my head sliced off by a passing car.
Things are about to get really gross, so if you have a weak stomach, I highly recommend you click around my site now and find a more fluffy topic (Try, “Like it or not, it’s here to stay”.)
I start looking around the car. Specifically, the carry out bag that contained the poisonous, vile cream filled chicken wrap.
I pick up the plastic bag first. What is it about plastic bags that they always seem to have little holes in the bottom? Always. I know this from cleaning out the cat’s poop box and having a trail of litter follow me down the hall. Ridiculous.
Anyway, the bag is obviously not an option. The thought of chicken and vodka streaming through those holes onto my lap makes the urge to hurl even stronger.
Now, I’m not really sure at this point, what the hell I was thinking. I had two more options. Option #1 was the aluminum bottom half of the take out container, which is obviously larger. Option #2 is the lid. I have included photos so you can really get into the story with me.
A smart person goes for Option #1, the bottom, right? Well, a real hot mess does not. The remainder of the chicken wrap was sitting in the bottom and I guess I figured there wasn’t enough room? I don’t remember. All I know is that I made another poor life decision. I grabbed the lid.
A lid that was about 2 inches thick.
Follow me in slo-mo now.
I grab the lid with my right hand, steering with my left, trying to keep my eyes on the road and the bile down.
Of course, as soon as you know you have to vomit, it’s only a matter of seconds before, well, the puke hits the fan.
Still keeping up with the flow of traffic, I hold the lid with my left hand now, and re-enact the scene from The Exorcist, minus the head spinning.
I was shocked to see the amount of stomach contents spewing forward into this thin, plastic puke-tainor.
I am still driving at this point, staying in between the lines might I add, and another horrible realization hits me.
What the hell am I going to do with this shit now?
Still no shoulder to pull over to and I am literally balancing this thin lid of stomach lining on my hand while avoiding pot holes and hoping no one slams on their brakes.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever been that close to your own puke before. Normally, you have some personal space when you are calling Ralph on the big white telephone. You can step back, put the lid down, and reassess your situation.
When you have a container of barf two inches from your nose that you can do nothing with, the natural response is a doozy. You are going to puke AGAIN.
Yep, I sure did. And that container and its lack of volume was sending me into a deeper panic.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see cars passing me and can only imagine what I must have looked like, balancing my take-out lid on one hand and projectile vomiting on I-55.
I had to hold that lid in that position for at least a couple miles before I found a shoulder to pull over to.
Once I pulled over, I had to put the car in park with my left hand. Again, I am still holding the lid, which is filled to the brim and sloshing around. Then, I lower the window.
Very carefully, I glide the container to the open window and dump the contents of a very rough morning.
I can tell you that I’m surprised as anyone who knows me that I did not spill that muck all over myself. My porcelain god was watching over me that morning.
The moral of the story?
Do not eat leftovers that have been sitting in your car all night, try to eat something when you’re drinking, and always, always, pick the bigger part of the container to puke in.
We are horribly set in our ways. We have routines that we follow every day to keep our minds in order. From making our morning coffee to taking the same route home everyday from work. We all do it. We think that it keeps us from going insane.
Unfortunately, when life is not going as we had hoped, it is that same safe routine that eventually leads us into the ruts of an unfulfilled life.
We all know the famous Albert Einstein quote:
“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Most of us tend to be extremely stubborn about change and will do everything we can to avoid it.
We stay in relationships with expiration dates that never come. We stay in jobs that we loathe because it’s safe and a paycheck. We take shit from people in our lives because we want to avoid confrontation.
The very fortunate thing about change is that it happens no matter what. You can try to shut the door on it and put your entire body up against that door and push as hard as you can.
You can avoid it with alcohol, drugs, eating, shopping, gambling; whatever your poison may be, but regardless of your efforts, change is going to happen and you just gotta deal with it.
I am closing some chapters in my life now that were very poignant in making me who I am today.
Those parts of my life taught me about trust, honesty, hope, love and sadness. By closing those chapters, I have discovered loneliness for the first time since I was a child going through my parent’s divorce. It is a gut-wrenching, hollow feeling and the walls in my apartment can sometimes creep in around me.
I am slowly welcoming this change, of accepting the difference between being alone and being lonely. I have forced myself for years to try to block out sadness. But, it only perpetuates what will eventually come back to bite me in the ass when I least expect it.
For the past month, I have lived in it. I have soaked in every emotion and accepted them: extreme sadness, anger, disappointment, relief, loneliness and even slight bits of happiness. I have sat with each one of them and built a relationship with them. No more avoiding.
With that acceptance and learning to let go, little remnants of inner peace are starting to appear. And, change occurs.
Good things are starting to happen.
Remember my post, “I’m turning forty and I have a disease”? Turns out, with further testing, I do not have thyroid disease. That sudden weight gain? I probably just ate the shit out of my beloved bacon and thought that by training for triathlons, all the crap I was eating would just melt off.
The lethargy? Maybe I’ve just become lazy. Who knows? I’m just grateful that I no longer have a disease I never really had.
My house closed yesterday and the long struggle with a crazy mortgage, a short sale and a disgusting final sale price is over. Enter relief.
I am meeting new people that are quickly becoming important to me and will help shape and change my future self.
Change is scary. It is daunting and elusive and uncertain. But, it is also necessary and unavoidable.
You must let it in, let it happen. We need to constantly evolve or we suffer the emotional shit storm from the aftermath of denial.
For me personally, change is bringing growth and perspective and little by little, some inner peace.
Let it go, roll over it, bathe in it and I promise you, good things will happen.
As Snow Patrol beautifully puts it, This is your life, this is your time.
There are two types of people in the world. Dog people and cat people. There are plenty of folks like myself, who will say they are both but we usually lean one way or the other when it comes to the actual ownership of an animal. I will always lean cat.
I could get into the whole debate about why dogs are better than cats or why cats are better than dogs (duh) but this article is about dog owners and their presumptions that I automatically want to bond with their gifted child.
I live in a building filled with dogs and often help my friend’s with their dogs when they are out of town. My number one annoyance with dogs is the potty situation. Like the mailman, I have to take them outside to do their business regardless of rain, heat, snow, cold or wind. Then they have to be walked around until their butt starts twitching and they dump their special gift on the ground for me to pick up.
So, the Chicago wind is blowing around and freezing snot to my face and I’m pacing around while the dog is deciding where to unload last night’s dinner and now here comes a chipper old lady and her French bulldog.
I cringe as she approaches me and asks, “Is he friendly?”
Before I can answer, she proceeds to let her dog start sniffing around my dog. I guess because I am not a dog owner, I don’t get it. Dogs are unpredictable. I have been in the cross hairs of dogs lunging at each other, growling and pulling to “play” with one another. I don’t trust that your dog is “friendly” just because you say so.
This also means that now I have to start stupid small talk with you, stranger.
“Aww, your dog is sooo cute. What’s his name? How long have you had him?”
I don’t really care about you or your dog. This is not even my dog that I am walking. If I was pregnant, I wouldn’t want you touching my stomach, and if I was walking my child in a stroller, I don’t want you stopping me so you can hold my baby.
Your dog has to become socialized, I get it. But, as you can see from my charming personality, I do not. It’s seven in the morning, I haven’t had any coffee yet, it’s cold outside and now I have to pick up steaming poop AND have a boring dog conversation with you?
Now the awkward stance that I must endure:
1. Hold the lease firmly while said stranger’s dog starts to sniff my dog’s face. Internally, I am dying and this is just the beginning.
2. Give a fake smile and nervous laugh as the canine dance begins and the butt smelling commences.
3. Start stupid small talk with complete stranger and grip lease tighter.
4. Try to act interested as this person tells me ALL about their “special” dog. Lucky for me, I get to find out how old Fido is, that he was a rescue dog and that he has a wheat allergy. Fantastic.
5. Dogs are now jumping on each other, getting out of control and leases become tangled.
6. More nervous laughter as I think about the potential doggy law suit that could happen if my dog even looks at your dog wrong(because, sorry, dog people are nuts.)
7. Wave bye-bye to my new best friend and her allergy-prone dog and promise her, that yes, I will friend her on Facebook.
8. Roll my eyes and beg the dog to take his poop already.
I’m thinking maybe I’ll scoop up my cat and go knock on my neighbor’s door and ask if their cat is “friendly” and if we can come in so my cat can sniff their cat’s butt.
So if you see me walking a dog and avoiding eye contact with you, it’s nothing personal. I just don’t want to talk to you and your dog.
I’ve got mixed emotions about it. Age is just a number, right? That’s the popular saying by people who are getting older and want to make themselves feel better. It’s not how you look, it’s how you feel. Please. I just rolled my eyes so hard, they fell back into my brain.
So, here’s the story. About six years ago, I started to notice my hair thinning. I’m pretty vain, so this was horribly shocking to me and my ego. I immediately went to a dermatologist who told me this was hereditary and not much I could do about it. Men’s Rogaine was to be used, twice a day, forever. I started using that, along with taking high doses of Biotin and other vitamins.
The years have gone by, and I’ve seen tiny bits of improvement, but needless to say, Rogaine has not given me Sofia Vegara’s thick, luscious hair (or her body, surprisingly.)
Fast forward to last year. I was training for triathlons. I was working out like a mad woman. Bike, swim, run, repeat. Everyday, I was burning thousands of calories. I was killing it.
I gained fifteen pounds.
And before you say, it must have been all muscle, it wasn’t. I couldn’t fit into my pants anymore, and I had a gut.
I’ve worked out since I was sixteen years old and have always been thin.
I managed to get the weight off the old-fashioned way, cocaine and cigarettes (just kidding, calm down) and am back to my birth weight (again, kidding.)
Here’s where my new disease comes in. A few weeks ago, I was bitten by a brown recluse spider (we think) and holy shit, it was gross. I would post the pictures, but I want to keep my friends, so they will remain in the vault for now.
Anyway, I had to go to the ER, and since the nasty bug had bitten me on my head, the Doctor asked me about my hair loss and told me I needed to go see a dermatologist again. On a side note, I thought the male nurse was literally going to take a picture of my head and post it to his Facebook. He tried to hide his enthusiasm for my oozing noggin, but I could tell this was the best shit he had seen all night.
So, fast forward to this past week. I went to a new, awesome female dermatologist who did a full blood work up. She called me with the results on Wednesday. And the new disease is…drum roll, please…
Hypothyroidism. Yep, me and Oprah, we’re in this together.
Now, my mother is telling me it’s no big deal and maybe I’m just being overly dramatic as usual. But, here it is. I’m officially getting older and will be acquiring diseases. Ok, maybe it’s more of a condition. Whatever.
Either way, it explains a lot. The sudden weight gain, the hair loss, the lethargy that I thought was just plain lazy-assness. And the great news is that I get to be on meds now forever. Along with the Rogaine, and another pill she gave me for hair loss.
I’m going to have to buy one of those Day of the Week pill dispensers now.
I’d also like to mention that I can no longer run, because my knees are shot, my eyesight is getting worse, and my memory is that of a sieve.
On a positive note (I’m trying here, I really am) I think once this new “disease” is under control, it’s going to make forty a great year. Hopefully, I will grow some Rapunzel-like luscious locks of hair, will get more energy and it will keep me from gaining that weight back.
So, forty it is. I can’t stop it from happening. I’m halfway to my grave now, so all this new perspective is going to start happening and my mid-life crisis will appear. Oh, and Mr. Menopause is just around the corner, waiting to suck the rest of my life from me. Oops, I lost that positive groove, didn’t I?
In any case, I have my arsenal of drugs and potions and thank god for Botox. I am jumping in with both feet, and although I am not willing, I am ready.