FIVE Months!

Last Sunday, while I was in Vegas for a wedding, I realized my wedding is only FIVE months away!  Where did the past five months go?!?  Wasn’t it last week that I said YES to my dress?!?  

This is not my dress.
but I LOVE IT!

For the past five months, I have been intensely focused on planning an inaugural fundraising gala, getting adjusted to my new promotion/position at work, and working on our new home.  Wedding planning has certainly been put on the back burner. Self-care has been sporadic at best and WORKING OUT???  My exercise routine has dwindled to twice a week resistance training, a walk to the mail box, and maybe some gardening.  My keto food prep has fluctuated between tossing a whole avocado in my purse to perfectly planned meals in measured portions.  There’s NO CONSISTENCY.  I admit it!

In February I wrote a blog about FAILURE and heading back to my trainer for, yet another come to Jesus meeting.  Every time we have these talk I say, “I don’t know what to do Rob!”  Oh, but I do! I know I needed to get back to my system, my routine, and my plan that works. I know what to do to be successful and I did it for about a month, until I got a new promotion and my stress level went through the roof!  BUT when I fall off my plan, I still sit at my desk and tell myself, “I just don’t know.”  

Years ago, in marriage therapy, my ex frequently said, “I don’t know.”  One day our jovial therapist, who wore a nicely fitted suit and tie with a pair of colorful Chuck Taylor’s every session, made deliberate eye contact with my ex and sternly said, “Sure you know.  ‘I don’t know’ is the lazy answer. You’re here to do the work. Come on, you know.” Let’s just take a beat — I need to think about this myself.

I am acting like I don’t know where the past five months have gone.  I know.  It hasn’t been all laziness, as much as it has been happiness and poor prioritization. Some of my girls and I talked about “happiness weight” and I would say that completely applies.  Movie nights with pizza and Tito’s.  Sleeping in because he’s home on a Saturday, instead of getting up and walking the trail. Going out to dinner. Making treats because he has a sweet tooth.  Well the difference is, his metabolism is still like it was in his twenties and mine is still sluggish and unforgiving – nothing has changed there! 

After some review of my plan, I am taking a page from my friend Jessica’s playbook aka the Vegas bride.  She is a sweetheart who used to teach Zumba and is still dedicated to her fitness regimen. For the 75 days leading up to her wedding, she posted a daily photo of her workout stats and used social media as her accountability.  There are 145 days until my wedding, so I will be posting daily on my blog and Instagram to stay on track.  Anyone with me on this?

The good thing is, I’m not trying to squeeze into my dress, it already fits! The best thing is, I am marrying a man who loves me just the way I am!

FUN! My Twenties

FUN: My Twenties 

Recently, a friend in her fifties asked me if I was having a difficult time with my upcoming birthday.  I would usually pop off with some quip about feeling young, but instead I said, “I am finally realizing my mom was always right when she would tell me, “relish life while you can young lady because once you hit my age it flies by.” I have clearly hit that age.

 

That same evening, I sat on my cozy couch in silence. No phone. No books.  No pen and paper. Not even BravoTV in the background.  Just me, my thoughts and my mother’s voice saying, “life is not a bowl full of cherries.” With my birthday on the horizon, I started thinking of how life changes and how we often think our life is over, when it hasn’t even begun.  If you believe Sex And The City (SATC), your twenties are to enjoy and twenty-somethings do just that, I know I did.  In my early twenties, I wanted to have fun, take little ownership for my decisions, and blame everyone but myself for my poor choices.  The catch all response to my parents was, “I’m in my TWENTIES!” or “All twenty-year olds do this.”  Raise your hand if these words came out of your mouth!

22 – My dad needed a ride and in my hungover state, I forgot there was vomit down the passenger side of me brand new car, because I let a sober 15 year old drive me home the night before, so I wouldn’t get a DUI.  I cannot type the words that came out of my dad’s mouth, but my response was DAD! I’m 21, I was just having fun!  Is this one just me? Okay then.

 

 

23-25 – I worked 8-5 Monday through Friday, but I kept “going out clothes” in my trunk, my back seat, and my floor board. I never knew when the work day would roll into happy hour, happy hour rolled into a night out or a date, and a night out rolled into greasy food at Denny’s at 2am and then back to work at 7:30am.  A girl needed a variety of clothing options at her fingertips. My sister would say, “you look homeless.” My explanation, “All twenty-year olds do this, I’m prepared.” 

 

 

27 – I put up with an unfaithful boyfriend because I couldn’t possibly live without him, because if I blamed HIM, I couldn’t  possible justify continuing to love him? Mom it’s my life I’m in my twenties, I’m not getting married or anything!  Now I KNOW damn well someone out there better be raising their hand. 

 

 

Although I enjoyed my twenties, I was not saved from the heartbreak and stupid decisions people thought were exclusive to Melrose Place and 90210. I have worked since I was 12 and at my job in my late twenties, I was a super star! I had 3 mentors at work, I called them the Witches of Wisdom.  The black witch, a 30 something with a mc’mansion, the white witch, a 40 something who let her assistant do everything while she catalog shopped, and the red witch, a flamboyant 50 something who zipped around in her convertible Mercedes sports car.  I thought they were my very own version of the Dynasty cast. 

 

 

One day I got a phone call from my sister and the news sent me into paralyzing heartbreak and uncontrollable loud sobs of agony – IN. THE. OFFICE.  After the witches gathered me from the bathroom floor they went into immediate damage control.  The white witch shoved her oversized Gucci sunglasses on my face to cover maybe one third of the mascara traveling down my cheeks; the red witch went into Olivia Pope mode and calmly spread the work that my best friend had died, and the black witch shoved me in her Lexus and got me away from the peering eyes of my concerned co-workers. Minutes later, I found myself on the couch at “the mc’mansion”  with a glass of wine and a Xanax, which I had never taken and had no idea what it did. My sobs became shallower, my temples pounded a little less, but the pain in my heart was irrepressible.  As the Xanax calmed my emotions, I felt like I was listening from somewhere above the chandelier.  I was detached from reality, because this could not be my life, this had to be a nightmare.  After hours of conversation and the witches of wisdom knew there was nothing, not even one thing they could say to lessen the agony of losing my first love.  Instead, these three women told me the lessons they believed I was supposed to learn in my twenties.  

 

1. Always make your own money.
2. Always keep your own bank account.
3. Always and I mean ALWAYS be with someone who loves you more than you love them.

So into my thirties I went, with a shattered heart, a handful of regrets, and armed with the wisdom of the witches.  

 

Friday Faith

 

I  often post #FridayFaith messages, from some of my favorites like @bishopjakes, @realjohngray, or @joelosteen, but today, I am posting a #FridayFaith of my own.  Just one girl’s take on my faith in God and how it pulled me kicking and screaming from a place of frustration and heartache to a “#RealNiceLife,” as Lanco would say.   

From about the third grade on, I felt really stupid in church.  I was forced to go to church with my older brother, who at 5 years older, was both my hero and my tormentor.  My older brother, was very active in youth groups and Bible studies, so by default everyone knew me too.  I was Ron’s annoying, younger sister, dressed to the nines every Sunday, who stood next to him with a hot chocolate in one hand and a donut in the other, dancing around to the upbeat hymns from the Powerhouse Baptist church across the street, until he ushered me into “big church.”   

I was too old to leave service to go to “little church” and too young to really grasp what was being discussed.  I didn’t vibe with the hymns because I had Elvis in my head from the day I was born. The pews were hard, the Bibles smelled funny, and I wasn’t allowed to sit in the upstairs balcony.  AND! I didn’t think it was fair that everyone got to go up front and drink grape juice, but my brother wouldn’t let me.  That’s fine thanks, I have an extra donut right here in my vintage clutch grams gave me anyway! Little did I know, this was not his rule and there were a whole bunch of other rules I didn’t understand.  It was all very confusing – but I kept going.

By my early twenties, I only attended when someone (usually my brother) sweet-talked me to fight through my hangover and stuff my swollen feet from a long Saturday night of dancing back into heels before 9am.  Still hated the hymns, still hated the pews, still had smelly Bibles, still couldn’t sit in the balcony unless he wanted to, and the best part of it was still the donuts! On one particularly horrific Sunday morning, after a long walk of shame, church was my destination.  I smoothed down my dress which smelled like cigarette smoke and if vodka had an odor, it would have definitely been offending the olfactory senses of the other parishioners. Yes, yes it was so long ago, you could still smoke in bars, but I did not partake.  I slid in to the pew next to my brother, late of course, he had his hands upturned, eyes closed proudly singing one of the hymns for which I had never learned the words.  I stood next to him swaying from exhaustion, but kept my eyes open, because if I closed them, my balance was gone.  Darn kamikaze shots.

The congregation was seated and I sincerely thanked Jesus for the opportunity to rest my body on the rock hard bench and relieve the pressure from my sausage-like feet stuffed into my stilettos.  The pastor talked and I listened; my brain was too fatigued to daydream in church, which was my norm.  I squeezed my brother’s khaki covered knee, “you told him I was coming didn’t you?”  My brother, “Nope,” he smiled and put his finger to his lips to silently shush me.  Story of my life! The pastor went on about Israelites, exile, pain, and purposes for their/our suffering, and how God has plans for us to prosper after adversity and bring us through it.  Again, story of my life!  I had been laid off, had been forced to move back to hometown hell, and was stuck nursing some pretty serious heartbreak.  After church, I said, “It’s like the pastor was talking to me.  I know you told him I was coming.”  My brother laughed and said, “Shell, he is always talking to you, you’re just a really really bad listener.” #TRUTH

Of course, I didn’t listen then either.

Fast forward a lifetime, when I found myself considering divorce, a career change, or driving off a cliff on a daily basis.  I was in a marriage I knew had long since reached its expiration date, in a job I enjoyed, but just wasn’t me, and out of the blue, in July of 2015, I was devastated by a car accident that caused me to have spine surgery in February of 2016.   I felt like the Israelites and I were homies.  Exile. Pain. Suffering. Heartache.

Something needed to change. 

Tuesday February 2, 2016, I was on a gurney, drugged up on morphine and headed into a serious surgery when I was suddenly overcome with fear and anxiety. In that instance, I thought if my neurosurgeon even sneezes when he is operating, I could be paralyzed.  I mean he is human.  Humans make mistakes.  As my family was walking away, I lost it.  I had maybe the third panic attack of my life and no amount of morphine, Xanax, or coaxing was going to get me to go into that operating room. I remember my family rushing back as they heard my commotion and the OR nurse and anesthesiologist saying something to me with a syringe in his hand.  Thought about my dad, my grams, and my best friend who had passed, wondered if I would be seeing them again sooner than expected. Thought about my marriage. Thought about my first love.  Then thought about my older brother and how I wished he was there to reassure me with a prayer.   I got cold and that was all I remember.

When I woke up from surgery about 8 hours later, I was surrounded by flowers and few people, the room was pretty quiet.  BUT I was awake!  I was alive and I thought, hmmm maybe my 70 years in Babylon is over.  I went home 4 days later, with a pain that I had never felt and realized, NOPE, God still had some things to teach me and honey you are still in Babylon, but there is hope, faith, and a plan.  Time to listen.

Failure – My Least Favorite F-Word

 

Failure!  Now THERE’S an F-Word for ya!

FAILURE is my least favorite F-word, because I was raised to believe failure was not an option and yet, I have a long, not so proud list of failures.  Let’s take for example, my college Statistics Class! I mean who understands probabilities, samples, (we aren’t talking Costco samples people), populations…I mean I get lost in the complicated word questions! Example:

In one city, 52% of your girls are lightweights and can’t start with mimosas at 10am brunch, while in another city, 48% move easily from mimosas at brunch to shots before dinner. In a second state, 47% of the voters are Republicans, and 53% are Democrats. Suppose a simple random sample of 100 voters are surveyed from each state… wait I thought we were talking about drinking in cities, not voting in states!?  What is the probability that the survey will show a greater percentage of Republican voters, will pay your brunch bill?

 

Exactly – makes no sense to me either! Now, in my forties, I still don’t understand statistics, but I have learned that failure is a very real option and frequent occurrence. Failure is about taking a risk and incremental growth.  Every failure on my not so distinguished list of missteps has offered me a pearl or two of wisdom. I have stepped off the edge and failed at: Marriage. Love. Friendships. Careers. Communication. Fidelity – if you asked one or two of my exes. Marriage counseling. Finishing my degree. AND maintaining my Health and Fitness probably more times than all of the others combined. 

My weight has yo-yoed since my age was in the single digits, but I have seldom allowed that to impact my moods or lifestyle.  Long before the body positive movement, I was shopping in the hefty-sized kids clothes at Sears, all about that bass, rockin’ my curves, and making the best of my life. As I got older, I was spared the humiliation of having to wear the bare bones selection of “old-lady” styled tunic tops, polyester, gabardine, and stretch fabric pieces that were on blue light special at the K-Mart (no one else in our small town carried fat clothes), because my Gram was an accomplished seamstress and made me gorgeous, fashionable, and quality clothes spring, summer, and fall.

While mom and Gram were doing what most parents do, bolstering confidence and coaching a child through the tough times, failure was still not ok, so when I actually effed something up, it made for a tough fall.  One of the toughest failures to stomach this year was showing back up to my amazing trainer after I had gained every bit of my weight back… and then some!  

In January of this year, I made an appointment with Coach Rob and did the walk of shame into Ft. Washington Fitness for my first session a.k.a. “come to Jesus meeting.”  I failed again! The most frustrating thing is, I know why I failed.  I had a system, a routine, and a plan that worked. I know what to do to be successful.  Nonetheless, here I am starting over, working my plan, and swallowing my pride; THANK GOD pride doesn’t have any calories, because I would be way over on my daily intake.