25 years. My husband and I have been married 25 years today! I don’t know how we got here. I mean, I do but I don’t.
In our newlywed years, we never doubted our “together foreverness.” We were young and in love. We couldn’t imagine anything derailing that. We were a love-at-first-sight couple and our wedding was one fun party. So, we just figured we were one of those couples with a bullet-proof marriage. But, as our marriage grew in age, we began to witness the separations and subsequent divorces of friends. A few of them were not surprises – to them or us. However, more often than not one of the two spouses was completely blindsided by the split. You’ve heard it, too. Cue a random Tuesday in July. She comes home from work like she always does, tells him that she isn’t happy, that she hasn’t been happy in years and that she is leaving. They had just spent the weekend together having dinner with friends, doing yard work, watching a movie. Everything seemed fine. She seemed fine. He is completely blindsided. And this is a terrible situation because the spouse that has been unhappy for years has been molding this moment in her mind for a long time. She is prepared. But for the spouse that is blindsided, this is devastating. He’s had no preparation, no chance to see it coming and now he’s desperate to work on saving his marriage and she’s already long gone – literally and figuratively. How’s that going to work in marriage counseling? It isn’t and it doesn’t.
As these marriages were falling like cards around us, Matt and I would continue to be shocked by the couples that were dissolving. We started to look at each other and acknowledge “If it could happen to them, then it could certainly happen to us.” I’m not talking infidelity, lawlessness, drug use, or some other “well, obviously” marriage dagger. Many of these couples were so like us. I understand that we can never really know what goes on behind closed doors, but several couples were as similar to us as I could ever imagine. So, yes, if it could happen to them, then it could certainly happen to us. Scary.
So, how did we get so lucky to be here together, 25 years later? The truth is, I don’t know! Seriously, I don’t have an answer. But, as I replayed those 25 years in my head, I kept returning to something that Matt and I have been practicing since we realized that divorce doesn’t discriminate. We check in with each other. It goes like this:
Hey, we’re good, right? We’re still good? Remember, we always say that if we are not good, we will say it and we will start the work to fix it. So, look me in the eye and tell me how you are.
This is not on a schedule. It doesn’t happen every Sunday at 4. It just happens every few weeks or months. If there’s been another heartbreak on a marriage train, then it’s going to happen more often because that’s scary. If life is flowing like a river, then it’s going to happen less often because that’s bliss. We just check in with each other. And we’ve been doing it ever since our first friend was blindsided.
Does this bulletproof our marriage? Nope. But, do you know what it does do? It allows us to live in a tiny fraction of uncertainty, comfortably. Marriage is uncertain. It might only be a very tiny bit of uncertainty, but it’s uncertain. And this is because no matter what vows we take, words we say, or acts we do for the other, we can never, ever be 100% certain that our marriage will last until death. We can’t. And the reason we can’t is that we can never know for certain what is actually happening inside of our spouse’s heart and mind. So no matter how much my husband does for me, says to me, or showers onto me, there will always be a small space of uncertainty because I can’t be in his mind and know his thoughts. It is in this space of uncertainty that I have to trust in us. I have to trust that his actions and words are true. Marriage is uncertain but uncertainty doesn’t have to equate to doubt.
We are currently raising teenagers. This has been our marriage’s greatest test and is the hardest thing we’ve ever done. By this point, we have been on our knees countless times. We have even been flat on the floor. And when there is as serious of an issue as a teen’s life at stake and the two of us are at odds as to the right plan of action, fissures form quickly in the marriage. We have had some terrifying marriage moments in the last five years. Checking in has been crucial. Because when one of us spoke these words “I’m actually not okay. We are not okay right now” for the very first time, we both cried a river. It was so, so painful. We had never answered the “Hey, we’re good, right?” question that way before. We were already struggling at parenting and now, one of us had pointed out that the marriage was in a brutal hailstorm. We almost didn’t know what to do. I think we looked at each other and said “Does this mean it’s over? Did we not make it??” I can laugh about it now, but we truly weren’t sure of the next steps or what it meant for our future.
Marriage is some hard, hard work. You have to check its pulse every so often. Give it some oxygen, or a nap, or a vacation. I think that’s how we got to these 25 years. We started asking “how are we doing?” and we learned to not fear the answers, however painful they might be.
Happy 25th Anniversary to my husband, Matt, who really does make my life sparkle like the sunshine. May we never be afraid to ask, and answer, the hard questions.
“Look me in the eye and tell me how you are.”
The Alan Parsons Project has always been a favorite of mine. Any time a song of theirs streams across Sirius, it’s shut-the-heck-up-in-the-cabin, people. Just listen. The “Eye in the Sky” alone bequeaths respect. But, also, is it weird that they have a song called “Sirius” that was released way back in 1982? You figure that out. Maybe ask your friend on your wrist. She’s likely to interject, but more than that, she’s likely to listen. She’ll weigh in on Tuesday, when you’re in the middle of something more important than her. She doesn’t care.
I really wasn’t sure I was going to return here. To this blog. I made this space. I worked hard to coordinate the blog name to the content. “Little Miss Sunshine” is a classic. Watch the movie if you haven’t. Many of my closest friends and relatives have followed my blog for the past 4 years. But, in spite of the support, Beautiful Olive really hasn’t kept up with the rush of society. Honestly, there’s probably a way to speak a blog into existence these days that would catapult Beautiful Olive into a space I can only imagine in my mind. Typing is yesterday. So is the written word. Same:Same. Better to video it. Tik Tok and ‘Gram go more places, faster. I really think I might be the last blogger to use real words. But you heard it here, last. LOL. Olive, stay the course, girlfriend.
Every year I get an email from BlueHost reminding me of my annual payment to reserve this blog space. This little corner of the interweb that nobody else can take from us. Unless I let it go. So, do you think I’m going to let somebody else take BeautifulOlive by not making my payment?! Nope. I paid up and I will continue to pay up. She is good for another year. And all the years until she isn’t. Nobody else will type words onto this space but me. Kinda scary. And it’s a triangle of the most inauspicious triangles. Hardly anybody knows we are here. But we are. In this little tiny corner.
Pause.
Like I said. I wasn’t sure I was going to return here. But, now that the children are growin’ up, where do we go from here??? I mainly came here today to tell you a few things that popped up in the last few days. And then, we will figure out where we go from here, now that the children are growin’ up.
1: As a 51-year old, I asked my therapist (I’m not sure she is actually my therapist…but she is delivering therapy to me, so…) well, where do I go from here? “Kerri. Anxiety and Excitement can be very similar in their presentation. It’s important to tease them out. For a long time, decisions were anxiety-provoking for you. Now, we will reframe them as Exciting.” Hmmm. That is something. And then she went on to delineate how Anxiety and Excitement elicit the same biological response in our bodies. It’s how we intercept the biology and respond to it that decides whether we label it Anxiety-Provoking or Exciting. Hmmm…psychology comes back around. I majored in her before I went to dental school.
2: Also, my therapist said “Kerri, for twenty years, you and your husband were responsible for your 3 little people. Your decisions affected them more than anyone else. But, guess what? They are almost all gone. Flown. On their own. 9 short months and ALL flown. Then, it’s just you and your husband again.” THAT gave me PAUSE. In a good way. (Cue the inset dialogue box – I don’t know how it got here on my blog and I don’t know how to get rid of it. Neither do the children)
Where do we go from here, now that all of the children are growin’ up?
Before I became a dentist, I was a writer, a lawyer-in-training, a philosopher, a statistician. I took stats, philosophy, biology, psychology of the brain, chemistry and western civ in undergrad. I was 19-21 years old.
All of the children are growin’ up. Where do we go from here?
I found a writing group online last week. Apparently, November is National Novel Writing Month. They have a challenge every November. I joined it. I will write 50,000 words and make a novel.
How long does it take to write 50,000 words if a person has another full-time job and other obligations? Who the heck knows? Nobody can tell me this. I just chose excitement over anxiety. I might write 80,000 words instead of 50,000. Or even 100,000. 80,000 is the average number of words in a novel these days. So, 50,000 might not do the trick. Or it will. Or 100,000 will be the Opus. or 150,000. Limits are annoying. Why would we want them? Bye-bye, Limits.
This writing challenge is not for anyone else but me. It’s not for the blog, vlog, tik tok, facebook, friends, family, sign post, convenience store, library book shelf or “Welcome to our State” sign or whatever other medium I forgot to list here. The words go out, but not in. I get to change, tweak, tear down and rebuild, before anyone else gets in there to do the same. THAT is a sandbox I haven’t built in before and I’m looking forward to that. That playground deserves my attention. #mysandbox
My therapist-not-a-therapist asked me WHERE I would write, now that the children are grown. I said “Well, I have a laptop, so, you know, I just go all over!” She said “NO. If you are going to be a writer, it’s time to act like, portray, behave like a writer. Where do you write? Where is your space?” And she smiled at me over the sorry-ass zoom camera on that fall Friday in October. To which I answered “Well, when you put it like that, our living room is a space we have named The Salon. We discuss things, talk, take care of each other and observe there. It’s a space where important ideas are exchanged. We don’t have TVs there. I have a desk in there and, right now, it houses the vinyl player and boxes. There is a random couch in our Salon that needs to move on, but I can change that.” She said “Yes. I want you to create that. You need it.” And I moved that Vinyl player. And the boxes and all that didn’t serve this writer. And I told that couch-owner to come get that couch or it was going to be donated. He should show up on Thursday or the couch will go to a new home. Because Thursday is trash day. I’m taking back a space I never knew existed. To sit down and embody someplace you never felt was purposeful is something. I’m not sure it has a name. It’s just a corner with a plant and a chair. In the Salon.
Where do we go from here, now that all of the children are growin’ up? (Look at that, I got rid of the inset…)
I wish I could tell you. But, I saw some things this week that broke my heart and moved me more to my center that has always been there, but was just ignored. Why are some called at 28, 38, 48, 58, away to the eye in the sky? Why do some get all the time in the world to build a thousand temples in the sand and others of us get just enough time to build a widget that sticks up a centimeter above the dirt before we are called back home? Why was I called to work on teeth – a concrete medium, with a relatively uniform roadmap – in an increasingly disjointed world? There aren’t even joints in teeth – did you know that? Nope.
I’ll see you in January. I’ll bring you an update. In the meantime, read back issues of Beautiful Olive. She has some things to say that are still relevant. The children are growin’ up. It’s time we did, too.
I never know when I’m going to write. I go months sometimes. If I try to force it, it never goes well. It’s as though there is a giant, stuffed hand in my face waving back and forth with a message: “This is not your day job, girlfriend. Let it UNFOLD. Go do root canals and come back tomorrow.” I’m never sure if that’s good advice or bad, but it seems counterproductive to argue with that damn hand, so I never do. But, today I heard these lyrics and then the words just showed up.
“I’m pretty sure
I don’t got a lot of time left now
If I want more
Then I’m gonna have to figure this out…
Change lanes
Change this game quick
Or remain in the same place
Fighting all the same shit”
These lyrics are from “Right Now” by the artist Nathan. I’ve never heard of Nathan before, but his song was in my “Riding Mix by Spotify” and I loved it when I heard it today. This song has got a great beat. You should give it a listen. The lyrics are a bit repetitive, but they’re powerful nonetheless.
It’s imperative that you note, I heard this song on my “Riding Mix“. I was riding a bike! For real! Which is what I want to talk to you about. I’ll get serious for a minute, then I’ll lighten it back up.
I’ve had a growing unease lately with my physical and mental self. It was so gradual, I didn’t even notice it at first. I’m 52. Everything is weird in your 50’s. It’s like being a teenager all over again, only in middle age. It’s so awkward. Some of the parts aren’t sure what they’re supposed to be doing and some of them are ready to give up (looking at you, knees and hips). Other parts are still 16 and wholesomely play that part until they land the entire body in the ER (um, shoulders…). Aging is a gradual thing and that is why Age is such a sneaky bastard.
More often than not, I wake at some point in the middle of the night. Sometimes, I go right back to sleep. Other times, deep conversations play out in my mind. One conversation plays on repeat. To put it bluntly, my liver and my heart have been sending smoke signals to my daytime self. The organs themselves have been talking to me at 3 a.m. They tell me they are not alright. Their incessant chatter keeps me awake in the middle of the night, because that’s the only time they have my undivided attention.
My liver and my heart have said, on multiple occasions, “We’re gassing out here. We just want to let you know. If you want to do something about it, you should start now.” The words were oh-so subtle at first, but gradually became more verbose. And always in the middle of the night. I would lie there at 3 a.m. with one hand on my heart and the other on my abdomen, certain I heard the words in physical form, coursing through my body. I’ll tell you, it’s terrifying when your organs tell you things that are solid. Inarguably solid.
So during the day, I started to move. I just moved. The first weekend, I went into the mountains with my son. I walked over 10 miles and closed those Apple rings several times over. Then I rode my indoor trainer, blowing off piles of accumulated dust. (It was my smoke signal answer back to my liver and heart. Lol.) I lifted weights. I boxed. The next weekend, I hiked again, this time with another son and his girlfriend.
Since those first few weeks, I’ve walked the golf course several times. I’ve been on the bike so many times that my saddle soreness is not a thing anymore. There are no more smoke signals because all of the dust is gone. The majority of my laundry consists of workout clothes. I move almost every day.
To be clear, I’ve also failed. I don’t move every day. I eat crap I shouldn’t. I drink crap I shouldn’t. My liver and my heart are still holding conference with me at 3 a.m. But, they’re also showing signs of healing. As I lie there in the middle of the night and listen to my organs lecture me, I can hear their worry transition into hope and their remorse morph into forgiveness. It’s not perfect, but we don’t go there. The only thing I’ve really done differently in the past 6 weeks is move. I just started moving every chance I could. I found people who would move with me. I found music I could move to. I just simply moved.
Nathan’s line “I’m pretty sure I don’t got a lot of time left now” pierced my gut today and made me want to write. I can’t tell you how many times, at 3 a.m., this has been the dominating thought. When you hear your body talk so frankly to you in the stillness of the night, when the whole world is asleep, it resonates with all your parts. Even the parts that think they’re still 16. They all sit up and listen. And I’ve learned that the only way to corral them is to move. Move your whole body in your awake hours, in whatever way you are capable. It releases feel-good hormones, it makes you remember you are still very much alive, it moves the rings and it makes you smile because you did something physical for your bones and muscles and pieces and parts. Remember, Age is a sneaky bastard, but his nemesis is movement.
“I’m pretty sure
I don’t got a lot of time left now
If I want more
Then I’m gonna have to figure this out…
Change lanes
Change this game quick
Or remain in the same place”
AGE IS A SNEAKY BASTARD, BUT HIS NEMESIS IS MOVEMENT.
TEMPER : verb
tempered; tempering ˈtem-p(ə-)riŋ
To dilute, qualify, or soften by the addition or influence of something else : MODERATE
Each time I study a painting, I wonder how much it differs from the novel idea the artist first had. Did he or she paint the entire scene in their imagination first, only to deconstruct and overhaul it on canvas a multitude of times? Were there layers upon layers of paint on that canvas? Or was it just right? Did they perfect it all in the mind first, the only subsequent job being to transfer the image to canvas?
I write in my head for days before my fingers ever touch a keyboard. The ideas are born from daily life. My kids, my husband, my business, my dog, things I read online and things I witness as I wander about the earth. Same as you – I look around, I make observations and then I say something about them. This past Friday morning, I woke to the news of women behaving badly in congress. And, poof, there was my original idea for a post. Women Behaving Badly in Congress.
That was Friday morning. It’s now Saturday evening. The Invisible Pencil in my Brain (where all first drafts are written) has been making notes for two days about Women Behaving Badly in Congress, but the keystrokes just started a half an hour ago. How much does this final, written product differ from my original idea that swam in my head? Read on.
The Invisible Pencil in the Brain, Friday morning 10:37 a.m.:
What in the actual hell is happening up there in Washington??? I can’t believe what I am reading. One grownup adult woman actually said to another grown-up adult woman, WHILE THEY WERE BOTH DOING THEIR ADULT JOBS THAT THEY ARE PAID TO DO (albeit not paid much, I do appreciate that): I think your fake eyelashes are messing up what you’re reading. Again…I THINK YOUR FAKE EYELASHES ARE MESSING UP WHAT YOU’RE READING.
I read on to understand more about how this unfolded and where it went from there. It didn’t get better. It got worse. There is no reason to replay it here. Google has a purpose, you can look it up if you’re unfamiliar. Throughout the day on Friday, the Invisible Pencil in my Brain was furiously writing. There was so much to say, really. Women in Afghanistan just want to go to a store or a school without a male escort and we are over here tearing each other down over eyelashes??? I was hopping mad and the Invisible Pencil was mad at work. The ideas were building and forming and molding.
I woke up the next day ready to get it all down on paper. I asked some of my women friends and family for their thoughts on what had transpired in Washington. I emphasized to them that my post would not be political, but would instead focus on what it means to be a woman and the ways in which we treat other women. Here are their thoughts:
“Oh boy! I’ll have to give that some consideration. I’m not sure my thoughts on how it made me feel should be published!”
“You mean beyond my first reaction?”
“I need to look into more about the catty congresswomen argument, I saw a brief clip and was disgusted!!”
“It was like a Jerry Springer episode omg I was so embarrassed to be an American watching that. How pathetic.”
“Hellooo! I have a different take on it. I don’t like to see it described as cat fight or whatever other terms to make it a fight between women. Many of the men and women in that Congress behave shamelessly every single day. To tag the women with this creates yet another double standard.”
“I actually didn’t follow that. I don’t really pay much attention to the news and some of the things that go on in politics. I do, but not as much as others. I just kind of focus on the platforms and what people stand for enough that I can vote and feel good about it. All that background noise and everything I kind of stay away from…I just try to stay away from all that negative BS because it distracts me from the main point of trying to decide which way I wanna vote and where my beliefs are.”
“I just watched it this am and my first comment was that it made women look so bad and catty. I’m sure even the congressmen in the room were like omg…It was embarrassing – on both sides. The eyelash comment was childish, but Crockett could’ve/should’ve responded/addressed it in a more mature, grown-up manner…not how representatives should behave.”
I let their texts roll in throughout the day and by evening, I was ready to write.
My first words:
What in the actual hell is happening up there in Washington??? I can’t believe what I am reading. One grown-up adult woman actually said to another grown-up adult woman, WHILE THEY WERE…………
And then, much like the painter and his painting, this piece began to evolve and change. Type, erase. Type, erase. As I read and reread the comments my girlfriends shared with me, my heat started to dissipate and I realized I was no longer coming in hot. I wasn’t even lukewarm anymore. Their words were varied and thoughtful and truthful and I felt a responsibility to be the same with my words. It was no longer about Women Behaving Badly in Congress. It was about Women Living Above the Bar. Way Above the Bar.
To Temper something is to Moderate it, according to Merriam-Webster. But to Temper something is to also Mature it. To Mature the thought, the idea, the prospect, the delivery, the spirit. These paragraphs you’re reading have been Tempered over the past 48 hours. And why? Because I asked some of my dearest friends and family to share their thoughts with me. It caused me to pause and consider what message I would deliver using their words as backup. I had to change my tone.
What’d I learn? To pause. To think. To consider. To allow a thought, an idea, a brainstorm to ebb and flow for a minute. 48 hours ago, I had a bullhorn and was ready to use it. I had to get the word out that women were destroying women and were being catty and immature. And it WAS catty and petty and immature. But, it’s also other things besides that. Were their actions Jerry Springer-ish? Yep. Were they embarrassing? Yep. Were they unique? Nope. Why? Because none of us are good at tempering ourselves. None of us. Men AND women.
I was ready to throw down about how women backstab and belittle and create scenarios where one wins and the other loses. But over the course of 48 hours, because of the comments from my supremely awesome women friends, I changed my tone.
We often don’t witness the creation of something from its inception. We don’t see the layer upon layer of paint that exists under the surface layer of brushstrokes. We don’t even get to know which brushstroke was the first or the last. In writing, we don’t see the words that were there, and then weren’t, wiped out forever with the ‘Backspace’ key. We only get to see the final product. And I would argue it’s 1000% better than the first-born idea.
A few amazing things happened recently that I need to talk to you about.
1. My youngest turned 17. Birthdays do not happen in a vacuum and in our family they require loud noise, tons of people, colors and flavors. It can vary in intensity but they are all still required. Basically, whatever it takes to let the world know that someone in our midst turned another year around the globe – that’s how we celebrate. We monumentize it. It’s a thing. So we did that yesterday. We made the reservations, texted the appropriate people, bought the stuff. We gathered together. But…***About 6 days ago, I got this text: Can …….. come to the birthday dinner? (insert girlfriend)
2. Well, first of all, of course!!! That son brought that perfect girl. Is it a thing to have an additional person at the birthday table? Yep. We never actually did that before. We have 3 teen/twenty-something boys, but for some foreign/unexplained reason the GF thing hasn’t been a thing for our family. Until now. But I am here to tell you, if she makes your son smile and is a deep part of his life, then yes. It’s an additional thing. And you add the seat at the table. And it’s as natural as butter and lemon cake.
Let me tell you all about it. I promise this will be short. Why? Because applauding the worth of a person requires so fewer words than lamenting them. And I applaud her. So, there. Short and sweet.
Numero Uno: She complimented and thanked every person that waited on our table. Water? Thank you so much. Appetizer? Thank you so much. Napkin arrangement? Beautiful! Entree? Delicious, thank you. Dessert? I love it, thank you. You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat people that treat them. She treated every person that tended to her with gratitude. What a beautiful thing. ✔
Numero Deux: I listened in on my son’s conversation with her during dinner, because that is also how we learn. What did I overhear? “When you went with me to my brother’s performance at his school…” Well, her brother is 10. 10!!! My son went to a 10 year-old’s school performance?? A 10-year old who is unrelated to said son?? Yep. Well, my legs fell off. Children will shock you and amaze you and bring you to the seat of your soul. Let them. That’s what they are supposed to do. I don’t know when this performance was or when he went, but he did that. WOWZA. ✔
So that just does it, doesn’t it? Our children will surprise us and amaze us and shoot us right out of orbit. Let them. It’s amazeballs. I’m going to ride my spaceship around the globe today and I’ll let you know when I’m grounded again. This particular kid has worked so hard to navigate the world he lives in. I’m so proud and happy and honored that we are a part of his universe. We would not be the same without him and neither would all the other people in his sphere. I’m so excited that other people have found his awesomeness. Let the girlfriends in. They are fine. There are plenty of seats at the table. And they bring things out of our sons that we can’t. What a beautiful thing!
The first sound that I can ever remember hearing: My Papa at his breakfast table in tiny Hardtner, Kansas, very middle of the U.S.A. My Grammy made his breakfast every morning before he went to work on the construction site. Bacon, eggs and toast. He would cut the eggs down to bite-size with his knife and fork on the white Corelle plate. The eggs were cut precisely to a uniform size. The knife and fork made a very distinct click-clack sound that I can still hear in my mind to this day. I’ve tried to replicate it, but have yet to master his knife-and-fork art form. Admittedly, I don’t own any Corelle. That could be the missing piece. But, it’s more likely that my Papa’s sounds of life just can’t be duplicated.
Hearing is the least appreciated sense of the 5 (or 6, if you believe we are more than our physical selves) because it’s 99% under the radar. Stop and consider the sounds in your day:
- We have an owl in our ‘hood. He orients me to the time of day. He prompts me to turn my head this way and that to “find” his rooftop perch. He makes me pause and stay still just a bit longer than usual so I can take in his majestic hoot. He knows things I don’t. His hoot beckons me to learn more about his life instead of focusing on mine.
- Our house plumbing sings a subtle song when my people in the house wake up and move about. The sound gives me a warning of who is about to clear the stairs and make themselves known. It might be a kid, it might be a husband (well, there is just the one) – you pay attention because the origin of the sound gives you the clue of whose face is about to pop up. It tells me it’s time to put down the coffee and book and get moving. The day is officially starting. Without my pipe’s serenade, I’m not sure I’d get going.
- Our fancy coffee machine hums while she delivers her goods. She also hums when she hasn’t been touched for 2 hours, letting me know she is officially off-duty.
- My neighbor’s front door squeaks when it opens and shuts. I love to see their boys move in and out of the house and I’m not ashamed to stand at the window and stare. Children are a beautiful thing. (Sight is a close second favorite sense, after all)
- The basketball on the driveway, bouncing off the backboard. That’s enough about that. Lol.
- The electric cars that move up and down my street. They are mostly Teslas, but there are a few others. That electric sound is totally mesmerizing – so much so that I might need to get one in the future.
- The music in my local grocery store. ABBA, Journey, Peaches and Herb. No legit big-box store plays up-to-date music. It’s against grocery store music law.
- My dog has a resounding “Oooff” when he lays down. Every time. I hope that never changes.
- The surgery center on the floor above my office. The chairs move mid-morning to mid-afternoon. I believe it’s the break room, but I don’t know this for certain. ***The stories we tell ourselves to fill in the unknowns are as important as the story itself. I don’t need to know if it’s the breakroom because it’s the break room in MY story, and that’s what counts.
- My Sunday paper hitting my driveway and the delivery driver zipping away. That is just beautiful.
- The garage door, front door, refrigerator door, dryer door.
- The ice maker. The blender. The electric razor.
- Anyone on FaceTime. In our house, they are often situated face-up, staring at the ceiling while we keep going about our business. Once again, hearing trumps sight…
- Laughter. Laughter. Laughter.
What is the first sound you remember hearing? Ode to SOUNDS. They orient us without our awareness and define our space in such a specific way. I hope I can hear all the things to my very last days. But if I can’t, I’m confident my mind will fill in the blanks. What a beautiful gift to hear life happening all around us. Happy listening!
My favorite part of a big snow day? The unplowed street on that first evening. The storm has wound down. The snow plows haven’t yet come by – they have bigger roads to plow and the neighborhoods must be patient. But, a snow day never stops people’s needs and the people have to move. And so they have. All day long. The movement has created a mish-mash of snowy mess on my street that is absolutely stunning. The ruts and the clods and the tire treads, the footprints, the melty parts. For the first 24 hours, the neighborhood streets fend for themselves in a snowstorm and they tell a story.
Tonight, about 3 a.m., the snowplow is going to come through my ‘hood. It will make a distinct, coarse, scraping sound as it carves a central line down the middle of my street. Clods of snow will be shoved indiscriminately to the left and to the right. There will be no witnesses – it will be 3 a.m. And just like that, the DNA of my neighborhood will be wiped clean. Ready to start anew with a uniform path back out into the world, furrowed by that piece of metal backed by a motor. Routine will start again because we can’t stop time.
Snow imprints parts of your LIFE for just a short bit. And then it melts to create room for something new. How beautiful is that???
This past Friday, I was prepared to shut down the blog. The internet was full of sadness over the passing of The Queen of Mommy Blogging, The OG Mom Blogger, Dooce. I pored over the tributes and read some of her best posts. I loved her take and will miss her beautiful words. As I took in the commentary from around the planet, I thought “It sounds like blogging is mostly dead. I think there are other platforms like Tik Tok and Instagram and a whole host of others that I know nothing about that must be the platforms of today. I missed the boat and have nothing new to add to these new-fangled ways of communicating. People don’t want to read blogs. They want visual content and it needs to be in 1-2 minute increments.”
So I decided I would bury Beautiful Olive. Why pay for the website hosting, the Constant Contact subscription, and the domain name rights when it was just sitting out in the internet world languishing with no new content? When blogging was old-school and a thing of yesterday?
Have you ever tried to cancel an auto-renew subscription? Well, the business-savvy peeps of the world are business-savvy for a reason. And they have figured out that if they make it really hard to cancel an auto-renew subscription, 92% of people won’t cancel it. You can buy almost anything online, without talking to a single person, with a single mouse click. But if you want to cancel something, you have to CALL someone and TALK to someone first. No amount of mouse clicks will get you there. This is why, two days later, I have not yet canceled Beautiful Olive or any of the internet extras that accompany her. I would have to make phone calls and talk to people and I am an introvert. We don’t play that way. We do not like to talk to strangers whose goals are exactly opposite ours.
So, the blog is still here because it was too much of a pain to cancel it. And, then I woke up today and I decided to write. So, there you go.
“Do you know what a loser is? A real loser is somebody who is so afraid of not winning they don’t even try.”
Grandpa, “Little Miss Sunshine”
It’s Mother’s Day and my typical MO celebration has been to do whatever I want with wild abandon. Mimosas and blueberry muffins for breakfast. Naps. Reading. A dinner fit for a queen, complete with dessert. And wine. Plenty of wine. Sometime after becoming a mom, I declared it the day of indulgence and I always indulged.
But, some things happened to me over this past week (which I will tell you about in a minute) and all week when my husband or sons would ask what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day this year, I would answer “I don’t know. Not much. I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to have mimosas or blueberry muffins or a bottle of wine or naps. I know that’s what I don’t want. I’ll get back to you…”
I’ve been on a collision course for the past year with my bad choices and habits. I weigh more than I should or ever have, I drink entirely too much alcohol, I don’t get the exercise I need and my ability to deal with life’s stressors is out of whack. The real struggle is in the knowledge of these things on the one hand and doing nothing about them on the other hand. The cognitive dissonance takes our anxiety to an even higher level and then we are even more unhappy with ourselves. It’s a vicious cycle. Because we are thoughtful, intelligent beings, we really should be able to figure this out. But, we can’t. So, we are losers.
I’ve had the “Why do I KNOW what I need to do, but do the opposite?” conversation with myself so many times over the past year I’ve lost count. And every time I have had that conversation, I would follow up with “And, are you ready to do something about it?” And every time, the answer was a resounding “Nope. Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow and ask again. Maybe the answer will be different.” And I would stroll off with my glass of wine.
About a week ago, I had the same conversation, but the answer was different. You can tell when it’s different. It feels like it rises up from your core and is straight-up bellicose. Everything starts to align and suddenly you’re just ready. You holler back at the old self who answered “Nope” every time. “Hey. Old Self. New Me is taking over. We don’t need your help anymore. We got this. Bye-bye.”
I don’t know what flipped the switch. All I know is that I’ve been praying for it to flip for the past year and I knew I would know when it did. I was glad it flipped on Sunday because I had an appointment for a routine physical on Tuesday. “Whew!” I thought. “This is great! I dodged that bullet! Thanks, Me!” But, apparently, two days of changed habits is not enough lead time for your lab values to be whipped into shape and my doctor called me on Wednesday to tell me that I might need to go on some medication to combat some concerning findings. 😲
Truth be told, my inactivity, my diet, my relationship with alcohol (that is a really dumb term) was really getting wildly out of control. I think it was pretty dark at times. And when it’s dark, we peer out of the hole and look around at everybody else to see how they’re doing. And when everybody else seems to be doing just fine, we clamp the shell down even tighter, don’t we? But the inner turmoil is still there beneath the surface. Somehow, we can’t figure out how to just do what we know we need to do. We are losers.
Well, when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. The switch will flip. The inner turmoil will work its way to the surface and demand a decision about who wins. I woke up this Mother’s Day and I RODE A BIKE for 30 minutes. I drank water and fasted until 2 p.m. I’m writing, not napping. At dinner, I’m going with CAULIFLOWER MASH instead of POTATO MASH. I e-mailed my physician and asked for a 6-month reprieve, medication-free, to get my sh*t in order. And I’ll gladly pay out of pocket to get new labs drawn in 6 months so I can prove that my switch has indeed flipped.
Will I feel as sure tomorrow or the next day or the next as I do today? I don’t know. This isn’t my first rodeo. We are all a work in progress, all of the time. Today, I woke up and I felt like writing. I felt like riding a bike instead of drinking a mimosa. I felt like eating an orange instead of a blueberry muffin. And I felt like being a better mom to my boys, which means some of my dark, crap habits have to take a back seat. So many of us are fighting crazy fierce battles. We get really good at hiding them from the world. Keep the conversation going with yourself. Let her answer “Nope” as long as she needs to. When the timing is right, she will suddenly answer “Yes” and you will know. And you will always be a winner in my book.
Happy Mother’s Day, my beautiful friends. You are nothing short of fabulous today and every day.
8.14.2021.
That was the date of my last blog post.
It was about buying a kayak and floating around by myself with my thoughts.
My modus operandi is to start anew whenever something doesn’t go perfectly. Drop a stitch on the knitting project? Tear it all out and start over. Even better, find a different pattern and move on – that pattern was clearly and inherently FLAWED. Stuck on a crossword puzzle? Turn the page and start with a clean slate. That fresh, white page with all of those empty boxes? There is so much potential there. Letters are dying to be cast into the right spaces and not a single mistake has been made. Stepped away from your blog for a bit too long? Start a new one. No one will know the difference as the internet goes on forever and will swallow whole and without apology whatever you put there. New name, new page, fresh start.
Wait. What?
Have you ever stepped away from something for so long that the thought of going back to it was ludicrous? In October of 2021, I thought “Look at the calendar. It’s time to create a new blog post.” But, in October of 2021, I was in an emotional free-fall and I didn’t care to share. “Later,” I said to myself…
At the end of December, 2021, we were still stuck fixing the broken axles and tie rods of life and, honestly, we were slogging. Did anybody really want to read about that? At the start of a new year??? Nope. “Later,” I said to myself…
In February of 2022, the wind changed and we got some much-needed relief. By that point, I was so tired of treading water that I just wanted to sit in my transient cocoon of peace and stare at the blue sky. “Later,” I said to myself…
In April of 2022, big changes were coming to our household and we had to prepare. College, moving out, road trips, and summers spent away from home were all looming. The family body was getting ready to split across the country in ways it never had before. I had to get ready for that. “Later,” I said to myself…
I guess now, it’s “Later.” I don’t like yarn repairs or eraser marks or blogs that aren’t updated according to the calendar. I am the queen of “Get it right from the start or start fresh. Does anybody have to know about the previous starts that never saw the light of completion? Bury the evidence and slap on a new smile, girlfriend!”
302 days have elapsed between 8.14.21 and 6.12.22. That’s too many days. Have you read any of the “How To Blog?” guides? 302 days between posts breaks all the rules and it is exactly how blogs die. Whatever the last page of the internet search is, that is where you will find this blog right now. I’m sure she already died in the water.
But, I still love “Beautiful Olive.” On November 14, 2020, I breathed life into her and it became a thing that I created that had never been. It’s imperfect. It’s definitely not my best work. I don’t even know what my best work is. But, I do think I have to stop covertly tossing out all of my work in the interest of “starting fresh.” Beautiful Olive” isn’t as easily trashed as a pile of yarn or a book of puzzles. Apparently, there is an electronic footprint on the internet. Ergo, she can’t be trashed. My modus operandi hit a snag.
I need to tell you that I still don’t have my kayak. Therein lies another reason I hesitated to return to this page. How embarrassing is that? 302 days ago I announced to you and the whole internet, that I was going to get a kayak. I still have not. I want the kayak. I have a vision for it and exactly how it’s going to help me power through life problems with force. But the kayak is not a part of my life yet, other than in my mind. It’s so hard to circle back to what hasn’t yet been completed, isn’t it? It’s like your unchecked to-do list grows a stadium-size index finger and follows you around, poking you in the shoulder.
So, I don’t have my kayak yet and I waited 302 days to update my blog post. I’m pretty sure my scarf has a dropped stitch or seven, but it’s been in the closet for nine years, so who really knows? It’s hard to be imperfect. Much harder than being perfect, I think. But, I was at REI with my son yesterday and the kayaks are on sale. Here’s to circling back. Have a beautiful week.
I’ve been struggling lately. Have you? Struggling. Isn’t that the phrase du jour? Covid. Wild Fires. Floods. Climate Change. Murderous Insects. Something called an Army Ant that literally took my friend’s yard from lush green grass to dead, dead, dead in just 3 short days. Yep. I’ve been struggling.
As I am firmly planted in middle age, I feel like I am watching my life from outside my body. And it’s full of judgment:
- I thought I would be further along by this point in my life (insert retirement savings, college savings, savings in general, health and wellness, travel, business, friendships, spirituality, enlightenment)
- I thought “this…” was what I wanted (insert clothes, shoes, house, car, massage, bike, fancy makeup brushes), so why am I still dissatisfied?
- I thought I would “be…” by now (insert “here, there, anywhere”)
I believe the mid-life crisis for women is slow and drawn-out. It’s a gradual feeling of unease that creeps in around the edges and blurs our sense of self. In our twenties, we take risks. We are full of confidence. Our bodies will still do exactly what we ask of them and our brains are whip-sharp. We just go and do and drive that bus wherever we need it to go. Life is so full of potential and the horizon is barely visible.
In our thirties, we are so busy. Our careers are solidly moving forward. Our kids are young – they make us smile and laugh and give hugs and sloppy kisses freely. Our bodies still do what we ask of them because what choice does it have? We are BUSY. But, it’s a GOOD busy. The horizon is beautiful, but still so far away.
In our forties, our kids have grown older and more independent. We are glad to do all of that taxi-driving because we are spending precious time with them. We are still BUSY, so we barely notice that the body is getting a little more defiant about things we ask it to do. We start to hold our book or our phone or our mail an inch farther away from our eyes. And then another inch and another inch still. Finally, we are holding all required reading at arms-length before we trudge into Costco to buy the 6 pack of readers. The horizon is not so far away now, but we are busy with teens and careers and everyone knows “We are in our PRIME because we can go to dinner or a movie or even a night away because our kids are old enough to be home alone for more than 30 seconds” so who cares about a horizon??? And we don’t mind the readers, they come in tons of fashionable styles!”
I’m on the precipice of turning fifty. I can’t yet write about what the fifties will be like because I’m not there. But, the latter part of the forties has been admittedly uncomfortable. They’ve made me question everything I’ve done up to this point and everything I’ll do in the latter half of my life. This is why it’s a Mid-Life Crisis. MID-LIFE. See? You look behind and you look ahead and you tell yourself all sorts of ridiculous stories about how your life is turning out now that you’re in the middle of it (see above “I thought by now…..). And I hate to generalize, but I will anyway. I believe that for men in Mid-Life Crisis, the realization that they are within it comes fast and furious. And then the decision about what to do about it also comes fast and furious. They buy the sports car. They jump careers or jump out of an airplane or put in a pool and a backyard kitchen. They turn 180 degrees and everyone nods and says “Mm-hmm. See? Mid-Life Crisis.”
This is not the case for women. Remember, it’s a gradual unease. We start to question ourselves and our station, but it’s so subtle. We are a little heavier than we were in our twenties and thirties and early forties. We are noticing our skin is more wrinkly and worn and tired. Our bodies are getting more belligerent when asked to do certain things. Our kids are growing into adulthood and we are seeing that we most definitely made some mistakes in parenting. Ouch. That’s a blow to the mom-ego.
The Merriam-Webster definition of a crisis: An unstable or crucial time or state of affairs in which a decisive change is impending. This is where I am. It is an unstable and crucial time. I can’t, nor do I want to, live in this state of unease indefinitely. And I think I’ve been here for several years. It’s making me tired and scared and despondent. I want out of the Mid-Life Crisis. Because when we live in this state too long, it causes us to withhold all of our gifts and talents and goodness from the world around us. The world needs each of us as we are, not as we think we should be.
So, how to climb out? We are told by all of the professionals to take baby steps. Incorporate small changes daily. Walk twice a week for just twenty minutes. Add one piece of fruit a day. Wake up ten minutes earlier. Get your coffee at home, save $$$. Drink one more glass of water a day. Start small and the change will become a habit. Right? Here’s the thing. We think too small. The reason we are uneasy at this stage in our life is that the world NEEDS us to be our big, beautiful selves and instead we are over here in the corner being small. That’s why we are STRUGGLING. We are grappling with a horizon that is now clearly approaching and we gave up our coffee and drank more water and ate the banana and NOTHING HAPPENED. We still feel uneasy and restless and inadequate.
The Mid-Life Crisis requires a bold response. The other day I came across this in Jen Sincero’s book “You Are a Badass at Making Money”:
If you want to change your life, change your life.
Well, there you go. That’s really all there is to it. But, instead, we women are over here overanalyzing, overthinking, overstressing. If we want to change our lives, let’s change our lives!
There is a saying “Spend twenty minutes a day in nature unless you are too busy, then spend an hour.” I am one of those “too busy” people. I multi-task and juggle 18 things at once. I am a “doer”. And I am pretty sure I wear it as a badge of honor. But, I’ve always been intrigued by this saying because it is the antithesis of the way I live my life. I don’t know how to “not” do. As I pondered the Mid-Life Crisis and how to get out of it, I realized that what we all need to do is something dramatically different, completely out of our comfort zones. Something that will make us terribly uncomfortable for a little bit.
Enter The Kayak Project. To begin emerging from my Mid-Life Crisis I plan to get a kayak, take it to the lake several evenings a week and float around in nature for an hour all by myself. I’m not going to be on my phone or talk to people or read or listen to podcasts. I’m just going to be in that kayak all by myself for an hour. I am going to do this MOST ESPECIALLY when I don’t have the time. As a Type-A person who really doesn’t know how not to be busy, this is going to be HARD for me. I don’t yet know how to be alone, skimming around aimlessly in nature when there are so many things that need to get done on the homefront. It gives me anxiety just considering it. I don’t even own a kayak! I have only actually been in a kayak one time in my 48 years of life! But, all of this is solvable and I am going to solve it. I realize many of you already kayak and go do all kinds of things on weekday evenings and stay up late all the time, opposite of me. That’s not the point. The point is, I DO NOT. But, now I am going to. So, yes, your Kayak Project will probably look different than mine – just make sure it’s out of your comfort zone and makes you nervous and makes your heart skip a bit. Go take a class, open a business, write a book, bake a souffle, climb a mountain, take a solo trip. Just get it going.
Eckhart Tolle says “You cannot find yourself by going into the past. You find yourself by coming into the present.” We need to think bigger, ladies. We are restless and uneasy and watching our life from outside of ourselves because we are not being bold enough. Pick something that scares you and gives you some anxiety and do that. Just one thing. If it just so happens that eating another piece of fruit every day or drinking that extra glass of water is what it takes to make your heart skip a beat and scare you, then maybe that’s your thing. But, I’ll venture a guess that it’s not. We can take a lesson from how men deal with the Mid-Life Crisis and think BIGGER. Small thinking is holding us back. Grab your readers, it’s time to go! Xoxo
