change

“Dear God, please change this person/place/thing so that I can feel better.”

What kind of prayer is that? If you said disempowering, you get a pony!

We all know that change is an inside job, goddamnit! 

The patron saint of that prayer is the caterpillar, but can you blame her? She has eaten herself silly only to find herself inside of the equivalent of a deprivation tank. You can call it a chrysalis if it makes you feel better. That’s such a pretty word for a device of torture. Or a coffin. Or the box magicians use to cut ladies in half or turn rabbits into a Maserati’s.

Metamorphosis — A change in form or nature of a thing or person onto a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means.

That sounds magical, right? Death…rebirth…

(Screech) Not so fast.

Let’s check back with the caterpillar.
The guy on the corner in the dark glasses and the trench coat, otherwise known as The Big Guy—or God—he promised her wings. To fly and shit.
But first she had to part with all of her worldly possessions; her BMW, her westside condo— her ravenous appetite—and her wallet.

It all sounded too good to be true to her. No more black back fuzz. No more Spanx. Just color and beauty and flight.
What could go wrong?

What she wasn’t aware of, what no one had told her, what wasn’t even listed in the small print—was the goo part.

In between caterpillar and butterfly, the poor thing is…simply put…well, she is goo. A gelatinous mixture of arms and legs, fuzz and butt cheeks, heart, soul, hopes and dreams. It’s ugly AF but this stage cannot be skipped. This is where the magic happens. The change.
And where the fervent prayers began.
The bargaining.
The begging.
The looking for every loophole.

The nearest exit. The thingy to break the glass on the fire alarm. The cord that stops this runaway train of pain.

If you had the ability (which, thank god you don’t) to hear her muffled cries for help and you, in all of your misguided frenzy to free her, cut the chrysalis open at this stage to hand her a lifeline or her cell phone—she would ooze all over the place like so much snot.

The goo stage. We’ve all been there and unfortunately, there is no short cut.
If there was I’d have found it and sold the patent to some twenty-two-year-old silicon valley wunderkind for a bazillion dollars. I would be sipping a Pina Colada, sucking the toes of the cabana boy on my own private island and I most certainly would NOT be writing to you about goo.

Anyway… back to metamorphosis.
If there was a handbook it would be titled “On Your Way to Better—Via Hell.”
Using alchemy. And magic. All of that eye of Knut and horn of toad kind of stuff.

Who said this was going to be fun? Oh, that’s right. no one!

Listen, nobody wants to be goo. We may want change but we sure as hell don’t want to go through the really messy part in the middle. The part where we’re not quite a butterfly but we can’t go back to being a caterpillar. The point of no return.
In other words the goo part.

I have written more goo related notes to myself and my friends these past few months than I have my entire life.

Everyone seems a little gelatinous lately. It appears we all prayed to feel better and now we’re stuck between a rock and a wet place.

If you can relate take solace in the fact that you are not hanging upside down from that branch alone. There are a whole bunch of us here and you know the old saying “Goo loves company”, well it’s true. We do.

Here’s my theory and I’m convinced it’s true. Only the bravest of caterpillars take the dare to metamorphose into butterflies. The others opt for the cash and free passes to the all-you-can-eat buffet and never look back.

Wings don’t come cheap y’all. There’s always some sacrifice involved.

“If you were born without wings do nothing to prevent them from growing” ~ Coco Chanel

Hang in there (pun intended) you courageous ones.
And
Carry on,
xox

You guys! I wanted to let you know that we did it! As per my post on Tuesday, my dear friend got her test results back and lo and behold, she’s fine! The cat was alive you guys! Thank you to everyone who helped us out with this thought experiment. We are SO fing powerful!  She is out of the goo and has her wings!

xox Love you!

“Can I get a little help here? Anybody?”

Oh, Hello Rut.

At least I think that’s you. I haven’t seen you in a while and even though you tend to show up in my life on a semi-regular basis—you rascal—you always fool me.

Never one to pass up a good disguise, in the past, you’ve arrived wrapped up in a blanket of safety and security—sunglasses—and a hat.

Always a damn hat.

“Tell me, who doesn’t love safety and security”, you coo. “No one”, I answer. “Unless… it starts to feel like a high-security prison.”

You scoff loudly and keep on digging a deeper hole.

Webster defines you as, A habit or pattern of behavior that has become dull and unproductive but is hard to change.

I don’t know why I listen to you but I do as you feed me all of your bullshit stories and disproven theories, and I’ve come to notice that when you’re around there may be safe & sound—but there’s no growth or change. Just more of the same ol’, same ol’.

I have to admit, that may feel good for a while but even a table full of chocolate gets boring if that’s all you get to eat for months. Sometimes a girl just wants a steak.

Lately, you’ve taken on the guise of rules and rigidity. Keeping to a strict schedule. No wiggle room, no deviation, no slack, no life—no kidding.

Then, like all Ruts do, you point at all of the surrounding chaos as you sing me a sweet lullaby and lull me into complacency. That all works fine as long as I stay inside of this hole you’ve dug for me.

But you see, here’s the thing: Writers/artists/people need to be IN the world not just OF it.

Sometimes a person needs to put their feet in the sand, feel the warmth of the sun on their face, and set out walking in a pine forest with absolutely no destination in mind. But with you around that isn’t easy. I can feel the tug of your two goons Shame and Guilt around my ankles pulling me back into the chair where they place my fingers firmly onto the keyboard all the while chanting “Write, write, write something good.”

So, I get it. This time you look like creativity wrapped in obligation, except everyone knows those two don’t mix.
They’re like oil and water,
Kanye and Taylor Swift,
Democrats and Republicans.

Be gone Rut! I’ve seen thru your latest ruse. You can go and look for another soul to crush but I’m ratting you out right here and now so…good luck with that.

PS. See ya. I’m going on a walk to nowhere and I can’t tell you how long I’ll be gone.
PPS. I hate your stupid hat.

Carry on,
xox

Recently, a very wise woman after careful consideration, said this to my husband: What if you viewed life as a series of green lights and open doors?

My husband is a serial problem solver. No puzzle is too complex to solve. No obstacle insurmountable.

If you need any problem worked over by a pro—he’s your man.

Great quality, right? It is, with one exception: He’s never out of work! He attracts problems. He sees flaws a mile away. Puzzles with missing pieces find him.

He is the “Obstacle Whisperer.”

Since that wise woman wasn’t me, the suggestion was well received. Profound. All of you wives know how that works.

Actually, it’s better than that. He didn’t hear her say it—It went right by him!

But I did.

That’s because our intrepid trouble-shooter was in full on sniper mode, getting in position on some rooftop somehwhere—in his head—because that’s what happens when you’re awesome at something—the Universe provides, and there is always more than enough trouble to shoot. Problems to kill. Mayhem to murder.

Right?

I mean, there’s so much trouble to shoot out there that in his field, design and building—people pay him to take some off their plate.

This is also the way he looks at everything in life. Show me the problem and I’ll solve it.

That wise woman talked to him for about ten minutes and had him pegged. She totally admired that about him but thought maybe it had begun to wear on him a little. Everything had begun to feel like too much of a burden. Pretty much like it has for all of us, myself included.

Some of us are addicted to the struggle. We’re always trying to get to the “bottom of something.” Well, guess what you guys?

THERE IS NO BOTTOM.

That’s why I loved her suggestion so much I had to share it.

These days I like smooth sailing. Less complicated living. Less fucks given. Minimum drama. And it’s just a simple tweak away.

What if you viewed life as a series of green lights and open doors?

Just writing that makes my shoulders go back where they belong instead of wearing them as earrings.

My husband and I have invented a shorthand to remind each other—Green Doors.

That’s all.
Carry on,
xox

This was written waaaaay back in the fifteen minutes when I was eating healthy. But the questions are more useful than ever!
Carry on,
xox

The house is still. It’s the middle of the night, so that’s appropriate.

The only sound I can hear is the whrrrrr of the refrigerator motor, which spends its nights keeping my kale and green drink ingredients fresh.
Damn you stainless steel box of cold air (yelled dramatically while waving a fist).

Rant Alert:
Why can’t my protein, vegetable laden juices taste like a chocolate malt?
Is that too much to ask?
I’m submitting a formal complaint right here and now. This healthy shit has GOT to start tasting better…or else…

Anyway…
My refrigerator has undergone a recent renaissance.
It seems to follow my life’s trajectory. It’s all cleanses, and bitter greens and shit.
I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few choices so I won’t cheat on fat infused deliciousness. As a matter of fact, there is nothing delicious within a three-mile radius. I’d have to get in my car and drive to get it, and my laziness overrules any craving for carbs, so I think technically, I’m not an addict, which gives me some solace.

What I am is a clear channel…with a bad attitude…in dire need of a cheeseburger.

Back in the day, for about two decades, the freezer in my apartment contained two things: vodka and cigarettes (if you’re just the casual smoker, keeping cigs in the freezer keeps them fresh) not even an ice cube dared show its face. Later ground coffee replaced the cigarettes.

Quick story about how THAT happened.

Back in ’93 when I had my first “energy work” done, a friend came by the apartment to get the skinny. Remember, I had been violently ill for three days.
She was a regular, so she knew about the cigscicles and since she could tell my story was going be juicy, and warrant a smoke, she walked over to the kitchen, which was just to the left of where I was sitting, on the couch, and opened the freezer. Suddenly, she stepped back like she saw a ghost – and slammed the thing shut.
I watched it all happen, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her with my head tilted sideways like a dog hearing a high pitched whistle.

My friend still standing in front of the closed freezer door says, “A voice just told me: DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“I’d better go.”

Man, the disembodied voices in my apartment in those days were bossy! (PS. Nothing’s changed.)

“Sit your ass down, I’ve got a story to tell.” I barked from the other room.
And THAT was the end of my casual smoking. I tried one occasionally in the years that followed but they made me feel awful, and when something stops being fun, I quit doing it.

Think Jane Fonda Workouts and hot yoga.

So, back to the middle of the night as I tossed and turned and awfulized; mulling over this decision or that.
I finally made the first decision and that was to switch my brain from FU mode to productive mode, remembering all the recent things I’ve heard and read on making life altering choices and decisions.

So, to save you the obsessing, the time, and trouble, here is a list of the things you should ask yourself:

1) Will I regret not making this change? (Regrets are like walking around with a wet coat on. They are killjoys.)

2) Why exactly am I hesitant/ indecisive? Make a list. (The list that you make in light of day will always be shorter than the phone book sized one you make at three AM…just sayin’).

3) What doors will close if I make this change? Do I care? (That one makes my butt cheeks clench)

4) Which choice will make the better story? (Kinda like the movie viewing analogy from Saturday’s post.)

5) How does the choice or change FEEL? (That really should be number one. Check your kishke.)

6) What’s the worst thing that can happen? (Rewind your three AM worries, they’re ALL there).

7) What’s the BEST thing that can happen? (Tiny little list, usually written on a Post-It with a question mark at the end. )

8) What would I tell my best friend to do? (Sans all jealousy, competitiveness, and ego).

9) What’s the “next right thing” to do to stay free of ego? (In other words, check your motivation. Is it pure? Not really? THERE’S your answer.)

10) What choice or change would make me the proudest in five years? (That’s often the clincher for me. Can’t say I’m too proud of myself when I play it safe.)

There you have it. I hope this helps. Clarity is key to making the best choices. That and chocolate.

Love you all,
Xox

Hello brave ones,

This is a post from ages ago. Three years to be exact but it has been a topic of constant conversation these days.

When do you take the leap to change?

I like the idea of permission, and I LOVE the concept of Grace.

So today, if you’re contemplating listening to your gut. Or you’ve already taken the leap and you feel like you’re in free-fall—maybe this will help.
That’s always my wish.

Carry on,
xox

Both feet have to leave the ground to leap.
Ohhhhhh Shiiiiiiit!

…and therein lies the rub.

When am I ready to leap you ask? Uh, just this side of NEVER!

We seldom feel like we’re ready….it just isn’t the right time…not yet.

But what the hell are we waiting for?
An illness?
Divorce?
The empty nest?
More diplomas?
Losing a job?
More zeros in our bank account (Ahhh, now I’m getting warmer) but how many are enough?

How about PERMISSION?
The WORD from God-on-high that all systems are go, and you’re ready for launch.
That’s what I want!
That’s what we all want. Right?

But you know what you guys? We’ve got that. We have our internal guidance, our intuition, our gut, to let us know when we’re getting close.

We’ve all been there. You get that restless feeling.

You start asking life WAY too many questions.

You feel as if you can’t continue to do that thing you’ve been doing for one. more. minute.

That to me, signals one foot off the ground.

Then I have to suck up every ounce of courage to trust those signals, and
Lift. The. Other. Foot.

Permission is Grace’s secret weapon.

If you give enough value to the signs; the synchronicity, that jumpy little feeling in your belly, and you turn away from the fear and doubt and really show up for yourself; you grant Permission.
Permission’s bodyguards, Faith and Courage, then clear the path for Grace to enter.

Then you know what Grace does?
She lends you her hand and helps you balance…
so you can lift your other foot to leap.

Xox

“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”

My friend loves that saying. She laughs every time we remember together the first time I said that to her when her well-oiled life suddenly hit the skids.

But it is! Change is messy. I wish it were tidy, but…it’s not.

Change takes its big muddy feet and leaves its tracks on your life’s clean floors.

“Every positive change–every jump to a higher level of energy and awareness–involves a rite of passage. Each time to ascend to a higher rung on the ladder of personal evolution, we must go through a period of discomfort, of initiation. I have never found an exception.”
~Dan Millman

It can feel like a ten car pile up or an out of tune piano concerto.
Your choice.
But it ain’t gonna be pretty…at least not at first.

You wanna know the Ah HA I had around change recently?

You can never be good at it— in…the…beginning.
How could you be?
By its very definition change is uncharted territory.
It’s different and it’s new and I don’t know about you, but I have a pretty steep learning curve with different and new!

“Whatever the present moment contains, accept is as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it. Make it your friend and ally, not your enemy. This will miraculously transform your whole life.”
– Eckhart Tolle

All you CAN be is compliant.
You can act like you ordered change because you know what?
You probably did, you just can’t remember.
It was on that list somewhere, on the back of a napkin, or a crumpled piece of paper in some jacket pocket.

Maybe it was disguised under the title: Finding the perfect man.

Except, he lives in Chicago and you live in San Diego.

Or, I need a better job. Three months later, at the worst possible time, you get laid off.

Our political system is broken. We need a non-politician to take our country and make it great again. Just not THAT guy.

I want to expand my business. That means thinking bigger, learning new skills, hiring and maybe even firing certain people.

Get to my ideal weight. That can look like getting up at 5 am to meet a friend or a trainer at the gym before work, which also means early to bed, which probably means no wine. I told you. Messy!

All of this is very do-able.
But in the beginning, it can shake up your life like a 7.0 earthquake. It feels so groundlessly uncomfortable. I literally get shaky when I’m in the midst of a big change. It’s like my body is wrestling with the new information coming in. Part of it is processing it, and the other parts want to literally break loose and run in opposite directions.

So, don’t let your body, especially your eyes deceive you.
It’s gonna look like a shit storm for a little while, especially at the start.

But you know what? You can do this! The bigger the request, the bigger the storm.
The bigger the storm, the bigger the changes.
The bigger the changes, the bigger and better the end results.

Just not right away. Sorry.

Just remember, you ordered it.
XoxJanet

“Don’t be afraid to give up the good and go for the great.” ~ Steve Prefontaine

“Oh, fuck. That’s BRAVE.” ~ Me

I wrote this almost exactly three years ago and found it today when I put the word murder in my search.

Don’t ask.

It just so happened that I’d only minutes before been discussing this very thing with my BFF. It was the main catalyst for the life altering change she made, which coincidentally is the subject of her memoir, Unbound. (By Steph Jagger, go order it now. I’ll wait.)

Is dissatisfaction enough of a trigger?

For some of us good—just isn’t good enough. We want more.

Is boredom enough of a reason to shake your Etch-A-Sketch?  Some say no. Some say the catalyst must be pain or suffering, or better yet, both of those together served with a side of depression.

I call bullshit. 

She emailed me later in response to this essay #boredomisenough —because we communicate in hashtag speak.

I agree. Boredom is enough!

Why wait for things to get worse? Why wait for the house to burn down, or the marriage to fail, or, or, or, before you make a change?

I’m curious. What do you think?
Carry on,
xox

How can we ever come to new insights or conclusions about our lives if our existing reality is never challenged?

That would be like only eating at the salad bar because you’ve never walked the whole buffet and seen the dessert cart.

We are creatures of habit.
Scared of any turbulence or bumps in the road.
But can we learn to appreciate, even welcome the rainy days when we only prefer clear skies?

A certain amount of failure is necessary for success, because it sends us back to the drawing board.

When something’s not working there is clarity in that realization.
A certain amount of discomfort is good for our souls.
We know we don’t want to do that again so it colors all of our decisions.

Like Abraham says, “When you know what you Don’t want. You know what you DO want”.

I’ve come to this conclusion :
All the great gifts, people and circumstances that have come to me in my life were born out of soul-searching that was either precipitated by dissatisfaction with the status quo, or…pure unadulterated boredom.

Either I went willingly, although with little to no support. Or I was drop-kicked against my will by the Universe in the direction of a new life change.

Both ways felt like shit but that’s okay.

Here’s my NEW conclusion:
Big change feels scary. It feels a bit awkward, uncomfortable and uncertain, so we drag our heels.

And…change is rude! It shows up unannounced, often at the most inopportune times and tracks it’s dirty feet through our lives.

So what does this all mean?

We can either hide under the bed.
Keep living each day exactly like the day before.
Or we can put our arms up, throw our heads back—and scream bloody murder as we careen toward our brighter future on the roller coaster of life.

In full surrender mode knowing the Universe has our back.

This is the cake my tribe gets almost every time we get together because we have SO much to be grateful for that if we listed everything there wouldn’t be enough room for frosting!

*”The running commentary that dominates my field of consciousness is kind of an asshole.”
~ Dan Harris ABC News Nightline Co-Anchor

Who hasn’t felt like that about those saboteurs that dominate your brain-chatter? Listen, did you know that you can banish them for good? Well, you can, so let me tell ya how!

I’m in the middle of Pam Grout’s new book Thank and Grow Rich which is about the unimaginable power of gratitude.

Although the title insinuates it is about accumulating money—it is so much more than that. It is THE gratitude handbook. A  manual on how you can start thanking your way toward a “rich” life in every damn way you can imagine.

Love, relationships, creativity, peace of mind, and FUN!

Yes, life can be fun.

*”Life is a ticket to the greatest show on earth.”
~ Martin H. Fischer Physician and Author

Here’s the rub. *“Quit thinking, start thanking.”

I could blah, blah, blah, all over this page giving you a synopsis of what the book is about but I think I’ll let Pam, the author, do that instead because she says it way better than I ever could, as a matter of fact, she did! Here is a quote from page 72.

*AMASSING ALCHEMIC CAPITOL

“The bliss, the wisdom, the creativity, the laughter, the friendships, the joy, the serenity and peace that have been, for the most part, seen as an impossible dream will become your most ordinary state of being.”
~ The Way of Mastery

More than another book on counting blessings, this is a book about climate change. Changing the climate of your energy field, upgrading the resonance with which you perceive the world.
Practicing gratitude, more than penciling a written list, is to practice alchemy.
Looking for the good in life literally changes things. Physically changes things.
Financially changes things.
Mentally and emotionally changes things.
It literally changes atoms and rearranges molecules.

Cynics like to discount gratitude, downgrade it as sweet, nice, something for naive Pollyannas.

What I’ve discovered is that living on the frequency of joy and gratitude causes cataclysmic reverberations.”

So I, for one, am getting my Thank You on. What do you think? Are you with me?

Carry on,
xox

*Taken directly from the book Thank and Grow Rich
https://www.amazon.com/Thank-Grow-Rich-Experiment-Shameless/dp/1401949843/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1474414863&sr=1-1&keywords=thank+and+grow+rich

You know those things you do in your life that seem like a good idea at the time?

How when you’re young you feel as if you have all the time in the world to change them if they turn out to be nothing more than a bad habit?

Like jaywalking, talking with your mouth full, or unprotected sex?

I smoked cigarettes. Not all the time. Just socially. At parties mostly, and clubs, or with my roommate at the Formica dining table we had in the kitchen of the little rental we shared with my sister, who did not partake in this most unhealthy of habits. We kept a pack of Virginia Slims in the freezer with booze and a little bit of ice. Two liberated young women, beating the odds in a man’s world — Baby, we’d come a long way! Sexy, right?

Meh…now I keep coffee in my freezer. And an unopened bottle of Vodka. And a non-GMO corn crust pizza.
That’s almost-sixty-sexy.
I know. Meh…anyway…

Gossip was served in that shitty little kitchen most mornings and evenings and nothing goes better with gossip than a cigarette. They are the Batman and Robin of vices. In my opinion, you cannot have one without the other. Even now, when I smell cigarette smoke I want to divulge something dishy.

I want to speculate on Tom Cruises’ sexuality or get the dirt on Melania Trump. Is she really a fembot?

I suppose I should also designate gossiping as a bad habit. I thought I did that several decades ago but this talk of cigarettes and vices has opened Pandora’s Box—or a time machine—and inside is a Star Magazine and a pack of Virginia Slims.

This all changed for me the minute a guy told me I smelled like an ashtray. I’m lying. No man ever said that to me. They weren’t stupid, they wanted to get laid.

In my twenties, at parties, and in clubs the smoke was so thick that everybody smelled like an ashtray. Looking back I’m convinced most ashtrays actually smelled better than my thick, curly hair which absorbed all the bad breath, BO, eighties music, and smoke within a ten block radius. That transferred to my clothes, then my car and finally to my pillow. After awhile (several years), when I’d wake up and all of those smells would hit my nose in the first few seconds of consciousness—I’d want to ask—are Angelina Jolie’s lips real?— no, seriously, I’d want to puke.

There comes a time, (thirty) when you ask yourself: Is this the woman I thought I’d become? At least I did that. And I came up short.

I was letting a man emotionally get the better of me. How was that okay?
I was dabbling. I wasn’t serious about much of anything.
I was jaywalking, talking with my mouth full, and smoking, gossiping and apparently lying.
I was having protected sex. So, one point for Janet.

All of that seemed like a good idea at the time. Because I was completely unconscious. I had no idea who I was or who I wanted to become.

When, on the five-millionth smelly pillow morning, it finally dawned on me. I need to get my shit together. I need to figure out where I’m headed, who I want to be, and how that person behaves. And good lord, I need a shower.

I’d love to say it all happened overnight, easy-peasy-Parchesi, but I’d be lying (and that’s prohibited), it was progressive. And messy. It took focus, intention, and tons of introspection. In other words, it took decades to craft the ADULT woman I wanted to be and for starters, she wasn’t a smoker.

A Small Confession: I still miss smoking.

The reason this came up for me was the fact that now, at almost sixty, I’ve begun to craft what kind of “older” woman I want to portray. Do I continue to eat whatever I want and put elastic in all of my pants? Do I forgo red lipstick because it spreads all over my face like Heath Ledger’s Joker? Do I succumb to sensible shoes?

Luckily, because I’ve done this before I know the work that lies ahead of me—and I’m exhausted already!

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Carry on,
xox

I heard the story recently of a woman and a cat. Not the usual story of feline obsession. There were no special little kitty-cat outfits or freshly massaged beef flown in daily from Japan. Nope. The cat became this woman’s catalyst for change. Long, long, overdue change. Here’s the story:

A woman lived in an apartment for a long time. Too long. As the landlord aged, his saint of a wife passed, he fell into ill health and his temperament changed. He turned from a basically okay guy into a pot-bellied, yellow-toothed rat bastard.

Meanwhile, the once lovely building began to fall apart. Not all at once, but systematically. First, it was the single elevator which became a hit or miss box-of-terror. The out of order sign was permanent and if you didn’t feel like walking the seventy-eight steps up to the third floor with your groceries, you took your chances. But not without a valium. And a crowbar.

Everywhere you looked the paint was peeling faster than a bad sunburn. The front buzzer hadn’t worked for years, (friends just shouted up for the keys to the front door from the street below her window), and her oven either made lukewarm everything or charcoal briquets.

Everyone who visited the apartment urged her to move. But after eighteen years of rent control, she just couldn’t bring herself to leave. And they allowed cats. That is until the fateful morning he came banging on the door to personally deliver a UPS package addressed to her that he claimed was loitering in the front lobby. When she answered the door, the friendly feline came over and wove itself in and around her feet, rubbing its face on her three-day leg stubble, purring loudly.

Too loudly.

“What’s that?!’ her landlord hissed between teeth the color of aged ivory piano keys.

“Oh, uh…that’s my cat”, she stammered.

“I don’t allow cats in this building!”, he bellowed, his fat belly quivering for emphasis.

“But I’ve always had it”, she replied nervously, trying to shoo the cat away with her slippered foot.

The cat thought it was a fun new game and began tightly hugging her muck-luckity clad foot with its front paws while furiously rabbit kicking it with its rear legs She grabbed the box from his twisted, cigarette stained fingers and closed the door to just a crack in order to hide the madness happening below her bathrobe.

He was undeterred. “The cat goes or YOU go!”, he yelled. “You have one week or I’m evicting you.”
With that, he managed to propel his girth away from her door and with enormous momentum practically plummeted down the stairs. She slammed the door leaning against it for support, trembling. The cat strolled away contentedly, convinced it had beaten its foe. Exhausted, it jumped up onto the chair by the window, rolled into a ball and promptly fell asleep in the warm morning sun.

What am I going to do?, she wondered. She had to admit that the place had transformed over the years into a shit-hole and the landlord into a troll, but the thought of moving sent her into a full blown anxiety attack. She had savings, it wasn’t that. She wasn’t good with change. She hated the thought of leaving, of looking for a new place. She was used to it there. Even though she knew her quality of life could be so much better—she was willing to settle. For everything that was wrong with the place, the voice in her head came up with a million reasons why it was easier to stay.

Her tolerance for mediocrity, misery, and sub-standard living conditions had reached an all-time high.

Terrified, she hid every sign of the cat.
Late at night, she’d load its dirty cat litter and empty food cans into bags and lug them three flights down, out to the scary-ass alley where she’d walk several buildings over to dump them. The cat box took up residency in her shower when she wasn’t using it and she played the radio to hide the sounds of any meowing. One Sunday it took her nearly the entire morning to move the gigantic carpeted cat tree from its sunny place next to the dining room window into a dark corner of her bedroom. She made sure to keep the blinds closed on all of the windows—just in case.

One night, laying in bed, she literally made herself sick with worry. She realized that not only was she miserable, she had now seriously diminished her dear cat’s quality of life as well.

And THAT was the last straw!

The next day she begrudgingly mentioned to someone at work that she needed a new place— a place that took cats.
Not even three weeks later, she found the most adorable little house-behind-a-house owned by a terrific man, his equally fantastic husband, and their two siamese cats. A fresh start! Fresh in every way. New paint, shiny refinished hardwood floors, even the unfathomable! A stackable washer and dryer! Not only that, it was at ground level, the oven worked like a charm, and the front porch was screened with a perfect spot for the cat tree. Nobody was happier than the cat.

Now…you may be wondering, did the cat make this happen? Did it show itself at just the wrong time to get this ball rolling? Perhaps.

But I think the real moral of this story is the habit many of us have of dragging our feet on the way to our own happiness.
I’ve done it and I’m sure my friends—you have too. It’s about self-worth and why our cat’s, friend’s, spouse’s (fill in the blank), everybody else’s happiness is more important than our own.

It’s also a story about how there are great possibilities out there, possibilities we could never have imagined— if we can only just step out of the complacency and fear.

Take it from this cat story, the very thing you dread could be the best change you’ve ever made.

Carry on,
xox