choices

This is a re-tooling of a post I wrote several years ago.

OMG! You guys! I have to tell you what a fucking relief it was to make this tiny tweak in my belief about what was possible for me to have in my life!

Here it is in a nutshell: No dream is impossible. There is ALWAYS a way. Some ways are risky, fast and impractical, others take time and careful planning. Many take both. 

The choice is yours.

Everyone will weigh in. Ignore them! Do what feels comfortable, scratch that, I recommend reaching just a little bit out of your comfort zone for your dreams. It makes life so much more interesting!

Take a few risks.
Pick the road less traveled.
Occasionally drink wine before noon.

As my friend, Steph Jagger would tell you “Lift your restraining device and accept the call to adventure.”

And Carry on,
xox

We’ve all been bitten by the ugly green ENVY monster, especially when other people’s fabulous lives are vomited all over social media.
“Where’s my great kitchen?  “Why aren’t I wintering in the Maldives? ” They bought another car?” “Shit, I know that jacket, that jacket costs eight grand!”

Waaaah, Waaaah, Woe is me…where’s MY stuff?

I turned this around for myself years ago and then shared my devious little plan (insert diabolical laugh here) with my husband – who has turned it into an art form.

Seriously. He should hold seminars.

When I saw someone with something I really wanted, like a ten thousand dollar handbag, or a Tuscan Villa, instead of thinking that’s impossible for me and turning into a sad sack — I’d sit down and make a plan. I enlisted the same part of my brain that talks me OUT of everything fun—to talk myself INTO making it happen.

I Could Have That If I Really Wanted It —I’d tell myself — and it’s true.

If I wanted a wildly extravagant vacation, I could sell some jewelry, cash in my 401K, borrow money, even take out a loan. I could do all those things.

IF I really, really wanted it, I could make it happen.

The same is true for almost anything you desire. You CAN have it — but it’ll cost ya.
If it’s a price you’re willing to pay, great! If not, put a picture of it on your Pinterest page and keep living your life.

Guess what? It may still show up!

A friend Alex wanted a husband. A rich husband. So she made sure she was impeccably manicured, coiffed, waxed and outfitted; ready at a moment’s notice to accept only the BEST party invitations with only the BEST men in attendance. Even though I admired her commitment, I admit I often scoffed at her strategy. It seemed shallow and wildly expensive. She would just smile at me, undeterred. Three years later Alex married a billionaire businessman she met at a diplomatic dinner party in NY.

The bottom line is this — it is a choice. YOU make the choice. It’s not impossible, it just may be impractical, there’s a difference.

Impossible = says NEVER. That deflates me. Like a pair of saggy boobs, it leaves me feeling limp and disempowered.

Impractical Practicality (a term I made up)= says MAYBE. It feels hopeful. Like a calculated risk.

Sell everything and travel around the world skiing like Steph did sounds crazy, right? Only here’s what she did to make that happen. She did careful research in order to pick the destinations, plotted and planned. She got a loan on her house (gulp), saved her ass off and drained her savings. When others, like her dad, questioned her sanity, she just smiled the same undeterred smile as Alex. She wanted it THAT bad.

Now THAT feels empowering.

I wanted to own a house which is impossible when at the age of forty you‘ve only managed to save $1.57.
But I was ready, and it was time. How am I going to make this happen?  I wondered.
I had refused to believe it was impossible, so I made a plan. It actually played out as a mix of practical and impractical. I’d have to bank every cent of my income, adhering to an austerity program that would make the rationing in communist Russia look extravagant.

I’d have to practice wildly impractical practicality for one year — to gain the impossible — and I did.

At forty years old I put all my things in storage, moved into a room at my sister’s with my two cats and saved every nickel I made. I sold watches and jewelry, silver, and anything else valuable that I had collected over the years as an antique jeweler. I also put a large chunk of what I’d saved in the stock market, for the short-term. Very risky, I know, but I made out like a bandit. Impractical you say? Yep. But I was trying to make the impossible happen.

I brainstormed and researched areas I’d like to live in, forgoing my daily Starbucks, nixing the mani-pedi’s, and living on salads made at home. I tried to borrow money at different points during the year, to expedite things and was met with a tight fist every time. That should have discouraged me but I was in so deep at that point it only strengthened my resolve.

Eventually, the perfect house, in the perfect price range, in the perfect neighborhood showed up — exactly one year later, and not a moment too soon according to my cats.

I’ve often found that if you believe the impossible is possible — the Universe provides.

Years ago, my husband was going on and on about a certain car. The car of his dreams.
“Buy it!” I said. “It’s too expensive.” he shot back, without hesitation.

“You could afford it if you sold some things, you have thousands of dollars of motorcycle crap…” he flinched as if he’d taken a punch, “It’s all just lying around, gathering dust. Sell it!”

“First of all, that stuff is NOT crap, and second of all, it wouldn’t make a dent in the price of that car.” He sounded…deflated.

“Yeah, but it’ll get the ball rolling. Put the word out that you want that car, it’s not impossible if you really want it — you’ll find the money.”

He looked at me sideways, but the next day I noticed that his screen saver was a gorgeous vanity shot of that car.
Within a year, he drove it into our driveway.
I nicknamed it The Vomit Comet. Too much car for me. I couldn’t ride in it without getting carsick. Eventually, the bloom fell off the rose and he sold it — and put that money toward the next vehicle of his dreams. He got that car and then realized — it goes too fast, you can never use all that power off a racetrack.

NEXT!  He’s got this down to a science.

NOTHING is impossible. It’s all a choice.

Carry on,

xox

“Boredom is the basement in the house of change.”

This post throws us all the way back to the end of 2015 but it feels more timely now than ever. Do we as women wait for things to implode in our lives before we make a change? Do we march our butts down to the basement where the dryer drowns out the whisper of discontent and fold socks, or do we pay attention to this soft whisper from the basement and make it our clarion call to change?
I would urge you to listen for the call.
xox

I just spent the day writing an article about getting divorced at twenty-six for a series on divorce at all ages.

I called it I Was A Twenty-Six Year Old Divorced Unicorn because that was how…um…unusual I felt at the time.

You see, my ex-husband wasn’t a troll. He wasn’t a bad guy in any way. We just weren’t a good match. But you need more than that as grounds for divorce. Right? I mean, how was I to know we weren’t a match that could pass the test of time when I married him at the tender age of twenty?

By twenty-six I was desperately unhappy. Like can’t eat, can’t sleep unhappy.

Today I searched for the one word to describe how I felt at the time. At twenty-six I was not able to articulate exactly what I wanted and what I felt was missing. All I knew was that in my heart of hearts—I wanted more.
More than this relationship.
More than this husband.
More than this “until death do us part” commitment that was feeling more like a prison sentence than a wedding vow.

That’s when it suddenly hit me. Greedy. I felt greedy. On paper, I had so much. Everything. What all my girlfriends were clamoring for.

Greed instead of gratitude one friend scolded. 

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“You want more? More than what?” my dad had asked barely hiding his disgust upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “He’s a great guy and a good provider. What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!”

He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.

I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing and that I wasn’t able or willing to settle.

So that made me feel greedy. And greedy felt wrong.

Other people settle. Why can’t I?
Believe me, when I say, it would have been so much easier to just stay married!

“I’m a freakin’ unicorn! An anomaly; and NO ONE understands or knows what to make of me!”

Once I was single, I found out guys didn’t want to date a twenty-six-year-old divorcee. Used goods. High maintenance.

Typical First Date Conversation:

“So, you ever been married?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? He die?”

“Uh, no, we’re divorced.”

“He cheat on you?”

“Nope.”

“He left you?”

“Nope. I left him.”

(Beat) “Waiter, check please!”

Obviously, I needed to set my bar higher.

What I eventually discovered, after a whole lot of sleepless nights, and years of pain was that there were benefits to divorce; to asking more from life; to refusing to settle; to being greedy.

I also forgot that a Unicorn is a mystical, rare and beautiful creature.

So I’m curious…

This being what it is, more of a stream of consciousness, I want to turn the tables and ask you guys:

Q- What does it mean to you to settle? When have you done it and when could you not?

Q- Do you agree with the word greedy? What word would you choose when things look good but you want more?

Q- Are you a Unicorn? Why?

I love you all madly, carry on,
xox

Where, oh where, have I been you ask?

Well…

When last I left you, my uterus had conveniently and in a very sinister way, seen to it that the surgery to remove it was postponed. Therefore, (it is so clear to me now) after all the shenanigans with the flu and insurance and such—it got to go along on my BFF Steph Jagger’s book tour last week.

This makes sense to me now. Like a huge V-8 slap to the forehead.

My uterus likes a good time and we had a ball. A hoot a second, snort-laugh, drop your phone in a roadside toilet, #pokejuice, ball.

But it was eye-opening as well.

Now, I’m a writer and if any of you are writers this next part will be so interesting and I think that could hold true for the rest of you as well and here’s why:

When you undertake something as exciting but daunting and potentially exhausting as a book tour (or any large scale endeavor for which you have no basis for comparison), you MUST, and I mean without exception, take someone along with you who has your best interests at heart. (I am available for a fee.)

Someone who will drive the car, pick the music, take regular pee brakes and remind you to eat.

Someone who will tell you when you killed it—and when it fell flat—and be there to give you a giant hug and shove some chocolate in your mouth either way.

Someone who will go up front and read the room first and then alert you to the fact that the guy at three o’clock will probably try to use your platform to talk about himself—so be prepared.

Someone who knows when to talk and when to shut-up so you can collect yourself because collecting yourself will become a full-time job.

I kind of invited myself along on the first leg of her west coast tour from San Diego to San Fransisco. It sounded like fun so I offered to drive and be her handler. Her one-woman advance team. Her sister/mom. Not long after, I realized Steph had arranged for different friends and family members to accompany her along the forty or so cities where she will speak in the next couple of months and I have to tell you, that was SO SMART, because after just one week—I don’t know how she could do it otherwise.

I mean, of course she could. She’s an elite athlete for crying’ out loud. When you read her book the fact that she’s a beast is undeniable. But I’m talking quality of life here.

And that’s what most of us let suffer when we’re thrown into a very challenging life situation.

I suppose because she’s traveled abroad so extensively (and because it’s just her nature), Steph is so great at asking for help and delegating — The Large Scale Endeavor Dynamic Duo. I encourage all of you, and I include myself here as well—to cultivate these two qualities. Pronto.

Also, the woman can fall asleep in like 2.5 seconds. No lie. It’s her superpower and it really came in handy.

Here’s what else I learned. There are so many small, quaint and charming, family owned bookstores that are thriving. THRIVING!
“Business has never been better!” they chirped. I can’t tell you how much I loved hearing that!

Every single person at each bookstore was kind, supportive and engaged. They were genuinely excited about Steph’s book and I have to say, I think that’s why she was received that way she was from those who attended her book signings.

It was contagious.

Books know how to sell themselves—if you let them. With everything going on in the world right now the timing of her book release and tour could not have been more perfect.

And never underestimate word-of-mouth. Fuck platform. Fuck the sign at the point of sale. When you get to meet the author, hear the story first-hand, ask questions, and get your book signed — you fall in love a little… and you’re gonna tell your friends. ‘Cause we all like to kiss and tell.

And last but certainly not least. Women supporting women, like the salon event we did in San Fran made me a little weak in the knees. Spending an entire evening with smart, curious, awake and alive women drinking wine and using Steph’s book as a springboard for hours of heartfelt conversation—I’m telling you — I was kinda happy my wonky uterus had come along AND you guys, women are ready to rule. the. world!

So…What are you talking about to your friends today? What’s got you lit up? Inspired?

Let me know.

Carry on,
xox

Listen, please go buy this book.
https://www.amazon.com/Unbound-Story-Self-Discovery-Steph-Jagger/dp/0062418106/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1485822479&sr=1-3&keywords=unbound

“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.

“The past is never where you think you left it.” – Katherine Anne Porter

Time.

Time as a fluid nonlinear happening-all-at-the-same-time slippery little bugger that I’ve been attempting to wrap my brain around lately.

Does your future inform your past?

Can we change our past?

Can we? Can I go back and make better choices in clothing and in men?

Mind…blown.

What does Jason think? What do you think?

Carry on,
xox

This felt apropos, don’tcha think? It may take a while. Maybe even four years, but this situation is only temporary. Let’s choose happiness in the meantime. We have the power to make that choice.
Love ya!
xox

What do you do when you get depressed?

I’ve learned through the years that the best way to talk myself down from the ledge is to remind myself This too shall pass by repeating the mantra This_________ is only temporary.

It seems my endurance of all things sucky is fueled by the fact that I’m certain that nothing lasts forever.
Even my acne finally decided to hit the road.

This weekend during Rob Bell’s inspiring talk, he reiterated that philosophy with this quote: Depression comes when you believe that tomorrow will look just like today.

Doesn’t that make sense? And lighten your load?

My shoulders come down off my ears when I say that out loud.

Depression comes when you believe that tomorrow will look just like today. I can change that, I can turn my ship around.

To me, if I want to hitch myself to any emotion, it would be hope; because inside hope is change, and if I don’t like how things are panning out right now I can have the certainty that they will change.

The best thing about this belief is that WE don’t have to figure out HOWit’s going to change, we just have to KNOW that it will.

Haven’t you ever been low on cash and then someone who owed you money paid you back unexpectedly?

When that relationship with your soul mate, love of your life crashed and burned ten years ago someone else came along, right? And they were even better for you.

When you were so sick last fall, you recovered. You may have had that hacking cough for a month, but even that eventually went away. You probably didn’t even notice when it left.

See, that’s the thing, change is sneaky – and it’s humble. It doesn’t call attention to itself. It. just. happens.

I had a job at a grocery store after my divorce when I was in my twenties. I’d actually had it since I was fifteen in one capacity or another. At the time of my divorce I was a checker. Then I worked the night crew, stocking the shelves while you all slept, for extra money and to allow me to pursue acting, running to auditions during the day. I could work as much or as little as I wanted depending on my level of greed at any given moment.

At a certain point, around my thirtieth birthday to be exact; I decided, probably over alcohol, that I’d had enough of acting – AND the grocery business. I had NO idea what would come next for me, all I knew was that if tomorrow looked the same for much longer, I was going to be forced to join the circus to shake things up.

One afternoon while I was lying around moping, eating an entire pumpkin pie; my mom (who was well acquainted with my dissatisfaction with life) called to say she’d read about an antique mall that was opening on Melrose and was looking for part-time help. I loved antiques, so I immediately called, got an interview, and was hired on the spot.

I worked at the Melrose Antique Mall (which closed in the early nineties) by day, and at the market at night for about a year, until one day as a fluke, one of the girls that worked with me at the mall happened to mention a job she’d turned down working with real jewelry, at Antiquarius. It wasn’t the direction she wanted to take her life, but it sounded amazing to me, so I called, interviewed, and the rest is history.

I managed that store for just under twenty years and it was one of the unexpected joys of my life.

If you had asked me any day along that two-year transition what was next for me, I couldn’t have told you. All I knew was that even though I’d been working at the market for fifteen years, tomorrow could look different for me, it HAD to, and it kept me from falling into a deep pit of despair.

Not that deep pits of despair are unfamiliar to me, I just know by this stage of the game that there is a bottom—a ladder—and sunshine that can shine on our faces—if we’ll just look up.

Believe a change is on the way—because it is—THAT I can guarantee.

Love you,
xox

* If you feel you are, or have been diagnosed as clinically depressed, please seek psychological treatment.

This is an essay by my bad-ass, snort-laugh inducing friend Mel Maure. She can be funny right now because well, she’s Canadian.

I figured it would be perfect for today because maybe, if you’re like me, you’ve just emerged from your own twenty-four hour tantrum, you’re suffering from a terrible case of post-election tight-assery and you need to lighten up and just fucking say “thank you.”

Thank you Mel! Just like chocolate lava cake—you are deliciously gooey on the inside and always hit the spot.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be:
1) Searching for my sense of humor.
2) Taking back all of the power I gave away to this election.

Carry on,
xox

I throw spiritual tantrums. There. I said it.

What does said tantrum look like? Think of the ugly cry steeped in performance enhancing drugs. There is gnashing of teeth, snot runners and long bouts of standing in the corner of my stylish bedroom banging my forehead against the wall. And let’s not forget the weird keening sound that rises from my clogged throat.

When I throw down like this it’s not that I have been diagnosed with some raging incurable case of gout or have suddenly been forced to live in a cardboard box.

These beatific blowouts arise when I have not received exactly what I have prayed, asked, pleaded, lamented for, forgetting that my squirrelesque brain may not be the most reliable source of knowing what I need when I need it. I have a history of embarrassing romantic relationships to prove that.

In this unnerving place of wait and trust, I convince myself that my disconnection from the divine engine is terminal and there isn’t even a Kenny G tune to lull me while I sit on hold. I’ve been known to patiently wait at least three hours and fifteen minutes in this interminable holding pattern. But who’s counting?

In an attempt to ease this unsightly spoiled behaviour, I made a pact with the Cosmic Smoothie — what I think of as Universal Superfood, or God if you prefer. My somewhat anemic pact went something like this:
“I will refrain from pitching fits when the rate of jaw-dropping blessings coming into my granular existence is slow,” I vowed.

“When I meditate and don’t feel the rash of exhilarated connection to the Universe I jones for like a kismet junkie, I will be patient,” I promised.

“When the beasts of the forest are not swooping, roaming or stepping gingerly onto my path as unabashed signs that the Universe is there to soothe my drama du jour, I will be a quiet little angel of contentment,” I assured.
This sacred accord lasted three hours and twenty-seven minutes.

So why am I so quick to stop, drop and bang my head on the ground like a spoiled kid in Walmart’s toy section?
Simple. My memory sucks.

I am a dementiated, addled, lucky-if-I’m-wearing-pants kind of spiritual adventurer. And I don’t believe I am alone in this tendency of being lackadaisical. I refuse to believe I am the only one whose heart is akin to a sieve on good days, unable to retain the fullness. And on bad days is more like a defunct smelly well — the Stephen King kind with a creepy clown hunched and waiting at the bottom.

Being an impatient sort of soul does nothing to further the cause.

Once again, I am fairly certain I am not the only one who plugs her ears and hums a tune to drown out a greater knowing. A wisdom that says it’s not the best idea for us, in our limited fallible skin-suit, to drink from the cosmic fire hose.
So what is a petulant, forgetful, impatient spiritual sojourner to do?

First step: get up and stop thrashing about in the dirt. It’s contaminated with all kinds of bullshit. And by bullshit, I mean that potent noxious blend of fear and doubt. The only thing that brand of dirt grows is mould and poisonous fungi.

Second step: Record, write, make cave drawings if you have to, of all the times when you were doused with magic and thrumming with exhilaration. And if you are one of the more efficient spiritual travellers who keeps a log of every step and has a slide show to prove it, be nostalgic. Remember. Pour over every detail like an old high school football QB reliving the glory days. Caress every stitch across the pigskin of your divine moments.

Third step: Enjoy the reprieve and say thank you. It’s quite simple if we think of it like food. We cannot eat nonstop…God knows I’ve tried…at some point we all need to stop and digest what we’ve swallowed. Assimilate the sacred nutrients. When I skip this rest and digest place, I often mistake a wicked case of gas for the energy of the universe moving through me. It’s not a pleasant affair.

Fourth and final step: Have fun. For the love of God; quite literally, unclench.
Tight-assery is not a divine construct and no one wants to hang out with a downer or tight-ass, except for other tight-ass downers. Why would the Cosmic Smoothie be any different? There is no room for amazing things and mind-numbing blessings in the realm of the anal-retentive.

The final caveat to all of this: we are bound to find ourselves in the throws of petulance again and again. Our greatness cannot help but thrash inside the constraints of our humanness.

So if you see a fellow traveller rolling around in the dirt, producing bizarre mewling noises, please kneel down and whisper in her ear that she needs to stand up now. It would do her well to say thank you. It will restore her to remember all the jaw-dropping moments. For this invites more of the same.

For more flawed thoughts and very human fumblings from Melanie
https://medium.com/@melmaure/the-spiritual-tantrum-of-a-kismet-junkie-5f6cc779df07#.ugt3ruknx

Since I wrote this piece last year, a book by the same name has come out. How about that? An entire book filled with stories about this crazy, enigmatic, whimsical guy who lives life strictly on his own terms.

“The legend, in case you haven’t heard it before, usually goes something like this: “My [brother/buddy/cousin] was in [Chicago/New York/Los Angeles] a couple of years ago, just walking around, when all of a sudden some guy runs up from behind him and [gives him a bear hug/puts his hands over his eyes/puts him in a headlock and gives him a noogie]. So he spins around and it’s freaking Bill Murray, man. Bill Murray! From Ghostbusters, man! No, no—the tall one. You know, he was in Caddyshack? Anyway, Murray looks at my [brother/buddy/cousin] right in the eye, and says, ‘No one will ever believe you.’ And then he just walks away! How nuts is that, dude?!”
~GQ Magazine

https://www.amazon.com/Tao-Bill-Murray-Real-Life-Enlightenment/dp/0812998707

“I live a little bit on the seat of my pants, I try to be alert and available. I try to be available for life to happen to me. We’re in this life, and if you’re not available, the sort of ordinary time goes past and you didn’t live it. But if you’re available, life gets huge. You’re really living it.”
Bill Murray to Charlie Rose, 2014]

I heard once that when we die the first question we ask when we get to the other side is: How did I do?

Can you imagine? How did I do?

Not, “where’s the big guy or which way is the the buffet?”  We ask, How did I do?

So, if that is indeed the case, what do you want to hear back?

“You did okay. You played it a little safe, though.”

“You forgot to have fun!”

“Better luck next time.”

Or the worst one of all: “You completely missed the point.”

Wouldn’t that just suck?

Sooooooo…..

Let’s let life get huge.

Let’s add value and leave a wake of shattered rules behind us.

Let’s all let our light shine bright, replacing our earthly halo’s with the real deal.

Why not? Isn’t that the point?

Carry on,
xox

That one hit’s home…doesn’t it?

When I think of all the hours, days, weeks and years I’ve wasted “overthinking” things. It makes me want to scream…and eat every Kit Kat bar I can find. And I’m not even that bad. I’m SOOOO much better than I used to be. I know a few people who have reached professional status as far as “overthinking” goes.

I think things turned around for me when I stopped giving all those fucks.

So, I guess that’s my advice. Chill. Have a cocktail. Eat a carbohydrate. Leave things up to a greater power than yourself, one that has an overview of your life and may just give you a clue IF it can wedge a thought in that crowded head of yours edgewise.

And stop giving so many fucks.

Carry on,
xox

I have to remind myself that this could be—this should be—true when making any decision.

Right? I mean just the thought of making a decision unfettered by financial restraints makes my heart beat faster.
I palpitate all over the place.
Possibilities start to appear.
Were they hiding? Not really. I was just too tangled up in penny counting to see them.

But maybe I can only speak for myself.

The thing is, I’ve talked to several of my friends this week who were also weighing options. Career, geographic relocation, relationships. You know, the stomach-clenching terror-trifecta. They were making lists of pros and cons, calculating risks, and looking for signs. Anything to give them a clue.

I was right there with them, looking to the sky, turning over every rock. Listening for a booming voice inside of a burning bush.

I’m looking at having an elective surgery (nothing major), around the end of the year. The doctor I want to use is out of network (insurance speak), so I will have to dig deep into my own pockets—or be okay with a complete stranger cutting me open.

“What if money wasn’t an issue?” I asked my friend at brunch on Sunday. She’s barreling toward some biggies in the next few months. Good stuff, life changing really. No pressure. She has a lot of options, but sometimes all those choices complicate things. They muddy the water.

“Mmmmmm…” she mused, enjoying a bite of ricotta pancake. “That’s easy.”

“Then that’s the answer!”  I announced, and suddenly, we both had clarity on our respective conundrums. And bacon. We had bacon.

Fuck you money! You are not the boss of us!

I always forget it really IS that easy. Don’t you?
Money is figureoutable. It really is—if we can step out of fear’s grip.

Maybe I can unimagine Edward Scissorhands having his way with me in an operating room because of my belief in lack. And hey, I am most certainly aware that my angst is a result of giving it a face—and way more power than it deserves.

Maybe you’re at a crossroads. Maybe you needed to see this right now. Maybe you need to ask yourself  “What would you do if money wasn’t an issue?”

Carry on,
xox