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“Good decisions come from experience. Experience comes from making bad decisions.”
~Mark Twain

Bad Decision Insurance was a bright idea I had recently while:
(1) daydreaming instead of writing,
(2) eating a giant mound of whipped cream with a slab of pumpkin pie under it for breakfast,
(3) While wearing camo leggings, no bra, and a bold, Amy Winehouse level swoop of black eyeliner over each eye—in broad daylight.

And while I have to admit that these harmless bad-decision-misdemeanors would have spun my head around ten years ago, these days, I’m like, “Who am I killing?” and mostly the answer is, just your imaginary reputation as a fashion icon, so…

Don’t get me wrong, I KNOW that even though they make the best stories—if my life were a movie every bad decision would end up on the cutting room floor. I also KNOW that no matter how carefully I craft a persona to present to the world—who I really am  bleeds through.

And I would never be who I am without my horrible, awful, really bad decisions.

Nevertheless, the thought of being able to file a claim after making the shitiest calls in life, well, that gave this wicked heart of mine some rest.

Back in daydream mode, strolling around the virtual airplane-hanger-sized-warehouse where my bad decisions are stored, a couple of doozies came to mind:

I once jumped out of a second-story window, running barefoot after a lover’s car when I was old enough to know better. Any way you look at that decision—it sucked. And what I’ve come to know is true for split-second decisions like that — We only know it’s bad the minute we know it—and not one second sooner.

That being said, I would have totally filed a claim to soothe that walk of shame home. “Hello, Bad Decision Insurance Hotline? This is Janet, and oh, man, you’re never gonna believe what I did this time!”

And who can forget that time I re-signed a lease on a struggling business during the financial crisis instead of just calling it quits and closing?

                                                                                    Big mistake, HUGE.

Even the Bad Decision Insurance adjuster would have judged me on that one and everybody knows they are as neutral as Switzerland. “Are you sure?” the kind woman on the other end of the phone would have asked after a long and awkward silence. “Yep!” I would have replied with conviction (because wildly expensive bad decisions like that one come with a great legal team who argue their case for them).

They convince you up is down, day is night, and to turn left when every sign is pointing right.

What the fuck is up with that?

As I write this, two things come to mind. First, a company that insures against bad decisions would be a terrible idea. I mean, they would go broke in minutes.

And second, there would be no accountability. No consequences. Would I have learned as much if I knew I could get immediate compensation on the other side of dumb? If the blow had been softened would I have adjusted my behavior after both of those mistakes, vowing never to let them happen again?

Would you?

Just some of the things I’m wondering about these days.

Carry on,
Oh, and pass the pie.
xoxJB

Hello friends, 

It’s been a long time. So…what’s new?

Ha! I don’t know about you, but the past ten days have been, well, a shitshow, a fuckfest, a test for me.

How do I not eat everything I can lay my hands on?

How do I not let everyone and everything get on my last nerve? 

And tell me how, in the name of all that is holy and good in this world—How do I stay present—being “in” the moment, but not “of” it? 

Many of you have asked me to weigh in, to say a few words about “things”. Some have suggested it would be helpful for my “brand”. That because I have a blog with readers in over one hundred countries I’m considered an influencer and I’m therefore required to influence. 

Trust me, I have no brand unless you count Nestle Toll House—then that is my brand.

“If you decide to write something,” a few people said, “Please don’t be funny, now is not the time for humor!”

I get that.

I also get that I am not your girl. I am not someone who should be saying any words about “things”. Especially in a way that is meant to influence large groups of people to feel or think a certain way. That job goes to people waaaaay above my pay grade. 

I’m best at observing, hence, the name of this blog. 

So, in the midst of a continuing global pandemic, social unrest, and an attempted coup to overthrow my government by extremists inside my own country—after careful observation—I am of the opinion that besides holding the energy of the highest good, besides joining thousands of souls across the globe to meditate for peace—you will find me laying flat on my back with my feet raised into the air. This is what I can do.  Little ol’ me. 

I will do my part to hold up the sky.

But I need help, will you join me?

Carry on, 
xox JB

Dear Janet,
This is a letter from the most neglected thing in your home at the holidays (besides your legs, which go unshaved in December as a timesaving measure)—the back of your Christmas tree.

I mean, I know I face the street, and people really can’t see anything beyond the white lights as they walk by, but this year I feel pressed to complain about the meager amount and shall I say questionable (I’m being delicate) choice of ornaments you’ve chosen to hang (a better word might be, hide) back here.

But enough with decorum.

She can’t be serious, I thought to myself, when you hung that dumbass plastic snowman who’s supposed to also be a construction worker (clever. Not really) in what I consider a prime spot of pine tree real estate. But hey, I get it. I’m the BACK of the tree. What did I expect, the sparkly gold-flecked Buddha? The peacock with real feathers, or the man in the spaceship? Noooooo. Those are your favorites so they get to hang in the FRONT!

This is an almost seven-foot tree and you’ve hung a total of five ornaments back here. FIVE!

To say it looks sparse would be like saying water is wet.

If a mullet says business in the front, party in the back, then this tree is an example of a mullet in reverse. We can hear the party happening in the front while back here it’s crickets. And I’ll tell ya why.

The ornaments you’ve relegated to this “no man’s land,” this great forgotten evergreen expanse, are either ones you’ve been gifted and don’t give a rat’s ass about—or they’re broken. Take for example the beloved ice skater from your childhood who had the misfortune of losing a leg in the Great Tragic Vacuum Cleaner Incident of 2011 (perpetrated by your blind housekeeper Maria—whose coke bottle glasses should read: Objects are closer than they appear).

Anyway, she—the skater, not Maria—let us all know in the first five seconds that she used to reign over one of the coveted front and center spots on the tree, but now things have changed. My how the mighty have fallen (literally) and so we all (the other four misfits and myself) we have to listen to her go on and on about her freaking triple Axel, the morally bankrupt Russian judges who couldn’t recognize real talent if it skated up their skirts—and how unfair her life has become!

Oh, I’m sorry. Has your privileged life as an imaginary elite athlete in a wildly expensive sport taken a turn, sweetie? Tell your troubles to Jesus! I’m dying! I was cut down in my prime so you could hang here and complain all the live-long day!

Listen, Janet, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, judgey, and bitter—but I am, so deal with it. It’s Christmastime. Shit gets real. And the backside of trees, we have feelings too.

That’s all. I guess I just needed to vent. Hey, is that Celine Dion singing Silent Night? I LOVE that song! I have to say, I’m feeling so much better!

Merry Christmas everybody!

Carry on,
Xox

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Hey there, and happy December, otherwise known as the last month of 2020 fuckery—and the portal to some other dimension.

I spent Thursday morning on the phone with the bank which for me is tantamount to a root canal without Novocaine.

To be completely transparent, I was on the offense when I started the call. You see, SOMEONE had made a big mistake, making overdraft transfers to cover two checks paid out of an account that had carried a balance of $2 in it for like, ever.

Just for context, that account has been dead to me for years.

It was from days of yore, from an old life when I was fancy and moved money around from account to account because that’s what I was taught you do with money— you move it around. You have the bill paying money, money saved for Europe, money set aside for property taxes.

You get the gist, blah, blah, blah, never mind, it is what it is.

Anyway, there it sat that ancient account, out of sight, out of mind. Occasionally, with its staggering $2 balance, I could feel its audacious Judgy McJudgerson attitude toward me—slow-blinking its disapproval at the mundaneness of my current life. So I just ignored it, like it didn’t exist.
Except it did.

In a parallel universe where I go by the name I had before I got married! A universe where I have literally $2 in my account, but I still have checks so I write them out of phantom checkbook books that aren’t real and haven’t been for twenty years!

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

If you’re at all like me (and I know you are) not only have you spent 2020 baking too many cookies, you’ve also Hazeled the shit out of your respective domiciles because let’s face it—you didn’t have anything better to do.
The one drawer I never got to was the one that houses my outstanding bills and my checks. It is seldom used because… it’s the twenty-first century and most of my banking is done online. And since my house is as old as the lint in Noah’s navel and because that drawer is so ridiculously deep it can’t be used for anything you don’t want to send a search party after—I have organized it in a way only I understand.

The newer used checks live in an open box in the front. Duh.

The older used ones exist in the middle. A metaphor for life.

Boxes of new unused checks line the sides of the drawer. And I have to tell you, they do it in the most embarrassingly satisfying way that it leaves me breathless. It’s like the drawer was made for them! There they sit, perfectly fitted pieces of a deep-drawer-puzzle. If I ever finish a box and have to throw it away I will probably panic and have to seek professional help. (That last part, that is called forshadowing).

That brings me to the checks I take photos of for mobile deposits. Those buggers are free-range, loose and unencumbered, inhabiting the dark unreachable recesses of the back of the drawer. (Have I mentioned that the back of the drawer resides in a different zip code? It does. Don’t challenge me on that.)
Folded in half and left to their own devices, the mobile deposited checks wander this bad neighborhood like pirates and I only mention this because I’m convinced that at some point this year when I was busy not living my life—they managed to open a portal to another dimension thereby sabotaging the check drawer.

Here’s what happened: The nice lady from the bank insisted that those two checks were written from an old account.

I insisted, using all the best adjectives, that that was impossible.

She read the numbers on the bottom to me and asked me very nicely to match them to the ones in my checkbook.

I mumbled obscenities, went and found my checkbook, and just about died when I saw the name at the top (see picture above) because that is not my name and it hasn’t been for twenty years!

Then I ran, like a hobble-footed, older woman wearing shearling Birkenstock sandals, a gazelle, over to that check drawer to somehow prove to Belinda (the nice bank lady’s name was Belinda) and myself, that something supernatural was afoot because even though I was holding a book of time-traveling checks in my hand—they couldn’t possibly exist.

Belinda was gracious in that way mamas teach their kids to be in the mid-west. And Canada.

She hardly laughed at all as I proceeded to toss that sinister, trouble maker of a checkbook back into the drawer while pawing through boxes to look for accomplices. But things took a turn when she asked me the simple question, “Do you want to close that account?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then can you tell me if there are any other checks that need to clear, or was it just those two?”

“I can’t imagine, but lemme look.”

“No problem.”

But there was a problem. As hard as I looked I could NOT find that phantom twenty-year-old checkbook!

“You’ve gotta fucking be kidding me!” I said, pulling the drawer all the way out of the wall, tipping it upside down, and spreading it’s contents onto the floor with my foot.

“Pardon?”

“Oh nothing, its just…I can’t seem to find that book…”

“But you just had it.”

“Right. I did. Didn’t I? I mean, shit, am I going crazy?”

“Noooooo…you’re not crazy,” Belinda replied unconvincingly, folowed by a long, uncomfortable pause. Then finally, “It is 2020, who isn’t a little crazy?”

Poor, sweet, Belinda. Now she was so far down my rabbit hole she was pretending I was sane so I wouldn’t feel bad. I hoped for her sake she wasn’t moonlighting as an actress—because she sucked. Bless her heart.

I spent the rest of the afternoon shredding things that should have been shredded years ago, and finding things I didn’t know were lost. Like an old silver dollar, an address book from 1999, and ticket stubs from a museum in Italy.

But still no checkbook. It has literally vanished. If you can explain that to me I’ll buy you a puppy.

Carry on,
xox JB

I did the unimaginable this week. I went back to calling friends and opening with a greeting that in 2020 has become fraught with peril. ”How are you?” 

Back in the early days of the pandemic, when we were all struggling with securing Clorox wipes, toilet paper, and a bag big enough to scream our dread into; I was warned off inquiring how someone was by a friend who went nutballs when I asked her.

“Hey, how are you?” I asked her on a call in April. I think it was April. It may have been May since many months this year were seven hundred days long and seem like another century ago to me now so I’ll have to ask you to cut me some slack on the timeline.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that!” She clapped back. 

“Mmmmmmkay… what should I have said?” I wasn’t being cheeky, I really wanted to know. 

“Unless you want people to unleash the Kraken of Doom on you, you really shouldn’t ask that. Besides, it’s just a line, nobody, in the history of humanity has ever wanted a real, honest answer to that question!” She paused long to chew out her cat for being an asshole. I waited. “Where were we? Oh yeah, Covid has given us all permission to ditch being polite and you know, vomit our insecurities all over the place.”

“Got it,” I answered, considering myself lucky for her tutelage on such a delicate topic. “So… what do you say?” 

“I dunno, when I ask, which I don’t because my heart can’t take it, I say something like, Still holding up okay? Which is code for, I’m barely hanging on so let’s cry together.”

Duly. Noted.

Another acquaintance of mine started a call with, “What am I interrupting?” Which in the early days felt mildly confrontational. Like she assumed I was being so productive with my new surplus of unscheduled time (along with everyone on Instagram) that I could be so busy as to be interrupted. 

“Just another puzzle,” or, “Not much, just my second batch of chocolate chip cookies, because I ate the first one myself,” never seemed like pursuits that were interruptible. Also, and this still applies, don’t ask moms that question. They. Will. Hurt. You.

Anyway, I admit, I was so afraid of making a mistake and saying something wrong that I avoided calling at all. I resorted to texting which is dry and impersonal as hell in a year when all we need is real connection.

Gahhhhhhhhh……..

In retrospect, here’s a real nugget of wisdom I gained in this year of valuable lessons learned on Earth 2.0. 

The question How are you? Is no longer perfunctory and the answer “Fine” is neither expected nor accepted. 

We used to be able to say it and get on to the next thing but nobody is fine after this year. At least not in the old sense of the word. Fine had become an unconscious, gross oversimplification and if 2020 has taught us anything it’s that we are waaaaay too complicated for such an inadequate word. 

We are nine months into this pandemic/financial whatthefuckery y’all, and I for one have gestated out of being afraid of feelings—whether they’re pouring out of the other end of the phone or I’m having them face-to-face on a Zoom call. I’m tired of avoiding the obvious. “We can do the hard things,” the wise words of Glennon Doyle keep reminding me.   

I am one of the fortunate. I have survived pretty good so far. 

So, I will ask you how you are because I can. And you can bite my head off and tell me how completely miserable you feel— and I will still listen. And then we’ll laugh at the unending absurdities of life and cry at the injustices. And before I hang up I’ll remind you — just like I do myself at least a thousand times a day— that there will be happier times ahead.  

At the beginning of World War II Emily Post, the woman American’s looked to for how to behave, advised her predominately female readers NOT to write frivolous letters to their boyfriends who were away fighting the war. “You shouldn’t bother them with the trivial,” she admonished. But as the war dragged on she changed her directive, telling the young women that hearing their name called at ‘mail call’ and reading the loving words from home was the morale booster these young men needed. 

Which got me to thinking, maybe the kindest gesture is that we reached out at all. So, as scary as it may be, call anyway. 

Carry on,

xox JB

“Our rituals demand that we give what we hope to receive.” ~ Oprah

Here we are, the day before the BIG DAY.

I’ve been wanting to write to you guys for days. Every morning I’d wake up and take the emotional temperature of the world, and every morning the answer was, not today.  But me being me, I’d still sit down and start a draft, you know, for later, and when the words wouldn’t come I’d finally give up, only to start another day.

I wanted to make you laugh, but nothing seemed funny.

I wanted to make you think, but then I remembered that your brain is probably as exhausted as mine so…no.

I wanted to vent, and rail, and do all of the things but we have cable news and the Twitter for that.

Most of all I wanted to give you some comfort because lord knows that’s what I need.

The list is short of the people I trust to have the steadiness and personal integrity for me to just hand over my anxiety-ridden self over to them for comfort. Oprah has proven herself to be one of those people. We are about the same age and I feel like we kinda grew up together. We read all the same books, loved all the same movies, and started talking about our spirituality at about the same time.

Oprah is my boo, she just doesn’t know it. 

That being said, of course she’s doing the exact thing I need her to do to comfort me (second only to a foot massage) a FREE prayer/meditation call later today for the soul of our country. It starts at 8PM Eastern — 5PM Pacific, and I knew right when I saw the invite on Instagram that THIS was exactly what I was waiting to send out today. Hope. 

The link to register is here:

zoomwithoprah.com

A short conversation with her good friend Glennon about her objectives for the call is here:

Glennon Doyle on Instagram: “Tomorrow is one of the most important days in our nation’s history. Anxiety and tension are at an all-time high.   People of conscience,…”

You guys, all weekend I participated in global meditations and when I went to bed last night the one thing I knew for sure was that LOVE conquers fear—and that the entire world has our back. YOU are rooting for us to not only succeed, but to triumph. 

And so I’m asking you, my readers from all over the globe, in the most humbled and grateful way I know how, to hold us in your hearts tomorrow. We need you.

Thank you and carry on,

xoxJB

“How we go into that day (election day) will determine how we come out of that day.” ~Glennon Doyle

Good Morning!

• Bronwyn’s Bio: For over fifteen years, Bronwyn has helped high-profile clients prepare for big moments on camera (American Idol, Real Time with Bill Maher, Bloomberg TV, CNBC’s Power Lunch, The Oprah Winfrey Show, the Home Shopping Network), and has midwifed over 120 TEDx, TED Global, and TED talks. Bronwyn’s superpower is helping people communicate in a way that breaks through the static of our everyday lives. In 20 Minutes with Bronwyn, you will get a steady dose of high voltage, practical (and highly irreverent) advice to help you dismantle the communication habits that are holding you back while giving you the skills you need to shine.

                 “You get to choose what you focus on, so choose wisely because what you focus on gets stronger.”

The above is a quote I have hanging in my office. Since it’s located right in front of my face, I read it every day. I’m not sure of the origin except to say it was probably said by someone who had regular, heated debates with God.

Ruby and I were both in good spirits yesterday morning, which I must mention here is an anomaly (one of us named Ruby is frequently foul, full of unspecific discontent and pandemic-driven angst) as we set off on our daily walk. The pace was just this side of a trot, much brisker than normal since she had a hard deadline—if she wanted to go to work with her dad (and who doesn’t?) she had to be back at the house by 8:30 SHARP.

It was gonna be tight.

If you can imagine dogs and sixty-plus-year-old women skipping, then imagine us smiling broadly as we skipped away. Buoyed by all of the morning cheer, I decided to forgo my recent commitment to listen to only uplifting podcasts in the morning, one I’d made to myself in the past several weeks in order to save my sanity. The polarization, civil unrest and police shootings had me on edge.

But yesterday I felt strong, like my psyche could handle it. I was sure nothing could rattle me. 

I was well-rested, fully oxygenated by the cardio, and what the hell, one little podcast on the imminent fall of our democracy wasn’t going to kill me. So I hit ‘play’ on something political.

The thing is, in all of my giddiness I forgot about my energy. About attraction. I forgot about all of that and…the full moon.

A large section of one of the towering eucalyptus trees that line the dirt path we walk everyday, broke free last week, thundering to the ground and partially blocking all of us dog parents and our canine kids who are happily running around off-leash. With just a hint of dew and a tinge of early-fall chilliness in the air, the smell of eucalyptus (which I LOVE) was particularly intoxicating. Inhaling deeply, I was filled with gratitude. An elusive emotion as of late, deep gratitude has been playing hide-n-seek with me for months.

I’m sure you can relate. 

These early morning walks in nature with Ruby have always been one of the bright spots of my day, but now, more than ever, I make an effort to really sink into appreciating every little thing. Every smell, every random heart-shaped stone that appears, the graceful way the white egrets saunter like runway models at the water’s edge, and the ever-present wooden wishbones the universe leaves scattered in the dirt for me as a sign to believe that—although it seems like proof to the contrary abounds—all is well. 

For some unknown reason the path, which is usually packed with Ruby’s friends, was uncharacteristically dog-free yesterday. Alone on the fallen eucalyptus section and lost in my podcast, I was startled to come upon a young woman nearly hidden by the fallen leaves and branches. Ruby hadn’t paid her one iota of attention, running past her, squeaking her ball the entire time, and I would have missed her too, except for the fact that she was wearing a stunning red dress and holding an enormous mirror just inches from her face, staring intently at her own reflection. 

“Good morning!” I chirped cheerily, stepping over the eucalyptus debris, trying to act like it was the most natural thing in the world to happen upon a woman in the wild with a mirror.  

She was oblivious. I moved on. 

Sometimes, the homeless spend the night surrounded by soft dirt, wild flowers and eucalyptus giants, but they don’t tend to appreciate nosey, free-range pooches getting into their business (and who can blame them) so they’re usually gone by the time the sun comes up. Besides, she looked to me to be more like a full-moon-inspired performance artist than a homeless woman. 

                                                                                     Oh, right, it’s a full moon…

“Trump is inciting violence. He wants a civil war!” the voice in my ear warned. The thought of that made me shiver. How had things gotten so bad? Everyone’s chosen a side and is dug in so deep it’s hard for me to imagine a way out. I felt my jaw tighten and I should have taken that as a sign to switch to music—but I didn’t. I inhaled more of the eucalyptus and went on my way. Ruby, now a good thirty feet ahead of me, was taking time to investigate particularly interesting scents left by the wild animals who traverse this dirt freeway every night. Since we didn’t have a lot of time I let her run farther ahead than usual. Besides, with the exception of red-dress-mirror-lady and one lone figure walking toward us—we were alone. The figure was too far in the distance to see their face so I looked for their dog. I’m ashamed to say I don’t know many of the owners by name—but I can recognize Elvis, Cowboy, Paco, Trudie, Ollie, and Hank a mile away. 

Not a dog in sight.

The man, middle-aged, in shorts and a black t-shirt, looked to be hugging the chain-link fence that runs from east to west above the water. I’ve seen that body language before. It’s never a good sign. It means they’re scared of dogs.

“Ruby!” I yelled. She stopped and turned around, her jaw locking down on the ball, causing it to scream bloody murder. I was determined to get the leash on her before the man got any closer but I was too late. He reached her first. Bending down he picked up a large stick. Instantly delighted and figuring he was up for a game of fetch, she dropped her ball and trotted toward him. Not sure if fetch was his intention, I picked up my pace, just shy of a run.

“Ruby, come!” I called. That’s when I got a clear glimpse of him. If fear had a face it was his. And I’ve witnessed that when some men feel fear it shows up disguised as rage. He doesn’t want to play fetch, I thought, nearly peeing my pants. 

“They want to divide us! Make Americans who disagree with them the enemy!” I yanked the single earbud spewing the hateful rhetoric out of my ear and smiled at the man, only I was wearing a mask so he couldn’t read my face. I would like to complain about, this but now is not the time.

He lunged at Ruby with the stick. “Keep your fucking dog away from me!” he screamed. “I’ll beat her in the head with this if she gets any closer!” He was militant, enraged. I believed him.

“No worries,” I said, summoning every ounce of calm I had in reserve. “She won’t hurt you, she’s just curious.” Clumsily, with shaking hands, I clipped on her leash and pulled her close. While I was bent down, he took that opportunity to hit me on the arm with his stick. Not hard. Just enough to get my attention.

“Hey!” I shouted reflexively, my own rage bubbling just below the surface. But I knew better than to escalate things with a crazed man holding a weapon so I backed away. 

                                                                                    What you focus on gets stronger.

“No one wants to hurt you,” I said, attempting to move slowly in the opposite direction. 

“I’m gonna hurt YOU!” he screamed, suddenly inches from my face. “Get your fucking dog away from me!” Before I could blink he raised the stick over his head and brought it down to hit me, stopping just short of making contact. I stood still, shooting daggers at him from behind my mirrored sunglasses. My feet grew roots. I knew what to do in the presence of a wild animal, especially one you’ve inadvertently pissed off by breathing the same air. You defuse the threat. You play dead.

Ruby just sat there squeaking her damn ball, she was reading MY energy so I stayed calm because I’ve seen her when she thinks I’m being threatened—it’s all bark but not a lot of bite. And this guy wasn’t above hurting her. As a matter of fact, he was angling for it. 

I counted in my head, One Mississippi… two Mississippi… three Mississippi.  

“Sorry about that,” I said and took off toward the silhouettes of three dogs and their owners in the distance.

Yelling a string of obscenities, he walked away, still hugging the fence. Right about the time my pulse was returning to something survivable we passed the woman with the mirror. Figuring she must have witnessed the tirade I decided to make light of it.

“Crazy full moon energy,” I said to her as we passed.

She was oblivious. Lost in her own reflection. So…far…through…the looking glass.

And for a quick second, I envied her. What a luxury that must be.

Stay safe out there & Carry on,

xox

“I have been so mean to my body, outright hateful. I disparage her and call her names. I loathe parts of her and withhold care. I insist on physical standards she can never reach, for that is not how she is made, but I detest her weakness for not pulling it off. No matter what she accomplishes, I’m never happy with her.”

~Jen Hatmaker Fierce, Free and Full of Love

In the ‘before time’, right before Covid hit, I was listening to Jen Hatmaker’s book while on my morning walks with Ruby, our six-year-old boxer who, ironically enough, has the body confidence of a super-model. Most of the book had me laughing. Other parts had me shaking my fist at Audible and the fact that I couldn’t dogear a particular page or highlight every other paragraph with yellow marker. 

Like the one above. 

This one stopped me in my tracks. It had me fumbling to hit rewind while juggling a bag full of poop at the same time eliciting deep unexpected sobs of recognition—in public. 

If you’d asked me about body image a week earlier I’d have told you mine was pretty good. And then I heard Jen struggle with her own emotions while reading her very vulnerable admissions without choking on her own snot. Seriously. She did a far better job at keeping the full-blown ugly crying at bay than I did. 

I too had been hateful. 

I’d set unattainable standards.

I’d done all of the shitty stuff you can do to a body and as I’ve aged, I may be guilty of cranking up the volume on the insults. 

Crepy skin, burgeoning neck waddle, old lady pillow tummy, ugh, HOW IS THIS MY BODY?  

The five stages of grief were quickly setting in.

Denial— (Catches own reflection in storefront window) That’s not me, it can’t be. That’s my mother! 

Anger— (Age spots appear as if by magic) Seriously? You’ve GOT to be kidding me!

Bargaining— If I drink the celery juice can I eat nothing but carbs on the weekends?

Depression— I feel bad about my boobs which are now a pair of 38 longs.

But I hadn’t quite gotten to the acceptance stage. Until I heard the words she wrote. THAT changed everything for me.

I apologized to my body. Profusely. Every morning and every night. 

I saw her for what she was, my ally, not my enemy. 

I looked at all the evidence and discovered she has ONLY ever had my best interests at heart. 

So, I started to lavish her with praise and compliments and love. After a while, it became a habit.

Then the pandemic hit and being over sixty I was considered to be at higher risk of complications so I upped my little ritual to include extreme gratitude for my continued good health. 

Every morning when I woke up, I’d thank her for her stamina on the hikes, her cheerful disposition in the face of looming uncertainty, and her strong immune system. And as the Covid numbers in Los Angles rose, I assured her that even if she caught it, I wouldn’t hold it against her, on the contrary, we would fight it together and she would be fine. 

It reminded me of experiments researchers have done with water and plants, the ones where they verbally abuse them or shower them with praise —and then study the results—which are astounding.

https://yayyayskitchen.com/2017/02/02/30-days-of-love-hate-and-indifference-rice-and-water-experiment-1/

The ones that are praised, thrive, while the ones that are subjected to hateful speech/emotions, literally wither and die.

Which brings me to yesterday and my fall down the stairs. 

Well, I didn’t so much fall, as get pulled by Ruby down the flight of concrete steps that lead to her daily free-range walk. To be fair, she’d spotted a discarded half-eaten cheese sandwich at the bottom, and who among us hasn’t lost their mind and sprinted toward cheese? Nevertheless, it happened too fast to even let go of the leash so I was knocked on my ass and pulled down the entire flight of stairs on my back until I managed to get her to stop—by yelling STOP at the top of my lungs. I know it was loud because it echoed back up the stairs and out onto the street before waking the dead. 

Lying there in a heap, I assessed the damage. Ankle twisted, elbows, ass and back bruised and battered, but eventually, I was able to get up and walk —which I took as a good sign. Reflexively, I thanked my body for not breaking a hip or anything else for that matter and went on with my day. But as the hours passed, a deep soreness set in. At about seven in the evening I felt as if I’d been hit by a caravan of trucks carrying elephants. “Wait until tomorrow,” my husband warned, handing me the Motrin. “The next day is the worst.” Later, in bed, I tried not to move a muscle, lest I scream and wake the dog. 

“You’ve got this,” I told her, lying there together in the dark.  “Nothing is broken, which in itself is a miracle because YOU ARE A BEAST! You’re sixty-fucking-two and you fell down a flight of concrete stairs and barely missed a beat! You ROCK!” I tried to shift position and moaned. Everything hurt. Even my hair.

“I will take care of you,” I reassured her. “If you need bed rest, I will make sure you get it. If you need CBD rub or Motrin at regular intervals, you can count on me. We are in this together because I love you—now go to sleep!”

“How do you feel?” my husband asked me this morning as I wandered out for coffee and a hug. His face was a twisted grimace, bracing for the worst. “Actually, I’m fine,” I said, twisting and turning to prove my point. 

And I am. Fine. No aches, no pains, no bruises of any kind to speak of. I give all of the credit to my body and our recently renewed love affair. 

Not a big story, not life or death, but proof to me just the same that Love really does work miracles y’all. 

Carry on,
xox

https://youtu.be/WA4dDs0T7sM

“You’re an interesting species, an interesting mix. You’re capable of such beautiful dreams and such horrible nightmares. You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone—only you’re not. See, in all our searching the only thing that we’ve found that makes the emptiness bearable is each other.”
~ From the movie Contact

When I watched this video last week I wept. Like it was the ugly cry, you guys. Because, after six months of watching the planet battle this pandemic, I’d forgotten.

I’d forgotten our greatness.
I’d forgotten our humanness, our drive and indomitable spirit.
I’d forgotten what hope feels like.
I could only see the horrible nightmare, becoming completely oblivious to the beautiful dream.

This minute and a half helped me to remember. To revel in the time before which seems so distant now, and to know for certain that because of WHO WE ARE— this incredible collective of diverse and remarkable human beings, that there are better days ahead for ALL of us.

And I figured that maybe like me, you might need a little reminder of what’s ahead.

Moments of time strung together minute by minute that will be so incredible they seem impossible to imagine.

Just like the ones in this stunning video

We ARE an interesting species, Capable of SO much.
Because nothing can stop what we can do together!

Carry on,
xox JB