inspirational

He was SO mad at me. Furious. How could I tell? Because he told me right to my face.

I’m glad you’re home safe,” he said. He looked stoned but I knew better. That was his sleepy face. His way-past-my-bedtime face.

“Really? ‘Cause you seem pissed,” I quipped. It was pretty obvious as he stomped around in his bare feet and blue, flannel jammie pants, slamming drawers and doors and anything within reach that he could slam on his way back to bed.

No hug.

No kiss.

No eye contact.

No kidding.

Even the little brown dog had picked sides, staying put, warm and cozy back in our bedroom, her brain having been filled with anti-mommy propaganda for the past couple of hours. 

“Wow! You’re mad?”

“Yes I’m mad!” He snapped. I think I saw smoke billow from of his nostrils.

“I can’t believe…”

“Well, believe it because I am! (Insert dramatic pause) You know I texted you…and you didn’t answer.”

“You did?” I started looking for my phone.

“Yes, I did. When I was going to bed, around eleven.”

He turned around without looking me in the eye which I took as the ‘silent eye treatment’ and stomped away. It was impressive.

But I could hardly keep from laughing. I know that sounds insensitive but this is a man who NEVER worries about me when I’m out. I suppose I should take it as a compliment but it’s always been a little disconcerting, this faith he has in my ability to make the good decisions, you know, the ones that have led me, so far, to remain…not dead. Since we didn’t even meet until we were both well into our forties, he believes me to be capable of defending myself and figuring shit out as proven to him by the fact that I rarely call him to bail me out of any jam that I may or MAY NOT get myself into. (Psssst…I have Auto Club and our friend Ernie on speed dial.)

Unfortunately, that door does not swing both ways. I make him (and by ‘make him’ I mean it’s written in Chapter One of The Husband Manual that he read and signed before we sealed the deal) I make him text me when he’s off the motorcycle.

Because that’s a fucking dangerous hobby and I have this habit of liking to know he’s still alive.

Since the scariest thing I do is karaoke in Korea town, occasionally, I think to text him when I leave because fair is fair, you know, goose and gander stuff, but he’s always led me to believe that it’s kind of adorable—but completely unnecessary. 

“On my way home,” I’ll text, letting him know that I didn’t choke on the microphone or accidentally drown on my own spit. 

CRICKETS…

Or, a simple ‘thumbs up’ emoji—meaning that I had momentarily interrupted his pizza, beer, and violent movie night by stating the obvious.

I have to admit, the evening had run later than I’d told him it would by about an hour and a half. I was at the Forum in Inglewood with my sister, having the spiritual experience of #becoming with Michelle Obama and eight thousand of her most rapturous admirers. The night was a lot of things. It was transformative. It was inspirational. But it was NOT punctual. So when I told him I’d be home by eleven and the event didn’t let out until then—and in my post Michelle-taking-me-into-her-confidence-coma, I neglected to think to correct that with a text… 

THAT was a mistake.  

As a matter of fact, unbeknownst to me, my phone, which was zipped securely inside the pocket of my purse, (because she was THAT good), had long since gone into ‘sleep mode’. 

This meant his text vibrated silently, unseen in the dark. 

TEXT: 11:09 pm — Is everything ok? It’s late. I’m going to bed
(kiss face emoji)

Holy mother of all things hyperbolic and hysterical!

You have no idea how over-the-top dramatic this is! It may seem completely innocent to you but this, you guys, this is a five alarm fire. This is a scream into the void. This is my husband absolutely freaking out! 

And I missed it. 

I was too busy fan-girling, re-living over and over every tasty morsel of juicy girl-talk Michelle had spoon fed us all night. We quoted back to each other every word. The story about falling in lust with Barack. About therapy and in-vitro. We laughed again at every joke and implied jab at the current administration as we wove our way in and out of post-Michelle traffic. It took us a good thirty minutes to find the freeway and when we did—it was choked with traffic. Don’t look at me like that, it’s LA! There’s always traffic in LA at 11pm (or so I’ve heard).

Anyway, there it sat, the unanswered text, stewing in its own juices for another forty minutes or so. And there he sat back at home—marinating in worrying. Wondering whether I’d fallen victim to a mugger in a dark parking lot, or gotten into a car accident and was lying unattended in the hallway of County Hospital. Or maybe a carjacking had occurred, or a drive-by shooting, or my sister had finally reached her limit with me, stuffed me into the trunk of her car, put it in neutral, and pushed it off a cliff.

As it turns out he’d texted a preview of what was to come. Look at that. He was all set to worry. Who knew?

Who had created this monster? In retrospect, I blame myself. Maybe it’s the fact that lately, with the whole #MeToo thing, I’d been talking to him a lot about the fact that just living in the world as a woman is akin to walking naked through a sketchy neighborhood. A lot of stuff that he never gives a thought to—is out to harm or even kill us. The fact that my guard is never down. I have to park my car in a well-lit area, lock my doors the minute I get into the car, and walk with my keys woven in and out of my fingers like a weapon. The fact that his only concern is protecting the money in his wallet and that my purse is the least of my worries when I’m out at night. That’s because my most valuable asset will always be MY ENTIRE BODY. 

Men don’t think about that kind of stuff until we educate them. And then they worry, like, all the time. They slam things and get mad when we don’t answer texts late at night—which they have every right to do because we’ve scared the bejesus out of ‘em. 

Later, when I got into bed, I snuggled up close to him, but I could feel him tense up. He wasn’t done being mad.
I know that feeling of loving someone or something (a pet) so much that the mere thought of anything happening to them shatters the veneer of complacency we all wear—and then the vulnerability leaks out all over the place like a big, wet, mess, and the only thing that can keep you from embarrassing yourself and losing your shit altogether—is anger. 

But I’m sorry, I still wanted to laugh.

Isn’t love absurd sometimes? 

Carry on, 
xox

My BFF, Steph and I caught this on the SNL Christmas Special that aired one day last week and we laughed ourselves silly!

You see, it’s about a peach candle that gets regifted around the world. I’m sure Steph was laughing at the mere concept of a peach candle getting passed around from person to person as the anecdote to “I forgot to get you a present”, or “I really don’t know you that well, Jenny!”

As for me, well, I had a dark secret and it’s about damn time I came clean.

You guys, I have an entire drawer in my house dedicated to regifting. And most of it is devoted to candles. And most of the candles are pine scented because I make it my mission all year to find the best ones and through many, many years of exhaustive research I can report to you that most of them are absolutely horrible. Like, slap your own face horrible. Like, I’m offended by you and how can you call yourself pine when you smell like moose ass horrible.

I’m not proud of this in the least, but I feel better now that I’ve admitted.  

And by-the-way, if you deny you have something similar in a closet or a drawer; a secret stash of candles whose scent is so cloying they make you want to gag, or stationery that is so old fashioned that the 1960’s called and they have no use for it either. If you even try to get all judgy on me and deny this—you have to live with yourself because YOU are a lying liar who lies.

But I forgive you because it’s Christmas. But if I see you just know that I will hang mistletoe off your nose, Pinocchio.

At work we exchanged a single Secret Santa present and the same pair of reindeer socks and box of awful peppermint candy made the rounds for about a decade. But what did I expect? The limit was thirty dollars and you can barely buy a cup of coffee or feed a parking meter for under thirty dollars in LA. Besides, I think we can all agree that nobody gives one brain cell of thought, one fire of a neuron, to a Secret Santa gift, most especially men.

I once was regifted something I had given the person and he’d not even taken the time to rip off my handwritten tags! But here’s the thing, I didn’t get mad, how could I? I actually laughed, put it in my “regifting” drawer, and gave it back to him in a different box the following year!

So, in the spirit of Christmas I encourage you to go to that special closet or drawer, and clean that sucker out! Let’s all get rid of that shit and start fresh.

I’ll start. I will give every partially burned candle (Because I burn the questionable ones to see if they get better when burned—they don’t) to my blind housekeeper, Maria, (She will never notice. Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it’s the truth!) and probably most of the unburned ones as well.

The stationery I will donate to a local church. I just know the ladies there will love it, (it has ‘church lady’ written all over it).

And then I may just have to throw the rest of it away because if I take the time to do some careful self-reflection I will have to admit that I’m one shoebox away from being a…a…hoarder!

There. I said it. Now I’m going to eat my feelings. I hear pie calling!

Carry on,
xox

From the Archives:
This is making the rounds on social media and I adore it! So, of course, I had to share it just in case you haven’t seen it yet.
Big candy cane kisses,
xox

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

I won’t sleep a wink. Not this week. That’s because this week ends on December 1st and besides starting the most stressful month with an “R” in it—December 1st means only one thing to me and my sister. 

That is the date we attempt to make our yearly reservation for Christmas Eve dinner.

I cannot be held accountable for the lengths I will go to secure a reservation at this famous, Beverly Hills, Prime Rib establishment which I shall not name (but it starts with an L and ends in a WHY?)

For reasons too numerous to mention, (okay, it’s cheaper and so much less work than hosting at home), dinner here has become a tradition in our family and I am not about to disappoint the entire family which at this point consists of a bunch of eighty-something’s who look forward to this all year long—by fucking it up. 

Let me be clear, a Christmas Eve reservation at this place is as coveted and hard-to-get as they come. You are more likely to book lip injections with the guy who “refreshes” all the Kardashian lips, (not that I would EVER! I read somewhere there is a five-year waiting list) than you are to get a table for ten, on the night before Christmas. 

Back in the day, I had no problem playing the absurd LA reservations games that the hot, new places put you through to get a table. It was all about seeing and being seen. But that ship has sailed. I don’t give a rip about getting a table if I can’t book it the same day on Open Table. Not to be indelicate but I don’t care how good a restaurant is—it all gets pooped out the next day, so why bother?

That being said, regarding Christmas Eve I have learned that you MUST make the reservation for as many people as you can. You over-book. You add two extra chairs just to play it safe. We generally have eight people but god forbid somebody unexpectedly brings a date or decides at the last-minute, as a Christmas miracle, to reconcile with their ex. I have learned the hard lessons that are still—years later—too painful to recount, that you may absolutely, positively, NOT ADD A PERSON TO YOUR RESERVATION! 

Apparently adding one chair will tip the balance of the universe and all life will cease to exist—or a least that’s how serious this place is about that rule. (If you subtract a person they’re not happy about that either, but a death certificate usually gets you off with just a stern warning.) 

You see, the problem is the restaurant. They have become heartless savages. They know they have you by the short hairs so as far as holiday reservations go—they keep moving the goalpost. For years the date to call-in was October 1st. Easy, peasy Parcheesi—no sweat! I got all kinds of time in October! 

That morning I would set my alarm for 6AM which gave me plenty of time to stretch and do my vocal warm-ups. At nine-fifty-nine exactly, I would sit down with my coffee and start the speed dialing. By 10:05 I would get an actual living, breathing, woman named Nancy or Carol who I could tell wore sensible shoes and was short on the chit-chat . A serious pro who was teed up and ready to book me a table. 

Oh, Holy night.

Then, suddenly, a few years ago when I called on October 1st, the woman who answered seemed startled, unprepared. She sounded…young. Her name was Tiffany. 

“Uh, Christmas Eve?” she asked a little confused. I wasn’t having it.

“Yeah! What’s the problem?” I yelled, feeling not one bit ashamed of my outburst. I had trained all month for this day and her I’m a little confused game was not about to side track me. She could save that BS for the newbies, the amateurs. This was not my first rodeo. After close to a decade of this shit—I was a pro. 

“Well  played, Tiffany,” I said with a little chortle and a hand gesture that was completely lost on her because…telephone. “It’s ten o’clock, the assigned time to book a table for Christmas Eve and that’s exactly what I intend to do!”

There was silence.

“Hello? Tiffany, are you there?” I screamed hysterically.

A minute went by. I could hear her breathing, and turning pages. It was the longest minute of my life. You know how they say that in the midst of a crisis, time stands still?

Time froze.

It ceased to exist.

All I could think of were the large tables being booked by other operators while Tiffany and I were caught outside the time/space continuum.   

“Oh yeah”, she finally answered. “They moved the date for Christmas Eve reservations to November 1st.”

“Novem…wait. What? You can’t be serious!” 

“Let me check.” Then he put me on hold.

ON HOLD!

An instrumental version of Feliz Navidad tried its damnedest to soothe me while I waited.

For a goddamn table. On Christmas Eve!

After speaking with the manager and the manger’s manager, I was convinced this was not some cruel tactic to put me off. It was a fact. The date had actually been changed. Again! 

November 1st dawned dark and dreary that year. A cold rain fell as I cracked my knuckles and cleared my throat waiting to commence the speed dialing. Just to be sure we got a table, my sister was calling and checking the internet at the same time. We would enlist the old “double team” tactic and if one of us got through we would text the other immediately. 

Listen, if our family wants over priced Prime Rib on Christmas Eve, no one is going to keep my eighty-year-old mother from her Diamond Jim cut of beef!

My sister got through first. It was 10:10 AM and the only tables they had left were for 3:30 in the afternoon.  That seemed…asinine. What should we do?  

“Tell them your Sandra Bullock’s assistant and the table’s for her and she can’t eat solid food before 5PM!”

“Too late.”

“Shit!”

But in the end, after dropping every name I could think of, we took our allotted thirty-seconds to decide that maybe the old people would actually love it. You know, a real early, early bird special. Dinner not only started but completely finished by five! No heavy meal sitting in their stomachs at midnight. No meat sweats. No indigestion. No Alka-Seltzer. No Tums needed. Everyone would have plenty of time to digest. And if I knew my mom, by eleven-thirty she’d be back out in her kitchen, like Henry the Eighth, gnawing happily on that enormous bone. 

Grateful, we booked the damn thing, profusely thanking them like idiots for allowing us to basically spend north of a $1000 for lunch. 

This year, November first, we coordinated by text before the 10AM call in time. I had a jam-packed day and so did my sister, but we knew that in a few short minutes the suspense would be over. Even though we might be eating Prime Rib for breakfast we’d have our table for nine and all would be right with the world. Let the speed dialing commence! 

I put my phone on speaker and set it on the table next to me while I ordered Christmas wreaths online. 

“Hello, this is Barbara.”

I texted my sis, “Im in.”

“Good morning, Barbara, I need a table for nine on December 24th…”

“That’s Christmas Eve, right?” 

Uh oh. Barbara was clearly not the brightest crayon in the box. I tried not to lose my patience.

“Uh huh. Every year.”

“The day to call for that has been changed to December 1st.”

I took the phone off speaker and put it to my ear. 

“Don’t you fuck with me Barbara,” I hissed. “It’s now November 1st, which after a generation of being the date to call was changed from October 1st. I get it. You want to separate the wheat from the chaff, cut out the riff-raff. But if you look up my phone number you can see that we book a large table every…”

“I see that Ms. Bertolus”, she said. I could tell Barbara was used to being cursed at, my f-bomb rolling right off her back. I felt bad. This was about Christmas after all. 

“So call back at 10AM on December 1st?” I changed my tone and I didn’t insist on speaking with her supervisor.

“Yes. I know it feels like they change it every year,” she laughed a little, so I did too.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you then…happy holidays.”

I will not sleep a wink this week. December first is cutting it really close. By that time we won’t be able to book another place and it’s not fair to have one waiting in the wings only to cancel it of we get in. And if we don’t get a table?  I see a Google search for “How to cook a prime rib” in my future. 

Or my husband’s future.  Same thing. 

Explain to me how any of this makes sense? It doesn’t. It’s a Christmas nightmare, tradition that will most certainly die when my mother does just like all great but totally annoying traditions do. I’m sure a small part of me (maybe my spleen) will miss doing this when she’s gone. But who knows, by that time they might make it first-come, first-serve, and half of LA will stand in line all night like we do outside the Apple store for an iPhone.

Carry on,
xox

The holidays can be haaaaard you guys. And as much as I’d love to sugar coat it—I can’t.

I know, they can also be full of joy and wonder.

But when they’re not—when you’re just struggling to keep your head above water because of a health crisis, or a death, divorce, or something else unimaginable has you down for the count—it is helpful to remember (at least it is for me) that no matter how famous you are, how much money you have, or influence you peddle, or how many self-help processes you keep in your back pocket, at some point, THEY WILL GET YOU DOWN.

Here in California, the wildfires that raged a mere two weeks ago have left a literal shroud hanging over the state. So many people have lost so much it’s hard to fathom feeling much Ho, Ho, Ho.

My BFF is navigating a mother who is deep into her Alzheimer’s long goodbye, and although she’s maintaining a stiff lip and a brave face, I can feel her sadness all the way from the Great Northwest. 

I’ve felt wonky for the past few months which led to me seeing a cardiologist about an arrhythmia caused by a jacked-up thyroid. As somebody who usually runs circles around the holidays, this “health situation” had made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and introspective. The old adage, “If you don’t have your health, you have nothing”, has turned from a blah, blah, blah thing that old people say—to the god’s honest truth.

So, in a nutshell, I’ve really had nothing funny or uplifting to say. (As a sidenote it must be said that if I lose my sense of humor, it’s time to take me to the doctor.)

Then, the other day, I came across this picture on Liz Gilbert’s social media and it gutted me. This is her first holiday season without her beloved Raya, and it shows her seeking solace in the lap of her friend Martha Beck.  I stared at it for a long time, crying the ugly cry because, number one—I’d been holding onto a lot of fear around my health and it felt good to let it all out, and number two—when I saw it, it reminded me of pretty much everyone I know right now, including, perhaps, The Statue of Liberty. It reminds me of exhausted surrender. A place I initially have a hard time finding–but know well.

Then, on Wednesday, Liz wrote this and I wanted to share it with you.

THIS I can do. I can hold the hearts who are hurting in my heart ( just as long as y’all don’t mind a bumpy ride!) You are not alone. You are not misunderstood. We can do this.

Let’s all hold each other hearts. We’ll know when it’s safe to let go. We’re gonna be alright.

I love you.
Carry on,
xox

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after the death of a loved one.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after a divorce.

Holding your heart in my heart if you can’t be with your family this year.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are estranged from your family.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have a family member serving in the military, or if you yourself are serving.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have to work today.

Holding your heart in my heart if you a missing a loved one at your table today because of addiction or mental illness or sickness or anger.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving in sobriety.

Holding your heart in my heart if you struggle with food, and you feel like nobody understands.

Holding your heart in my heart if family holidays bring up nothing but memories of suffering for you.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are alone, or if you are just feeling alone in the crowd.

Holding your heart in my heart today, all day long. Holidays aren’t always easy. But you are loved. Please know that you are loved.

Unclench your fist and lay your hand on your heart. It’s all gonna be alright.

We love you.
❤️LG

“Are you waking up feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and insecure for no apparent reason?
A nagging knot in your gut, a panicked feeling rushing upside you, an unpleasant heat flushing your cheeks?
Yeah, well, you’re not alone.

The period from October 31-December 31 is the darkest time of the year, when the veil between Earth and the Spirit World is at its thinnest…

Forcing you to confront what your soul truly needs to thrive as we close out the year.

It’s a beautiful and natural process in our evolutionary spiral upwards. 

We’ve been sitting in this shadowy energy for a week and while it may feel a bit intense and uncomfortable now…

Just. You. Wait.”*

OR, or…

Is your Apple iwatch, with all of it’s good intentions disguised as motivational “nudges” feeling more like a relentless bully— or your mother? Here’s what I mean.

Breathe. (Uh, I am. I least I thought I was. I am watching Black Mirror so maybe I forgot.)

Time to stand Up. (I’m pooping, so no. And I’ve noticed your timing is a bit sinister. Do you have a hidden camera that I don’t know about?)

But my all-time favorite is: Close Your Rings. (I don’t know who set my rings, but if I find that sadistic triathelete—I will hide their spin-bike shoes and force-feed them carbs.

You’re usually further along by now. (I know! But today I’m sitting on a plane. I have a leg cramp, the guy next to me is Ebola patient zero, and I have to pee but my husband, who is seated next to me on the aisle, just fell asleep. But hey, thanks for the reminder—asshat.)

Keep it going. You did better yesterday. (Really? I did a lot of things better yesterday. Yesterday I made a pot roast, booked a mammogram, and shaved my legs. Yesterday will go down in the record books as a banner day. Not all days are as stellar as yesterday and life is full of disappointments so, back off—or I will cut you.)

Janet, you’re so close. A brisk 16 minute walk should do it. (Okay. I hiked 3.5 miles this morning. Up hill. With the dog. You can just kiss my ass you judgy fuck—no brisk walking will be happening for the rest of the day. Get over it. And don’t call me Janet like we’re friends or something.)

I know I seem testy but these motivational reminders are relentless. And irritating as hell, reminding me several times an hour what a dismal failure I am at standing, moving, even breathing!

I don’t know how you guys feel but I cannot express my feelings strongly enough.

You’re a damn watch! Mind. Your. Own. Business.
Nobody wants your special brand of “motivation”. And if you can’t say anything nice, how about if you don’t say anything at all!

Oh, and maybe for the next two months, you know, during these darkest of dark times, with the air already thick with anxiety, we should all ditch our iwatches—at least until we feel emotionally strong enough to fight back. 

Carry on,
xox

*From https://numerologist.com

“Who would be stupid enough to think that there’s such a thing as a pure race.”

SO important. Today more than most.

An Open World Begins With An Open Mind

Carry on,
xox

Today, while going through some old posts, I was reminded of this 2015 chant for peace—and the most beautiful Buddhist meditation/prayer for fear.

It is recited by Colleen Saidman Yee at the end of her yoga classes.
I just love it and I thought you would too.

Here are her words.

“It goes something like this: Sit down and notice where you hold your fear in your body.
Notice where it feels hard, and sit with it. In the middle of hardness is anger.

Go to the center of anger and you’ll usually come to sadness.
Stay with sadness until it turns to vulnerability.

Keep sitting with what comes up; the deeper you dig, the more tender you become.
Raw fear can open into the wide expanse of genuineness, compassion, gratitude, and expectancy in the present moment.

A tender heart appears naturally when you are able to stay present.

From your heart, you can see the true pigment of the sky. You can see the vibrant yellow of a sunflower and the deep blue of your daughter’s eyes.

A tender heart doesn’t block out rain clouds, or tears, or dying sunflowers.
Allow beauty and sadness to touch you.
This is love, not fear.”

Isn’t that beautiful you guys?
Happy weekend,
xox

Colleen’s new book:
Yoga for Life
A Journey to Inner Peace and Freedom

http://books.simonandschuster.com/Yoga-for-Life/Colleen-Saidman-Yee/9781476776781

https://youtu.be/g-jlQaYKN9M

This is a clip from the movie First Man which chronicles the life of astronaut Neil Armstrong in the years before he becomes the first man to walk on the moon. I saw it this weekend and this is one of the scenes that stuck with me because this is how I felt Saturday morning.

Spinning. Wildly. Uncontrollably. Completely untethered.

That’s a thing for me. I hate feeling out-of-control. And I hate it even more when the world feels like it’s lost its mooring.

Another mass shooting. An antisemitic hate crime. After a week of pipe-bomb mailings. When will it end?

All of my teachers and just about every spiritual book out there drives home the fact that “We cannot control the uncontrollable. We can only control our response.” Well, I want to go on record as saying that seems like the suckiest of all arrangements—and I’d like to speak to the manager.

If you’re too squeamish to watch the clip (and I don’t blame you) here’s what happens. It’s the 60’s. The infancy of our burgeoning space program. Gemini 8 is practicing docking with another vehicle in space. This is the dry-run these guys need to be able to leave the command module while it orbits the moon, go down to the surface, run around and gather rocks, and then re-dock with it and come back to earth. Piece of cake, right?

All goes well—until it doesn’t. You have to remember, all of this is unprecedented. It’s never been seen or done before.
Unprecedented. I know that word gets overused these days but I’m being deliberate when I use it here. Because when we’re observing things at a level we’ve never seen before—it feels pretty freaking out-of-control.

Okay, so our heroes have docked, and unexpectedly, the whole thing starts to spin. Like a carnival ride gone ape-shit. The revolutions (over 250 per minute) make it next to impossible to problem solve, let alone stay conscious.
And that’s the key.
Caught in this runaway spin cycle, these men have to maintain consciousness (through training and breathing) in order to gain control of an uncontrollable situation.

And that’s when it hit me!

Wait. Just. A. Minute. Here. (Insert foehead slap) I may be able to stop my own spinning! I have the training! I know about the breath and how it can calm down the “fight, flight or freeze” reaction my body has when everything seems out of control. The part I struggle with is staying conscious. And by conscious, I mean awake. Present. In the moment.

Just like those astronauts, a part of me wants to close my eyes and go to sleep. To slip away.

I want NASA, or Glennon Doyle, or somebody else much smarter than me to figure this shit out. I’m too busy spinning to be of any help, right? But I can’t, WE can’t lose consciousness. Not right now, it’s too important to stay awake. To breathe and remember our training.

We may not be able to stop the spin entirely, but we can’t slow it down at all—not if we go to sleep.

We can do hard things you guys. We trained for this. Let’s stay awake.

Carry on,
xox

I’m someone who likes transitions. At least I like to acknowledge that they exist. 
Beginnings, endings, even milestones.

Like a big birthday. Or that launch, manuscript, or presentation that finally finds its way from your imagination—into the “real” world. 

Those things are important. 
I think attention must be paid.
A glass of wine or some pink champagne perhaps?
We can probably all agree on that, right? 
Hell, you’re probably toasting that idea right now!

But what about the less exciting transitions? The ones that are more mundane? Not sexy at all?
Like, let’s say, returning from a vacation?

Do you give yourself a few days to rejoin the rat race, or are you more like me, committed to “hitting the ground running”?

I suppose the problem lies in the fact that I think I’m brilliant at cutting myself some slack. 

I might take a nap to circumvent all the bad decisions I’m about to make and blame on the jet lag. 
I may wait a day to get out of my pajamas. 
I may even leave the enormous pile of mail that is taunting me, unsorted (gasp) and unread (snort).

That’s just an ordinary act of self-care, right? Because, I mean that mail will do its best to kill me the first day back. Bills are staggered throughout the month for a reason. They are NOT meant to be handled all at once. That ‘s just cruel and inhumane.

Anyway, I may do all of those things—but I still feel like shit. Not only because I’ve had wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past week, but because the fucking guilt is eating away at me.

Is it really beyond me to cut myself a break and give myself the “soft landing” I deserve?
Apparently.

It’s a character flaw I must come to terms with. Something, that when corrected I can only assume will add to my quality of life. But it’s gonna be uncomfortable, I’m not gonna lie. 

Turns out I do this to my post-surgical self too.

I went to a Oprah event with my sister (a commitment I made months in advance) three days after I said adios to my uterus. There may have been a ton of eye-rolling while I argued my case while everyone in my circle advised me not to go.
“What else am I gonna do all day, sit around? I declared. “I may as well sit in the same air that Oprah is breathing. It probably has healing properties!” (I know, strong argument.) 

So, against everybody’s better judgement, I showered, did my hair and make-up, ignored the flop-sweat, pushed through the mind-numbing fatigue, gathered up whatever stamina reserves I had left, and schlepped my carved-up nether region to a full day of events at Royce Hall.

Then I died. Well, not really but it sure felt like it. And although I also felt like real a boss, pushing myself to get out and do that, it was not helpful to my recovery. And it left me no other choice than to land softly the following ten days.

So, why am I so resistant to “soft landings”?
I have no idea. I wish I did.

Maybe it was the way I was raised?
Past perfectionisty issues raising their ugly heads?
The fact that “things gotta get done and who else is gonna do ‘um?”

You know what I DO know for sure? I’m not alone in this affliction.
I was just chastising my BFF for not taking the time to let one thing end before she dove into the next. I think I may have even used the term “soft landing”. 

“Take some time for yourself to process things”, I said. “You need to rest and recover.”

Geez. Take much of your own advice, do ya?

Daylight savings time is ending soon and that always kicks my ass. I think I’ll take a nap.

Carry on,
xox