August 24, 2014

I Got This...Turning 40

Dang, where y'all been?!?!

It happened.  Done and done.  I thought hitting 40 would be somehow worse than it was, but it was really cool.  I spent the weekend surrounded by all the people I love and was reminded again of how damn awesome this life has been so far.  There have been a few bumps here and there, but I learned some good lessons and walked out of the fire.

In other sorta related news, basically what happened this weekend was I sorta kicked some anxiety arse...

Backstory:  In middle school there was a new girl and when she walked into the room, I knew she was gonna be some sort of awesome.  She had on pink Chuck Taylor high-tops and some funky asymetrical hair.  She was my people. And she was a lot of awesome.  We've remained friends for all these years, and I got to go to Atlanta to help her usher in the next decade at a wonderful surprise party given by her equally amazing husband.

Back to kicking arse:  So, since the Great Panic Attack I have only driven about 30 minutes from my house by myself.  I can drive any distance as long as someone is in the car with me.  What am I afraid of?  Everything.  I'll have a heart attack and kill someone in the lane beside me.  I'll have a flat tire and be abducted/killed/raped by someone on the side of the highway.  Rational? Nope, but that's my groove.

Now, I live about 400 miles from Atlanta.  You see my problem, yes?  I knew others were going, but I didn't want my schedule to hold anyone up from doing what they wanted to do.  I decided I might as well just do it.  And I did. And it felt good.

I used to make that drive monthly to visit my aunt, Wanda, when she lived there.  I would grab a Mountain Dew (did I really ever drink those?!), a pack of Camel Lights (sorry, parents), and a bunch of CDs and just hit the road.  I'd forgotten how liberating it was to just drive with the sunroof open.  I knew exactly how far I was from Atlanta based on the curve of the roads because I had driven them so many times over the years.  Like a glove, baby...

Here's what I came home with...
1.  My car likes to go 80 miles an matter how hard I try...Thank God for cruise control!
2.  Some songs will take you back...Ludacris, Indigo Girls, Scott Miller, Beck, and Urban Dance Squad serenaded me all 400 miles.
3.  Old friends are the best friends in many ways because they knew you way back when and still love you.
4.  Turning 40 is about me...just me.  It's just about the most liberating feeling I've had in quite some time.
5. I can do it...whatever it is.  If I can make that drive, no matter how silly that seems to someone else, I can do just about anydamnthing.

Choose happiness, people.  Visit people you love.  Surround yourself with those who make you laugh and don't cause you grief.  Live life.  Go rock your universe this week.  

You's not that long until my NEXT birthday...In case you're thinking about a gift for me!

January 8, 2014

Forty...Years, Not Ounces

First things first.  Happy b'day in Heaven to my nana...and Elvis.  Now, my post.


I'm rolling that around in my mouth and it tastes like putrid yuckiness.  Like beets or radishes, the only foods I loathe.  Forty just sounds blech.

Last year when Better Half was all sour-pussed about turning 40, I was all, "Hey, c'mon, it's gonna be great!"  The cup that was half-full has since been drained and all traces of that sunshine has evaporated.  Why? Because it's my turn.  Dammit.

I celebrated 30 like a rock star.  No, really.  It was a combo birthday/divorce party and I had a hot new guy there.  He's still hot, but not so new since we're soon celebrating another anniversary.  That decade, minus the whole paralyzing anxiety/panic attacks/therapy part, was pretty amazing.  I got married, had a kid, got my dream job, and bought a house.  My thirties were, I mean good.  How the hell is 40 gonna battle that?  I think of forty like B-Rabbit at the beginning of 8 Mile when he can't hold his mud at battle time.  He could be good, but he's gonna need a lot of help.

When I think of 40, I think of people who are settled...content...together. Settled I can do.  Content is even a maybe.  Ain't no way in hell am I together, though.  I wake up at least 3 times a week thinking about what I want to be when I grow up.  What?  I'm grown?  Oh, shit.  

I keep thinking there are things I want to do in life.  Granted, I'm not sure exactly what those things are, but I feel like I'm marching time, waiting for something.  Before you go all, "Well, go make it happen!"  I don't what it is. Hence the problem.  Okay, that's not really the problem.  The problem is I'm halfway to checking out (optimistically speaking if I make it to 80ish, which I might based on family history), so that means half my friggin' time is up. Halfway is good if you're running a marathon or waiting on homemade chocolate cake or pregnant.  In relation to living versus being dead?  Not so much.

I keep thinking about what I want to be by the time I hit that, ahem, great day.  Time is limited.  Truthfully, so is my dedication to anything that requires a lot of change on my part.  I'm sort of a stubborn ass.  I keep reading that being 40 allows you to be an asshole just because you're 40 now and you're so, you know, wise. I think I locked in on that at about 17.

Here are the two great things I've honed in on thus far.  

I used to have really, really short pixie hair.  Of course, like most women, I always wanted to total opposite of what I had, so my life has been a revolving door of grow-it-out, cut-that-off!  I loved my short hair, but then I envied those easy ponytails and bouncing curls of my friends and let it grow.  After a bit, it become a shield and safety blanket.  Short hair has expectations, ya know.  I couldn't live up to the sassiness required, so I sorta hid behind my long hair.  I think I'm ready to give my pixie another go.  Maybe.  The jury is deliberating, but is leaning toward it.  We'll see.

I've never worn a bikini.  Ever.  I remember being at the beach in high school with friends and one girl needing to borrow a suit.  I offered her an extra of mine, but she politely (sincerely because she was/is an angel of a gal) said she only wore two-piece suits.  I completely understood because I would, too, if I had her body.  I'd probably just strut around n-a-k-e-d all damn day.  I've never been a bikini girl.  I had baby fat that just hung around until I had three babies of my own.  *Sigh*

Maybe 40 will be the year I finally get into a bikini.  Oh, not the shape I'm in now.  There's no way in hell that's happening.  I started working out a bit and watching my food.  Let's be honest, it's not for my health since I'm halfway dead.  It's for the somewhat remote possibility I might buy a bikini this year.  It's gonna have to have some, um, support, but maybe there's nice mommy bikinis out there?  It's new territory to me, so we'll see.

I have six months and a few days to get used to 40 or to at least be able to see sunlight between my thighs.  Wish me luck.

January 7, 2014

Bigfoot In My Attic...Or A Husband (Either Way)

Apparently the polar vortex that has descended upon, like, 50% of the US has rendered the pump on our heating unit useless because the water has frozen in it.  Which means, TADA!, no heat from the upstairs unit.  We are blessed, despite being hetherns on occasion, and the downstairs unit has been working double-time to keep us warm through the night...just to be sure, though, J slept with 5 pairs of socks on.  No shit.

As I was headed to the attic to work on this little problem (might I insert here that it totally messes with my head that when I am in the attic I am technically about 4 stories above ground?), my husband informed me he would take care of it because I usually do all the "handyman" stuff around here.  The reason for this is not because he is not capable or is a wuss.  He wears Kevlar for a living, so he's good with the whole manhood business.  In truth, I like that stuff.  I grew up with my daddy tinkering 24-7, so it's my comfort zone.

So, since it's a balmy 1 degree outside right now, which means our attic is maybe 10 degrees, I thought, "Ya know what?  Let him have this one."  Which is how this picture came to be...
Want to know what a blow dryer won't do?
It won't thaw ice when it's 10 degrees.
Sitting in the frigid attic in his Bigfoot suit with the blow dryer (hair dryer?) desperately trying to thaw the line.

Twenty minutes later?  Ice-1  Man-0

Be aware, Polar Vortex, your ass is outta here tomorrow!