humor

There are other professions in the world, besides therapist and psychologist, that lend themselves to hearing other people’s problems, and maybe or maybe not, dispensing council or giving advise.

Priests comes to mind. They’re lucky. In their confessional, they are provided anonymity, although I could always recognize their voices, and I’m sure they knew mine. They could pretend to sit, void of judgement, as I confessed to hitting my brother, their smirks hidden behind a dark screen. When they asked me why, I always answered: because he’s incorrigible, which is a word I heard used at home to describe him.
I do think the darkness, their half hidden faces, and lack of eye contact, did help the ladies who went into the box before me. They stayed for what felt like hours! They must have had much juicer sins than mine, and truly sought his council and forgiveness.
I was ten, I was just going throughout the motions.

My friends who have tended bar, got their ears bent nightly, big time! They may not have had a diploma on the wall, but by golly, they have HEARD IT ALL!
Since they were not sworn to any oath of confidence, and often copious amounts of alcohol were involved, they had the BEST stories!
Tales of love, betrayal, treachery, cheating, twins with amnesia, men as women, women as men. If it’s been a plot on a soap opera, they’ve heard it, ’cause that shit is REAL!

I on the other hand, have been in some form of retail most of my life. This has made it very easy for “those that seek advice” to find me. I was captive behind a supermarket check out counter in my teens and early twenties, where the inventive, provocative and hilarious confessions I heard when guys purchased condoms or tampons, or both, could fill a book. Believe me, I never asked, they just volunteered the information.

Later, I was behind a jewelry showcase, and most recently the desk at my own store. Over the years I’ve had many regular patients…I mean customers, who would come by to seek an opinion or get some advise. Some just wanted to vent….I guess I just have that kind of face.

Here is what I know for sure: Everyone’s got a story. Most are interesting, many are funny, some are heartbreaking.

When I was working in Estate Jewelry, the store was in West Hollywood, Beverly Hills adjacent. When those stories walked in, they were no different than everyone else’s, just dressed up with better shoes and handbags.

I sold antique engagement rings, or rather, because of their beauty, they sold themselves, but I stood and told their story. Fifty percent of the time, it was just the man looking. He wanted it to be a surprise. Because of his nerves and the unusual circumstance of buying an engagement ring, I heard their love stories, their hopes, their fears, and often way too much information! Over twenty years, I have literally held their hands to calm them down, explained women and what we want, and I have even told half a dozen men: Honey, you’re not ready to do this.
One sweet guy brought his beloved with him on the third visit, she was acting so ungrateful, spoiled and awful that as he left, I passed him a piece of paper that advised him to “run for the hills”!

Another situation I’ll never forget.
A woman came in to pick up her husband’s watch repair.
Now, it had been repaired twice before, and this third time was NOT the charm. 
We sold vintage watches, so they had to be wound and I couldn’t get the thing to tick!
Unfortunately, the woman was wound so tight she flew into a rage. She threw the watch against the wall, where it exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces, some even hitting her in the face. She called me and the store every curse word known to man…and then some.
Since our store was in an open mall sort of setting, the whole place could hear her, and everyone froze. So did I.
She stood there in her rage, her face red, her body trembling.
On life’s 1-10 scale of “How upset do I get about this”, the actual situation was a 3, maybe a 4. She was having a 25 reaction. THAT is always a clue for me. From working with the public for so many years, I can recognize that when the response doesn’t match the situation, there’s a backstory, something else is going on.
I slowly and silently walked around from behind the counter, and touched her arm.
I was shaking now too.
I gently pulled her out of view of the peanut gallery, and softly whispered, “what’s really going on here?”
She started to wail. That deep, low, wailing-crying that people usually do in private. “My husband is dying across the street at Cedars” she sobbed. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just hugged her…for a long time. Then we got on our hands and knees and started to pick up the pieces of the watch, just like she was grasping at the pieces of her disintegrating life.

I may not have been a professional, but this retail therapist knew better than to yell back or poke someone who was clearly on the edge. Thank God!

I know I’m not alone in this. If we deal daily with a large cross section of the public, 
we really do get the opportunity, no, the the privilege to get a glimpse inside people’s lives. Hopefully we have the sensitivity to respond not react.

Everyone’s got a story. What’s yours?
XoxJanet 
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This is a reprise of a popular post from earlier this year. It’s a cautionary tale in the form of a poem, about that rascal Ego. Have a great Sunday!

XoxJanet

When Ego whispers in your ear,
“Psssst buddy, come on over here.”
Quick; turn and run the other way,
’cause he’s got nothing good to say.

He’s not a chum, he’s not your friend,
His words won’t have a happy end.
He’s only got himself in mind,
A more selfish dude you’ll never find.

What ego thinks is a good idea,
Will fill you later with dread and fear.
You don’t want hear what he has to say,
Just tell him nice, to go away

The Ego has a strangle hold,
on those who do what they are told.
He has sold his bill of goods,
by selling “wants” and “needs” and “shoulds”.

It just won’t play, it won’t suffice,
when heeding Ego’s bad advise.
To say you’re “feeling” anything,
To this bad guy, the head is king.

His dictums are complex and sly,
You must beware if you comply,
he’ll lead you down the garden path,
then laugh as you suffer bad choice’s wrath.

He has an agenda all his own,
his methods are proven, his skills well honed.
You needn’t curse, don’t waste a good cry,
he’s doesn’t care, he’s not that guy.

You can try to beat him at his game,
Living with soul can end his reign.
It won’t seem fair,
He isn’t nice, plus….

The Ego gives really shitty advise.

• This was written by Martha Beck, whom I love! It is about our drought here in the West, but her advice is applicable to pretty much anything in life.
  Happy Sunday!
  XoxJanet

Don’t Worry About the Rain
By: Martha Beck
Last year was the first I spent in California. Having come from the desert, I was all excited about the winter greenness, the rains that always come in October…okay, November…well, FOR SURE in December…or absolutely in…January?
Or not.
This is the first time in recorded history that the rain has not come at all. The forest I love is gray and stark. I swear I can feel things dying.
I was getting rather testy with God about this when a thing happened.
Jeanette Trompeter, a journalist and pal of Master Coach Jill Farmer, asked to interview me for the local news. We did the interview, then I forgot all about it. Several weeks later, I happened to flip on the TV exactly in time to catch the segment about me. Jeanette then told the weatherman how worried I was about the drought. The man in the magic box faced me and said, “Martha, stop worrying about the drought.”
I know! Right?
It still hasn’t rained. That’s how these things work. When I was deep in debt, I got winks that said “Stop worrying about money.” It arrived…eventually. When I was “incurably” ill, I got winks that said “You’ll get well.” I did…eventually. The good stuff didn’t happen when I wanted it to, but it happened. And in the meantime, these loving messages from the universe helped me drop useless anxiety.
Try this: Think of a current “drought” in your life. For 10 minutes, just trust that it will all be okay. Trust that you’re being guided. Trust, against all odds and evidence, that you are safe.
When I use this exercise on my drought fears, the strangest thing happens: I feel it raining inside myself. I become a microcosm of the life-giving rain that, someday, will bring California back to life. Or so I trust.
EDITOR’S NOTE: A week after Martha wrote this, it started raining in California.

There’s a place under the stairs,
where every kid stashes their woes and cares.
In the hours late at night, when the house is quiet, you can hear them fight.
They want your attention, they want your ear,
so they can remind you of your fears.

Now, as everyone knows, you can set them free,
those fears and woes. Oh, woe is me!
You can pick them up as you leave the house,
with your backpack, your purse, your lunch and your spouse.

Our suggestion is to leave them there, 
where they can’t fill you with despair.
Time’s not a factor, oh, they can wait,
but if you let them out, they will change your fate.

The woes you had stashed as a boy, you see,
will happily wait for the man-to-be.
And the cares of a girl, of her looks and such,
are patiently waiting for that woman’s touch.
Oh, those rascals! Those cares and woes,
They feel the same, they just wear better clothes!

So, just throw caution to the wind, 
don’t be concerned, don’t let them win.
If you don’t care, if you don’t cry, 
they cease to matter, they wither and die.
They cannot cause you pain and strife, if you live an adult’s life.

So late at night, when you hear them yell, 
You may tell them to go straight to hell!
Just know it’s them and let them be,
and go to bed, with your cup of tea.
They can’t really hurt you now…. Unless you go near the stairs.

“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. 3 months later, at the worst possible time, you get laid off.

Expand my business. That means thinking bigger, learning new skills, hiring and maybe even firing 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

Here is my disclaimer right up front: This is a story about a very shallow girl…me, and how a list, a good friend, and some abracadabra, helped me manifest my true love.

At the point where my story begins, it’s the year 1999 and I have known Wes for about five years. We first met at the channeling group of a mutual friend.

Let me stop right here.
Wes is drop-dead gorgeous! He is a 6’3″ tall, dark, handsome, drink of water. When I first saw him at this friend’s house, I thought to myself: Okay, Spiritual practice, now you’re talkin’, because, up until that moment it had mostly been women that showed up for these things or men who still lived with their mothers.

He and I made goo-goo eyes at each other and tried not to burst out laughing at some of the questions that were asked. I know – Not my proudest moment.

We thought EVERYTHING was hilarious.
Wes is very chill about all this spiritual stuff. He doesn’t take any of it too seriously, which I love, and we had a lot in common. We had read all the same books, had a very similar spiritual practice, had the same twisted, warped sense of humor…and both loved men.

Sad, but true.
So, I was the Grace to his Will.
We loved each other madly, with no extra benefits.

After the crash and burn of yet another one of my romantic relationships, instead of saying, “I told you so” Wes suggested going to our channel friend for a session with just the two of us. He was also newly single at the time and felt we could get some good one-on-one advice, without other people asking if their dead Aunt was speaking to them through their cat.

At this session “they” suggested we each make a list of the attributes our beloved should possess, after which we should meet and give that list to the other, for them to use as kind of “manifestation template.”

Before I go on, I want to add this little side note:
I thought it would be a good idea at the time to take all of my ex’s cards, pictures, etc. and burn them. I would then scatter the ashes to the wind, giving the Universe a smoke signal that there was now a boyfriend void to fill.

With my right shoulder cradling the phone, I took Wes outside with me, along with my box of memories and a lighter. It was about 8 p.m., cold and dark and lightly drizzling, which I thought was a good sign.
I put everything on a large stone in the middle of my wet patio and lit it up. After a couple of minutes, there was a good little fire going, and I watched our smiling faces and birthday cards filled with his once loving words, melt before my eyes. Trouble was, a significant breeze had picked up and started swirling a small tornado of embers all around me! I was screaming and trying to get away, but the lost love delivery system, disguised as burning paper, was in my hair, my face, and my mouth and burning tiny holes in my flannel nightgown. All the while, Wes laughed hysterically into my ear!

So…
We met at an Italian restaurant, and armed with a bottle of Chianti courage, we exchanged our Relationship Lists and decided to read each other’s out loud, to gain clarity.
Big mistake…Huge.

He read mine first:
Affectionate…okay
Passionate….yep
Funny….critical
Loves sex….um…
Loves my cats….he glanced up at me and winced
Loves a lot of sex….gulp
Snappy dresser…..really?
Enormously wealthy…Shallow, I warned you!
Blah, blah, blah.

Hearing them out loud was literally painful. My face was on fire with humiliation.
Wes was laughing so hard he had to hold a napkin to his mouth, tears streaming down his face.

Then it was my turn to read his list:
Concerned about the planet…okay.
Philanthropic…of course
Self confidant…uh huh
Belief in a higher power…shit!
Nurturing…I want that!
Concern for my well being…give me my F*cking list back!

My light and funny friend surprised me, his list was seriously great! It was honest and deep and full of heart.

Mine was crap. Where’s a candle? It NEEDED to catch fire!
I was lunging across the table, trying to grab my ridiculously shallow list back, but he put it in his pocket and kept it.

And then, my magical, mystical, friend manifested the perfect man for me.
In a year.

That is the actual list above…I have no pride.
Wes found it in a box during a recent move, framed it, and gave it to me for my birthday last year.

I have yet to manifest a significant other for him….have you seen his standards?!
Xox

Let me give a quick recap, for those of you that haven’t read parts I & II.
(But I suggest you do)
This is a recounting of the spiritual awakening that happened to me in late 1993.

Me, the shitty meditator, suddenly can’t stop meditating, and then crazy, mystical experiences ensue, one of them being a booming voice telling me: “We have an agreement!”…twice.
In my pre-technology search to find out what the hell is happening, I encountered an energy worker, “T” with whom I got a “body work” session.
There, now I think you’re all caught up!

I’ve actually been hesitant to write about what came next, because it wasn’t pretty.
But in the spirit of full disclosure, here goes.

I had the body/energy work, which wasn’t a massage, as my naïveté had led me to believe. His hands never touched my body. They radiated lots of heat, and gave me a tingling feeling as they passed about 6-8 inched above me.
Well, that’s a lie.
He poked and prodded my feet with such intense pressure, I kept yelping, and pulling away. His response? “Breathe through it”.
Thanks pal.

On my way out, he mentioned that I should get some apple cider vinegar to put in a bath, and soak 20 minutes to move out any toxins. He also said I may feel sick.
As I was walking around the Von’s near my house, getting the vinegar and a People Magazine, I started to feel nauseous. Let’s just say, I barely got home without defiling my car. I proceeded to projectile vomit all day and all night for 3 days!
I can remember in my vomit induced semi coma, calling in sick to work, drooling into my pillow and asking the Universe, or whoever would listen, what the hell was happening to me.
“Detox” was all I got.

“T” called during that time to check on me. He actually laughed when I told him how sick I was. “Good, get all that shit out” he said. I never did get used to his weird sense of humor and bedside manner. “It’s all stuck emotion; name it as it leaves.” So I did.
“That’s fear…that’s anger…that’s sadness.” I didn’t have to make it up, the emotion would name itself on its way out. I still do that to this day.

I did tell him I was worried I hadn’t kept any food down is three days, and he suggested I ask “them” to let the food stay, and not leave as vomit. That actually worked. It was so freaky to eat toast and tea, and a half hour later, have the vomit be clear. How does THAT work?

Also, I had no idea the Universe had a request line.

About two weeks later I met “T” for lunch, and he announced that I was ready for another session.
NO WAY, JOSE!!!
He just laughed, telling me that the first time is always the worst, and that mine was particularly ferocious because I am someone who likes “to move fast”.

Why is my process so funny to him, and how is it he thinks he has me all figured out?
He was fast becoming one of my least favorite people, AND
I went the next day for more energy work.

WHAT is my problem!!?? Have I lost my mind???
Not yet.

(To be continued)
XoxJanet

If life is a dance, I have two left feet.
Which of course makes it hard to buy shoes! Ha!
But if you’ve seen me dance, or do Zoomba, or even Tai Chi, you know what I mean.

Everyone else is moving in sync to the right, I’m moving, always with great conviction…to the left.
It’s just my nature.
Always has been. 
As much as I desperately want to avoid embarrassment, it is next to impossible for me to just blend in, to stay inside the lines, to behave and “dance” like everyone else. But, I really have tried, and it has been exhausting.

Just like I play my own soundtrack in my head, as it runs through my life (don’t you?)
I have my own unique, sometimes awkward and clumsy choreography; which I often dance alone. 
It may not be pretty, but it has gotten me here.

Every once in a great while, I’m supremely graceful; like the Prima Ballerina in Swan Lake.
I’m dancing around, up on pointed toes, with my neck long, and my arms fluttering slightly.
The only problem is, the rest of the world is doing a tap routine, and I look like an ass!

So, here’s the thing: I had a humongous epiphany after catching The Dead Poet’s Society on HBO a couple of weeks back. Damn! I had forgotten what a great movie that is, OR, I didn’t have the depth of character in 1989 to fully grasp it’s meaning. Probably the latter.

In case you don’t know, or can’t remember, it takes place in an elite all boys prep school, in the 1950’s. There’s a new, unorthodox English professor, Mr. Keating, who, among other things, has them stand on top of their desks to see the world in a different way. He also challenges them to call him “O Captain, My Captain.”

John Keating: “O Captain, my Captain. Who knows where that comes from? Anybody? Not a clue? It’s from a poem by Walt Whitman about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now in this class you can either call me Mr. Keating, or if you’re slightly more daring, O Captain my Captain.”

He is pushing these boy-men to embrace great literature and poetry, to become free thinkers, to question authority and buck convention. In other words, my Holy Grail!

Bear with me here, because it was this next scene that really got me.
He has his class assemble in the school courtyard, where, as an exercise in self-expression, he has them walk in a circle. A couple swing their arms, several stomp their feet, but soon they are all marching perfectly in time. Although they find it funny, Mr. Keating is proving a point.

We may start off marching to our own beat, but we soon succumb to the herd mentality. We all fall in step, conform, becoming part of that herd.
It’s encoded in our DNA.
Mr. Keating wants them to break that code, to consider being another way.
Perhaps, to even entertain the idea that it might be okay to go left, instead of right, to dance to their own untamed choreography.
Hmmmmmm. Maybe my feet aren’t broken after all.

John Keating: Now we all have a great need for acceptance, but you must trust that your beliefs are unique, your own, even though others may think them odd or unpopular, even though the herd may go,
John Keating: “That’s baaaaad.” [imitating a goat] Frost said, “Two roads diverged in the wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

Amen, Captain, My Captain.
XoxJanet

Authentic

au·then·tic adjective ə-ˈthen-tik, ȯ-

real or genuine

not copied or false

true and accurate
: true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character

How authentic are you willing to be? It’s my new obsession, but it can be tricky, because there are seemingly endless layers to authenticity.

I feel like I’m an open book, almost to a fault. I’ll tell anyone, anything they want to know about me. Have you read this blog? It horrifies my husband! In fact, my practice lately has been to dial down the TMI. 
Well…not on this page.

But is that authenticity?
Maybe because it’s easy for me, I’m gonna say no.
I’ll tell you with a laugh, that yes, I’ve farted in yoga; but I may not tell you the truth about your cheating-ass boyfriend, when you ask my opinion. Besides, when someone asks your opinion…they don’t REALLY want to know.

By definition, being true to yourself, accurate and genuine, are the hallmarks of being an authentic human being, but how do you navigate friendships, love relationships and jobs, when you’ve developed a permanent groove from habitually “biting your tongue”. 

I’m finding there’s an art to authenticity.
Expressing a truthful, but measured response.

Sometimes “No” IS a complete sentence; especially when elaborating could open Pandora’s box, or a can of whoop ass.
“It’s just not my thing” or “I’ve never been a fan of that” have saved my life.

I’ve been in retail sales all my life, and I made it a practice to NEVER lie to a customer just to make a sale. I know it pissed off my boss on numerous occasions, but again, if the earrings looked like shit, I steered them in another, sometimes less expensive, but more flattering direction. I know it was appreciated because they made a point to tell me so. A sales person who tells the truth is an anomaly, and it makes an impression.

Gently letting your best friend know that she’s too old to rock the leather mini skirt to the reunion, instead of being the kind of friend that just nods and gives a thumbs up, then turns her head and rolls her eyes. That’s SO not okay! And completely not authentic. A two second “wince” will save her hours of public humiliation, and having to see the pictures on Facebook for years to come. We MUST do this for each other, we MUST show up this way!

Here’s another layer: Our appearance…
In my obsession to live more authentically, I’m growing out all my blonde highlights, and I’m leaning into letting the whole thing finally be the color it’s been dying to be…grey.
I’ll still be getting a rockin’ haircut so I don’t look like Barbra Bush… I’m authentic, not crazy!

But how far am I willing to go with this?
Not concealing the dark under eye circles?
No false eyelashes!?!? 
No make up of any sort? (gasp).
What about nail polish? Spanx????? 
Is that authentic? Or just a cruel thing to do to the people that have to look at me everyday?

It’s kinda funny…or is it?
Are we just trying to “look our best”?
If we’re trying to look 30 when we’re 55, shouldn’t someone be giving us “the wince”?

Here’s my real struggle: Can I just let my chicken neck and my grandmothers hands, that are now at the end of MY arms, be the markers of my journey so far?
Can I /We be authentic enough to let our TRUE selves show up?
How would we be received by the world?
This is definitely a work in progress, so I’m thinking one small step at a time.

Here’s a sentence that goes to the heart of the matter and is really powerful:

IF I’M TRUELY MY AUTHENTIC SELF, WITH MY WARTS, FARTS, CHICKEN NECK, MY TRUTH TELLING, GOOFY, GREY HAIRED, MYSTICAL, PERFECTLY IMPERFECT SELF. AM I STILL LOVABLE?

I’ll leave you with that, talk amongst yourselves.

XoxJanet 

I hate going backwards. Period! In life. In love. In careers.
Here’s how it manifests in the most aggravating way in real time.

I had a stretch of time a few years back, maybe 7-8 years ago, where I was incapable of backing up my car without hitting something. Seriously.

Small poles and such at first, and then the Pièce de résistance (thank you French husband), I backed my SUV up and ONTO the hood of a brand new Audi S6, with my trailer hitch acting as a can opener, as up his hood I went!

All this at the holidays, in a crowded Post Office parking lot that is literally the size of a postage stamp…(aren’t they all)? Hence the reason I couldn’t hear that guy’s frantic honking over all the usual holiday, postage stamp parking lot honking.

*Side note: I’ve always thought car horns should have different sounds to express different emotions, (I feel the same way about ringtones on phones). One could be a pissed off sounding HEY! for all the Prius drivers; another sounds like clearing your throat, to just get someone’s attention, you know, after the light has turned green and they’re texting. Another is so high pitched that only animals can hear it, for all those cats and errant squirrels that play chicken with my car.

But the one I needed to hear that day was the frantic horn.
Hey!!!! Beeeeeeepppp!!!!! Hey!!!!! Laaaaaddyyyyyy!!!! 

Cool idea huh? You can steal it, just give me credit.
And send big checks.

Here’s the best part. I did it in front of my husband, who was in another car, eyes wide, mouth agape in disbelief, trying to look anonymous even though he had just kissed me goodbye for all the world to see. 

He was also laying on HIS horn too! See?!! Too much honking!
Geez! How’s a girl to think?

So I carry with me to this day, a fear of going in reverse.
I will do anything to avoid backing up. I will drive around the block for hours, to find a parallel parking space.

I get jittery and leave the Trader Joes parking lot if it’s too crowded, and the spaces look dicey. I will NEVER back out of a driveway onto a busy street.
I would just as soon leave my car there and buy a new one.

I’m just so afraid I will maneuver my can opener, I mean car, up onto another unsuspecting victim.

Because I’m so nervous, EVERYTHING is drawn to behind my car! Isn’t that just the way it goes?! The second my backup lights come on, all manner of cars,trucks,scooters, ancient grandmas and grandpas, dogs, cats, children in strollers, ladies in rollers, kids on skateboards, twenty-something girls on their cell phones, and expensive sports cars, magically and instantly appear, (and closer than they really are) in my rear view mirror!

Because of this fear I have become a magnet for the slow and unaware among us.
If I honk to alert them to my presence, they flip me off. Grandmas give me stink eye.

I watch other people with great envy that can just put it in “R” and zip carefree
backwards and out, into traffic.

Remember my list of the things I’m not good at? I’m adding this, somewhere up near the top.
Quit your snickering, you’re all so smug…you can join my husband.

Carry on
Xox