On Vanity

 

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

 Off Topic

I had a draft of a time management post started, but then I realized-I am not a step-by-step advice giver. I could write a post about how to manage time, but first of all, I wouldn't follow it and second, it would be dull and dry. I just have to write what I am FEELING in the moment instead of what I think would be most logical. 

Guys, I am getting old

 Sometimes I don't see it. I put on my makeup, feel okay about myself, shudder at how old my classmates on Facebook are looking, thank God I am aging better, and then later in the day, glimpse this old woman in the mirror and actually am confused. Like...it is a SHOCK that I look as old as my classmates. Sometimes the grey and the fading eyes and the wrinkles and crepey cheeks are just blasting out through the reflection, and I can't reconcile this with how I feel inside. 

I don't FEEL old

I am young. I am a stumbling toddler, making big mistakes, just figuring out this world, and the confusion that is other people, and you are telling me I am over halfway through this life? How is that even possible?

Always the supporting role, never the main star

I love this clip from this movie. BUT,  he calls her beautiful...which deep inside, does that mean those of us average people should NOT expect to be the leading lady? Does that mean we should accept our role as "best friend" or "supporting actress?" 

Iris, by the way, is an ISFJ in the movie. She makes me think being an ISFJ might be okay, even though MBTI communities usually detest S's.

I was never a show stopper. Catcalls were rare and nonexistent after 35. I never had people buy me drinks like they do on TV (course I was always married and at home making babies-and when I wasn't I was at home watching a movie and sipping chardonnay (until I discovered red wine-which is so much better-or champagne/spumante (Heaven in a crystal glass)). But...maybe that is because noone asked me to do anything. I always went to college and work functions WHEN ASKED. Unpopularity, hurts people, but I digress. Anyway.  But slowly, over time, I have found that you just sort of cease to exist on the physical realm. Like men will talk to you about serious things and work issues, but they'd prefer to talk to the 30 year old with the waistline and flirty lashes. Anything you have to say would be better respected coming from someone who doesn't have spreading agey freckles climbing up their arms. 

And eventually you become okay with that. Whatever. I prefer attractive men myself. I am not interested in your paunchy beer belly and thinning hair. Gross. But I am willing to see past it to the person within, if you can make me laugh and have a soapy-clean smell. 

Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda

But there are things I WISH I HAD done when I was younger. I wish I had gotten a nose job. Taking a few millimeters off my schnoz probably doesn't matter at this point in my life, but in my 20s, I could have enjoyed it. I should have gotten a boob job. Not for MEN exactly, but just so I could have known what it felt like to have pretty feminine breasts when I was young. Why not? None of these would have CHANGED my life-but it would have been nice to experience. 

What's the point now? I could improve upon these flaws and still be the most invisible person in the room (and since I will probably never have intimate relations again, I can just wear a padded bra-I mean, there is no one to worry about disappointing at this point

And here I stand

So I get the celebrated creams (I like Estee Lauder, but when I am broke I use CeraVe or Olay) and smear them on my face and you know what I get? Soft, smooth wrinkly, crepey skin. You just can't erase 48 years of living and sun. 

And this is the point where we reach way down deep and Oprah our way into acceptance and joy and self-love. We remind ourselves that each age spot is really just a brilliant, fun day we spent soaking up the sunshine being alive. Our wrinkles are signs of the laughter we have had. Our grey roots represent the wisdom we have acquired.  We are supposed to believe in our own beauty and imagine ourselves the leading lady even if society is turning away.

And that is all true. Hopefully we are also working on smoothing out our kinks, taming our negative impulses, growing our soul, and understanding God and the world better over time. 

But damn. It'd be nice to have all those memories, laughter, and wisdom wrapped up in a perpetually 28-year-old body.

What Does it Mean to Be Mighty?

Photo by Meritt Thomas on Unsplash

 

Lately, I have been thinking a lot. In truth, now that I am the only adult in the home, the quietness , though it is rarely ever quiet, leaves a lot of thinking time.

Tonight I sit by the white-orange logs in the firepit where the larger logs burn with a heat and mesmerizing chemical magic which fails for words. An artist would be able to capture it perhaps-an an artist's eye could determine whether the logs burn white or orange, but my untrained eyes, can't distinguish. It is both to me. 

A breeze is brushing the treetops and the stronger gusts bring a shower of maple seeds-helicopters- raining down on me. The moon is just the slightest smidgen shy of full.

It's been weird. A peace invades the house, my house, my castle. I do what I want when I want (as long as it involves kids). I sleep on the couch without excuses, my room smells, not of tobacco, but of cats and me. I don't resent anyone lying on the couch while I work, and I don't have the easy ability to slip out the door and into the car alone anymore. 

People irritate me. I try to explain my feelings-the joyous peace, the occasional crush of loneliness. Others say, "I could see. I could see you were hiding your pain. I knew you were unhappy." It is frustrating. Of course. It is so easy on the outside, isn't it? But I know me. I know my easy ability to wash away the pain, to forgive the past, to see what is so wonderful. Happy posts about flowers and candlelit baths were REAL. They weren't put on for show. The date night selfies were done in fun, not show. The companionship of sitting by the fire, watching a favorite tv show together, that was real. In truth, bad things are rarely bad all the time. If they were, they would end so much sooner. Bad, awful, hurtful things are interspersed with good moments, with laughter, with understanding,, and intimacies. People on the outside don't see that. They don't want to see that. They see the evil, the bad. The bad, I so easily forgot, I had to start keeping a diary to remember what had happened.

And that's fine. It isn't their burden. But it feels as if my cross to bear is the inability to be honest about the pain. About the loneliness. About how hard it is to be the only adult in the house-even when it is easier to not live with someone unstable and unhappy. Nothing is simple. And were people to come over, I would probably make polite conversation, and wait, and watch the clock, wanting my hours back to myself. Companionship is not to have any warm body, but to have the right warm body. Oh, don't get me wrong. There is noone on my mind. And that is difficult, too. My INFPness lives to dream of romance, to get lost in a crush, but there is no one now. Everyone I meet is married or young. And damn, if that isn't dull.

And I thought I could be so happy alone. My own bed. Noone to care that I am gross sometimes, or let the bathroom trash sit way too long. And I am. But my toes tickle for the touch of someone else-don't read into that-I don't have a toe fetish-, my toes are actually just tickling right now. They are propped on the edge of the firepit, probably falling asleep. And it is like some animal urgency, this desire to have someone. I don't really understand it. I am 47. I do not want more children. Why does my mind scan the world for a partner NOW? But alas, the world is made for couples, it is normal to want someone to do something with, I suppose. Restaurants, nights out, travel. The world was made for two.

And I make my stupid jokes, and then I worry that people pity me. And I do hate pity. I want to be adored and babied and yet, I want to be strong and admired. The truth is, even as I write these thoughts-it isn't so bad. I don't feel so sad. I don't cry. I worry. I worry so much about this person who is falling apart and won't let me help. I worry for my four year old who misses his dad. And I feel the sickening disgust that so many of my thoughts are financial. Am I really so cold and removed and calculating as that? Everything is filtered through loss and gain. And then I remind myself that idealism only goes so far. It is okay to think about practical matters. It is okay to fight for the best life possible. All those hurtful words thrown at me-cold, calculating- don't matter. If it is cold to want the best life and stability for my kids, then toss me in a glass of lemonade, because I do. If it is calculating to do what is within my power to keep my kids in a stable home, then I guess that is what I am. There is no shame in caring for their well-being. 

So to be mighty. What is that? Is it being honest and open? Is it carrying on in silence, striving towards the future with grim determination? Is it something in-between? 

According to the Century Dictionary, mighty means:

     Possessed of or endowed with might; having much ability, strength, or power; eminently         strong, powerful, or great: as, a mighty conqueror; a mighty intellect; a man mighty in         argument

I think to be mighty is being honest with oneself, doing the tasks for the sake of those who need me, and just letting the waves wash over and around me. If you don't fight reality, you don't sink. If you go with the flow, eventually the water will part around you, and you just rise and fall with the swell of waves. So I am mighty. I am sad. I am tender. Nostalgia is all around me in this sad house, and yet each morning, I wake up with a smile, and joy for how incredibly amazing this journey continues to be. I snuggle in my soft bed at night in peace, not with tears, but with a feeling of strength and pride. And as much as I long for people to understand exactly what I feel, I know they can only see what the filter of their own experience allows. I am mighty when I am sad, and I am mighty when I move forward. Mightiness doesn't dissipate because I am real and because I feel. Mightiness reigns because I move towards the future, because I know I will survive. There is no self-pity, no surrender. There is just determination to keep on going, to keep on feeling, to keep on pushing towards destiny and seeking God's purpose. 

Perfect moments, not perfect planning

 

Photo by Benjamin Voros on Unsplash

Have you been playing the balancing game-trying to give everything and everyone just the right amount of time and attention? I have been thinking about time management lately, and while I  know some schedule out each day, week, month, to perfection-I know this isn't the route for me. 

Schedules vs. Routines

First of all as an INFP (what's that? here's 16personalities description), the word schedule itself makes me a little cranky. I like routines, mind you. A quiet morning coffee in hand, contemplating life and where I stand in it, are just perfect. Every day. Slipping into bed, the perfect amount of lighting in the room, book or ebook in hand, pillows fluffed just right, is perfect every single day. But all that stuff in between? Let's keep it loose. Let's NOT make plans. Let's let it unfold naturally. 

Let It Happen

I don't know how I will feel next Sunday afternoon. How can I possible feel anything but dread if you try to force me into some arbitrary activity outside of my home. That's not to say Aunt Kate's backyard barbeque followed by a trip to Walmart and drive to Branson won't be exactly what I need. But how can I know that now?

I realize I am difficult.

And I have been thinking that maybe for people like me, it is less about perfect balance and more about perfect moments. 

This week I will shower my kids with attention and activities, next week they will play with the neighbor kids and I'll catch up on laundry. Today we have an impromptu game night and whoever can make it makes it. Next week, I'll screen my calls and snuggle in bed with a book and a glass of Cabernet. Perfect moments happen. They can't be planned.

When I discovered my newly remembered love for fiction reading, it changed my focus away from my online shop. And I realized I was done with the shop. Reading has always been a greater passion to me than kids' clothes. Reading changes my soul in a way that trying to earn money cannot. So one was let go and one I continue to pursue.

A Surprising Need for Control

This doesn't mean I am easy-breezy. In fact, I often doubt my INFPness due to my need for control and pickiness. I am not okay with just any background noise (and honestly, silence is golden to me). I can't just let the radio play. I need the right song at the right time, or nothing at all.   In fact, I often think my lack of commitment to future plans has more to do with my need to control the atmosphere by attending to my current mood than any happy-go-lucky easygoingness. And I think people misunderstand that and either steamroll me or think I am being intentionally difficult. I am just being me.

Recap

So, if you are finding you are struggling with finding the right balance or the right schedule or the right PLAN-maybe you are like me. And maybe focusing on your comfort routines and maybe letting your need to attend to your current mood and feelings are what you need in the future (I ALSO easily think I could be an ISFP (description HERE)-despite my lack of artistic prowess-especially when I am healthier and not ruminating on things. I would be totally cool with that, too).

Currently:

Listening  Spotify:

ACOMAF | Feysand| A Court of Mist and Fury | Feyre and Rhysand

Rereading: 

Also reading:

This post contains affiliate links for https://www.amazon.com/

Drinking:

Reusable K-cup mix of Great Value french roast and Creme brule!

Thoughts this Week

Photo by Erol Ahmed on Unsplash

;Whew! I had fun last night. First of all, I totally overindulged in a really tasty cabernet sauvignon (which don't those words just feel amazing on your tongue?), laid in bed and read, and snuggled with Alec, who is just the best thing ever. I understand increasing numbers of people are choosing not to have kids, but as for me and my body, we make little humans. Well, I mean not anymore. I don't want more little humans, but I am glad I have them! There is just something so incredible about getting together with a person and suddenly (9.5-10 nauseating,  exhausting months later) finding a whole new human emerging forth, with its own little looks and hodgepodge of shared physical traits-I love it!

I woke around 4 and played on Facebook-Oh. I just realized I went to bed after midnight. Hmm. I did not get enough sleep! It's going to be a long day, I guess. 

Being super hungry, I decided to go surprise everyone with some McDonald's breakfast. Karl had hinted at St. George's donuts last night, but they don't have a drive-thru and that requires a whole different level of grooming. So I was thinking about some Mickey D's breakfast burritos and then stopped myself. I had a lot of wine last night. A few quick punches into an online calculator and realized what I sort of felt in my cells already-I should not be driving until around 6 a.m. I can be quite cautious, like ISXJ cautious. I briefly think of the  times out drinking with friends and how I was always watching people and purses, wanting everything and everyone to get home intact. This is a pride thing-it embarrasses me. It is embarrassing to be careful and cautious and worried when I want to be carefree, and fun, and original. But that's my broken record.

So last night, riding the happy wave of red, red, wine (a good deal of it is reading--why do people DRINK so much in novels--do real life people drink so much or are the publishers trying to push alcoholism on us as a society--or maybe it is just that drunk and uninhibited characters are more fun and unpredictable for the author to work with), but craving people. I enjoyed hanging out with Alec of course, but when I drink, I generally want people around me laughing and having fun. I rarely meet people I'd consider peers though. Either they are one or two decades younger, or they are overly religious and well-behaved and wouldn't put up with my shocking words. I mean shocking not in a vulgar way--that's boring--but just maybe, overtly honest? It's a problem. 

I am so happy I am reading fiction again. It is just so exciting to get totally wrapped up in other worlds and other people. The main problem is 1) they are fictional and when I want to get totally wrapped up, I want to be there living out the stories, and 2) I like some not always high quality stuff. I struggle with embarrassment over not reading top-notch quality literature and wanting to just have a good time and be happy. I think the key is to adopt a key phrase and when I start to feel like maybe someone is judging me, repeat my phrase and fuggedaboutit! I am tough. I am strong. I can read smutty romance all I want, dang it! 

I cried a bit too much yesterday. It was awkward because I was at work, and by afternoon I was completely drained, eyes dry and tired. Letting loose a while felt really nice. But today I wake up, optimistic and excited. It's Saturday. The house always, always needs cleaned, and Liam needs a haircut desperately. The little boys can get away with longer hair because theirs lays nicely on their head, but Liam's is thick and coarse and sticks out strangely when it is getting longer. Fascinating stuff, right? Can you believe I am not a more popular blogger? Shocking.

I thought I would wake up sad, but I am not. I feel relieved and refreshed. Relaxing completely last night was needed perhaps. I had planned a good gut-wrenching post because readers like that. That gets shared and looked at. That brings out dozens and sometimes triple digit readers. But, I don't feel that now. I am not going to prostitute my feelings unless they are authentic and genuine. 

I am nearing the end of A Court of Frost and Starlight.

This is an affiliate link for Amazon.

 

This main story has been told in the first three books--this is like the Holiday special, as someone in a Facebook fan group stated. I am enjoying it though. Letting my mind be back in Velaris, dreaming of dreamy Rhys, and Cassian, and Azriel. These fictional characters are living the life, man. The next book is supposed to focus on Cassian and Nesta's "relationship," of which there doesn't seem to be much of one yet. Nesta is a hardcare, withdrawn bitch, but I get it. There is a fountain of mushy feelings she is hiding in there. I think her core is rather tender, so she protects it well. And Cassian. He's like the outgoing dumb jock, the ESXP, the cheerful and hot Emmett of the group, for you Twilight fans. Rhysand is the main man, but Azriel-- I want more of him. Strong, shadowed, and quiet. I want to hear his thoughts.  Anyway. Y'all see why I get embarrassed? I am a mess.

It's funny how a book or movie can change little things about the way you live. Rhys and Velaris are always described as smelling of sea salt and citrus...so of course, I traded out my normal wax melts (usually warm, autumny scents) for the closest I could find. I have two mixed together. I like it.  Jasmine is a scent emitted when magic is used, and Taryn just so happened to get me a jasmine scented face oil for my birthday in August. So using that makes me happy. Usually. Sometimes jasmine reminds me of bathroom freshener.  They don't drink coffee in my book. They are tea drinkers. I don't know if the author is British or what, but it is a bit sad. I am trying to live this imaginary life as much as possible and coffee really needs to be a part of that life. 

I am going to read Crescent City next, and then read the Kingdom of Ash series. 

So that's my weekend plan. Finish A Court of  Frost and Starlight this morning and start reading Crescent City.  I have to work with my homebound student tomorrow. I  took on a homebound student because so much of our money tied up in paying off credit cards. THREE MORE YEARS before they are paid off, barring extra payments. It hurts. But it has to hurt, to feel it. The more it hurts now, the longer I will go before using credit again.  But extra income to continue living a pleasant life with trips and cute things is nice. 

Do you have great Saturday plans? I love it when people share back. Makes this big, cold world feel a bit cozier, you know?

So This is Morning

 

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Early, early.

I have started listening to short meditations during my stretching my exercises, again. I find when my confidence is down, it helps me to quickly recenter and gain perspective. I don't know why I fall out of the habit sometimes. One thing I dislike about my desire to write about things, is the feeling that people think I am lying around in anguish over my feelings. For me, though, writing about my feelings (very carefully filtered, of course-the world can't handle the truth!), helps me to process and gain perspective. While I may have bled all over the page, I guarantee I enjoyed it, and I am feeling better. 

Waking up at 2:30, aged 47. First, I stumbled across someone on Facebook who looked amazing after getting a trainer and going to a gym. I briefly thought of doing such a thing, sans the big arm muscle thing, because that is gross, but then remembered I still have 3 years to go before my credit cards are paid off. Nasty little things. The dream is full-time school next year, and Alec in public pre-k. I love the pre-k teacher at his current preschool, but we are talking   $600-800 difference a month . That's a big deal. It does make me feel like a commoner, contemplating public preschool, however.

I realize I am not likely to become a famous blogger. The focus and discipline is just too much. I want to write what I want to write. What is it about this world that says if we like something, we need to make it profitable? Why always the push? Yeah, it'd be nice to make extra money, but is it necessary or even best? All the strive, strive, striving and how many people get there? Is it worth the trade-off of just being me? 

So I only slept about 3 hours. I probably would have gotten back to sleep if Gabe hadn't come in 5 minutes into my waking time. He then snuggled right up against me, and I can't breathe like that. I know women are supposed to have a reputation for wanting to snuggle all night, but that makes me feel suffocated. Both couches are horrifically uncomfortable. I'll survive. I must be very tired, though, because I spent five minutes trying to get a picture of the back of my thighs to convince myself they weren't that bad and I should wear shorts more. The phone was too slippery and I couldn't quite manage it. Now that I am more awake, however, I think maybe I am delusional about the back-thigh thing and should stick to skirts and capris when it is hot.

I adore Alec and he adds so much to our life, but I do not recommend having a child at 43. I just can't keep up, especially since I have to work full-time. I can't work full-time, and come home and keep the house up with a 3 year old messing it up. It's too much. For now, we are just living in messy mediocrity until he is old enough to stop destroying everything. It's a waiting game. I am too tired to invite people over, and I actually love having people over. I just don't have the energy to clean and prepare food and be involved and entertaining on top of it all. I am lonely. I understand why people pay for counseling. Sometimes there are things outside your control, that you desire to talk about and process, that your family can't be burdened with (because you know the judgement they would have), and because you need an outside perspective from someone who won't be impacted by the choices you make. Alas, still paying off the credit cards. There is just this thing I need perspective on, but people who care about me would be shocked and tell me to do X, but I really just want to find a way to make Y work (no, I am not having an affair) And it makes me mad, because it's not me or my fault, but I have to deal with it and process it, and....just sucky all around.

When I was younger, my friends would come to me to talk about their dating struggles, and I, in my infinite theoretical wisdom (because I was at home reading everything I could get my hands on, but not out experiencing life), would give pretty decent advice. And they would come and thank me. And then I would look at my own dating experiences, and I was a mess. I could never follow my own good advice. This applies to all life lessons, I guess. And now, as I get older, I find experiences have turned the certainty I used to feel, upside down, and I just throw my hands up say, "Hey! Do what you gotta do." At the very least you'll get an interesting emotional learning experience to process. Maybe that's okay. Maybe messy is okay. When you remember how limited our time here is, who wants hospital corners? Just don't be poor. Not being able to travel or get a good Gyro sucks. God, I love that creamy, tangy white sauce on those things. Just put in a bottle and let me drink it. Where can I get that stuff?

I find myself wanting another tattoo. The one I have faded so much. It's small and I go back and forth between wanting to enhance it, or to embrace its imperfection and move on to something else. I always thought tattoos were just a bit trashy-and part of me still does-but there is this desire to mark these experiences on my body. I can't really explain it. It is just this need inside. Who knows if I will? It doesn't really matter either way. I am sort of past the age of caring what people think about it. Those who get it, get it, and those who don't, well, don't. Whatever. 

I am so tired. I was going to get enough sleep, so I didn't look like the walking dead in the video I need to record in a couple hours, but...alas, that's not happening. I am so happy we have virtual Wednesdays. I need that break. I am so tired by the middle of the week. I mean I am working at home, trust me, but going out and extraverting is exhausting. Did you know extrovert is more commonly used now, but extravert is the more technical psychology term? I just looked it up.

Welp. It's four now. I finished my cup of coffee and am going to try and get a little nap in. 

5 Secrets You Might Not Know About Me

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

I spend so much time discussing books, self-help, and my internal musings, I thought it might be fun to share a few totally irrelevant facts about myself! Enjoy! Note: I do think I may have mentioned these before, but hopefully it was on a different blog.

1. My right ear lobe is torn. When I was seven, I was sliding down one of those metallic farm pools which had been placed upside down against a fence to dry. A boy had climbed up with me and grabbed my earring accidentally as we went down. My parents took me to the doctor, who felt I was too young to stay still during the minor surgery. Eventually when I was older, it just wasn't a family priority anymore. I use superglue when I want to wear earrings. When I was in high school I tried clip earrings, but they would grow slowly tighter throughout the day leaving me with bleeding and infected lobes. Once I borrowed my mom's tiny diamond studs. The superglue wore off and the stud was lost. She never asked about it, so I never said anything. 

2. In preschool and elementary I was in trouble nearly every day for talking. I was very extraverted. I was always the last to finish a meal because I was so busy talking. I lived with my nose against a brick wall for the first part of any given recess. Unfortunately I was also very honest and blunt and learned it was better not to say anything. Much less trouble that way. I always wonder if I might have fared better with my bluntness had I been male. The expectations of supportive warmth are not the same for males.

3. I have had a completely sober out-of-body experience. It is so hard to put in words, and I totally understand all the more scientific reasons for such an experience-but...I'm telling you I was flying around the room with my body on the bed.

4. My first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. It was planned and I was just 7.5 weeks along. I was so very sad. I was too shy to go to the hospital and the sac/embryo slipped out. As I attempted to wash it off in the sink to get a closer look, I dropped it down the drain. It was traumatic. This is one reason why strong punitive laws against women who have abortions scare the Hell out of me. How could I have proven that was a miscarriage? I have always called the baby Mallory. 

5. I believe my mom woke me up the night she her heart stopped and fatal damage was caused in the hospital. Many of my readers have already heard the story, but it was quite an experience. I won't rehash it here, but here the link: Why Downton Abbey?