my hand is a wimp.

looks completely normal. hurts like a mother. yes, i have freckles on my palm.

So here's something awesome slash really embarrassing:  I think I need to have my hand x-rayed.

Now, I've always been super accident prone in general and incredibly idiotic when drunk, so I've had my fair share of injuries. Usually bumps and bruises, occasionally something that needs ice thrown on it, every once in a blue moon something that needs inspection by a medical professional.

It all just kind of comes with the territory. Give me a simple flight of stairs one step and I will easily find a way to fall up/down it, no matter my mental state.

So naturally the knowledge for this tendency to accidentally hurt myself is usually enough to prevent me from further putting my person into harm's way or, god forbid, seeking out injury/tempting fate.

With a few exceptions.

About two months ago I was driving along, throwing a fit in my car like the two year old I am at heart. I decided it would definitely help me calm down if I took my aggression out on something physically. Because that's so far really helped me the past 25 years. Right.

So, being the typically non-militant gal that I am, I wasn't really sure how to actually accomplish this, plus I am severely impatient, so I just closed my fist and took and jab at my radio display without really thinking.

Yeah, nothing.

But you know what? I'm not a quitter. So I decided to give it another shot.

This time, I was stopped at a light so I really wound up and punched the thing, for good measure.

Holy shit you guys.

Have you ever punched something harder than your hand with all your might or even half of your might? It's fucking dumb, first of all. Second of all, I broke my radio display, so that was stupid. Third of all, I'm the asshole punching shit in my car which doesn't bode well for my mental stability. And I mean, this was purely out of curiosity anyway, kind of an experiment to see if I would feel anything.

And I did. I felt like an idiot.

Plus I hurt my hand.

You see, at first it just felt kind of bruised. Like a good little hand, it never got swollen or REALLY hurt. So, I thought we were in business and everything would be fine except that I'm apparently unstable and do idiotic things.

But no. I mean, it's been two months now and we're still not swollen or unbearable, but making a fist really hurts and holding a pen really hurts and basically touching anything with my pinky sends shooting pains up my wrist. I'm guessing that's not a sign of healing.

Here's the other thing. If you're going to do stupid, impulsive things, there is usually a price to pay for it. Since I'm moving across the country in less than three months, and I am literally saving pennies and cannot afford to pay this price. Granted, I have insurance so it should be mostly covered, but insurance isn't magic money, I will still have to pay up to my deductible.




YAY!

I totally didn't need to eat until my move!

So anyway, I'm thinking of trying to rig up a splint on my pinky finger for a week or three to see if that does any good since the pain isn't killing me now, what harm will a few more weeks do? Believe me, I know how idiotic that sounds. I know. Too bad. I'm stubborn and poor.

Let this be a cautionary tale, the radio display in your motor vehicle will  likely win a fight against you.  

nothing appears to have gone awry. yet the entire right side of my hand hurts.

don't try to fight the radio. it never works out. the reason i look so miserable in this picture is because i was actually in pain. super lame.

in kentucky, gravel dances.

I was driving fast. I always drove fast then, even on winding, hilly roads I'd never driven before. I was young, and we don't like to waste a second of our youth. Leave the scenery and slow drives to the old, the ones wise enough to enjoy it. I may be going nowhere, but I'm hellbent on making good time.

God, it was a beautiful day. Warm and sun soaked and every fiber of my skin and bones ached to be enjoying September like every other 22 year old I knew. Day drinking on the lake. Submerging my body in bourbon and cloudy water. Laughing and laughing and getting sun burnt. Instead I was living in a Holiday Inn in Morehead, Kentucky and drinking bad coffee by the pot. This was what I signed up for. This is what I left it all behind for. This is why I went to college, right?

Let it be clear that this was not a happy period of my life. I was working as a union organizer in Kentucky, a job I'd idealized myself right into. Right into the middle of the rural-est nowhereland you can imagine, scrambling to talk to prison guards who had no use for a 22 year old college educated woman from the North wearing a badge that screamed UNION! They had no use for me at all. Even more, they were scared of me. Terrified of everything I represented, unwilling to entertain the idea of change. Still, it was an abundant time for me. I grew a lot, I learned a lot. I met some of the most important people in my life. My frustration was palpable.

So there I was, driving through one of the most beautiful places I've ever lived, hating the everloving shit out of every tree, hill, stump, stream, and squirrel. Eastern Kentucky really is the kind of landscape that will make you glad you're alive and able to see. It's also the kind of dangerous where no one bothers to take care of the roads because the state's broke and no one is around to hear you scream anyway.

No one is ever around. So I'm scream-singing unabashedly on this particular day to Ben Kweller's Problems for probably the 12th time to repeat, pretty sure I've got every nuance down this time, loosely steering, foot crushed down on the pedal to the right. I'm on my way to a work site to try to get some of these people to talk to me long enough to convince them that this is what they need so they'll be able to feed their kids and buy them shoes and take them to the dentist; really stick it to the man. I'm about to make them promises and then ask them to sign on it. Very poor people and those that can barely read don't trust anyone and never want to sign their name on anything, which I learned very quickly. Those things don't have anything to do with intelligence level. When it comes to survival, their aptitude could likely blow almost everyone I know right out of the water. So I'm violently singing out my dread and frustration and trying to get myself amped up. I'm lost in my head the way that I'm usually lost in my head and that's probably what makes me such an abysmal driver in the first place.

All of the sudden I think to look ahead and wouldn't you know it, the road is taking a 90, I'm going at least 50, and straight ahead is nothing but dead air to drop through.

It's a cliff. Just like those stupid Wile E. Coyote cartoons.

Now, I'm the kind of person that will exclaim "We were practically on the verge of death, I mean, we almost DIED," when literally nothing even bordering on dangerous has happened.

I'm also the kind of person that when something life-threatening and truly terrifying or disturbing has happened, is cracking up laughing so hard that I can't breathe.

Sometimes my reactions are a bit off.

Actually, it's probably safer to say usually. Usually, my reactions are a bit off.

But this time friends, it was different. Because I'm sliding off a cliff and despite the fact that my driving foot is now solemnly and decided pressed all the way down on the pedal on the left, I'm no longer on the pavement, but rather I've now hit a patch of gravel and I'm sliding forward and I'm now looking down down down. And it's a long drop.

I understand these things are supposed to warp life into a dream-like slow motion. I've never in my life had a crash happen to me in slow motion, so I think that's all bullshit. When you're truly and surely headed down the path of destruction, willing or unwilling, everything speeds up. Fasterfasterfaster. Even Ben Kweller started wailing at a quicker clip.

I'm making no progress on stopping and now my front tires are pretty much toast. I'm leaning back in my seat because I'm starting to feel the nose dip downward. I'm not thinking 'Fuck!" I'm not seeing bright lights calling me home to meet my maker, and I'm certainly not seeing the faces of my loved ones or any of my regrets. I'm not thinking anything. I'm not seeing shit except the ground below. I'm not feeling anything except the gravel under my tires hitting the sides of my vehicle. I'm feeling that acutely. 

No one is coming to find me. No one is going to hear me explode. No one will find the carcass of my wrecked vehicle at the bottom of this ravine. Even if I survive the fall, I've got no phone signal. I've got no direct supervisor. No one at all knows where I am.

Nothing in the employee manual prepared me for this.

And then something strange happened.

I can honestly say that I've never in my life had this thought cross my mind, but I reach down and I shift my careening vehicle into reverse. This wasn't me problem solving my way to a trial and error situation, there was genuinely no time for that. But some synapse of my mind forced my hand to reach down and grab that gear shift and send it back up two notches. And I'm still flooring it, but now, somehow, I'm back to the right pedal. And the gravel is still dancing all around me, but it's no longer to a funeral song. It's a survival jig.

And I'm stopped and I'm shaking and I'm sitting there, so so still. Suddenly everything is very still. We're not in slow or fast motion. We're stationery. The only reason I know I'm still alive is that I can feel blood rapidly throbbing in every single one of the pulse points where the vein meets thin enough skin on my body. I punch Ben Kweller off and it feels like I'm hitting him right on the nose. And it's quiet and I sit there and I can't call anyone and tell them I'm still alive, in case they cared, but I can't really talk right now anyway.

I peer back the way I came and I look to where I'm going and I don't dare get out of my car to look over where I almost went because I'm not sure if my legs are going to hold me up. I do that thing they do in the movies where they feel all over their bodies to make sure all the parts are still attached and intact. I'm honestly curious to make sure I'm all there because it feels like a part of me may have tumbled over the lip I'm now facing at a safe distance. All parts seem to be present and accounted for and that's when I exhale.

I'm relieved to note that I'm back on pavement, I appreciate that fact because there is absolutely no way that I put myself there.

I breathe and realize I've only lost about 6 minutes total, so I start easing my way down the switch backs that meander down the side of the mountain instead of falling straight off, and I arrive to the work site on time for my scheduled appointment. And like the day before and the day after and many off to either direction from there, no one talks to me. Nothing changed. It wasn't an out of body experience. I didn't change any of my ways. I didn't appreciate tastes or smells more. I just kept moving, working, trying.

I almost died, but I didn't.

streak.

I have a grey streak running through my hair. Really, it's more silver, but still, grey. It's on the right side of my head, midway up and maybe an inch behind my ear. Sometimes when I'm bored or nervous, I'll grab a cluster of hairs in that area and check just to make sure it's still there.

It's still there.

I've always had it. My mother used to have the hairdresser cut out the grey strands from the rest of my mess of hair when I was a kid. I've got so much hair, it's so thick, that no one notices if I'm twenty or so hairs short of my normal full head. I don't think she meant anything by it, it's just strange to have a child with grey hairs, why not simply rid me of any evidence of abnormality? At least of one so easy to remove.

In college, I went through a phase where I dyed my hair pretty regularly. Usually just a few shades darker. Occasionally I'd fall prey to the pictures I'd seen in magazines and go for some highlights. I forgot all about the grey. It was always covered up.

I literally just forgot about that part of myself. Maybe the hair dye killed my brain cells.

Anyway, partially due to financial constraints and partially due to me becoming the kind of person I actually want to be, I stopped dying my hair a few years ago. It kind of feels good to know that the chemicals are out of it. I kind of feel smug to be comfortable in my own skin. At least in that way, for every one part of me I've grown comfortable with, it seems five more insecurities pop up daily. Don't even talk to me about my pores, I'm set on spending an exorbitant amount of money trying to shrink them back to the size they appeared when I was sixteen and worried about the size of my boobs.

It's always something, I guess.

It was December when I noticed that my grey streak is back. I'm twenty five now, so at first it wasn't exactly a happy reunion with an old friend. I was curling my hair for a rehearsal dinner the night before the marriage of two of my college friends. Matt was in the shower in the next room.

I veritably panicked at the sight, because my first thought was that it made me a mortal. Someone who can't stop the sands of time. I mean, duh. I exclaimed for him to come and look and of course, he didn't see what all the fuss was about. When it comes to appearances, Matt is one of the least fussy people I know. Usually I appreciate that. In that moment, I did not.

My parents are both in their forties. I've never spotted a grey hair on either of their heads, and lately I've been looking more closely. None in my father's beard from what I can tell either. Isn't that where men show their age first?

 I'm standing frozen, transfixed, with a hot curling iron in my hand, wearing a salmon colored sleeveless dress in the middle of winter in a dark hotel room next to a highway in Columbus, Ohio, ticking through the Rolodex of grey hairs I have archived in my memory, significant ones. My Nan's blond color shampoo in the shower at the lake house when I was young. Her first attempts at covering what she now wears proudly. My aunt confessing that she's been dying her hair black for 15 years. A few streaks of silver in a couple of my friends, always yanked. And then there it was. The streak, buried far in the back, but still there. A forgotten memory of my childhood. Squelched as quickly as it could stubbornly reappear every time I sat down, cape resting around my narrow shoulders in the spinning salon chair.

Since then my grey streak has been more novelty and less foreboding omen for me. I'd like to say I've always been an old soul or something equally cliche, but the fact is that I haven't. I haven't always been an old soul. Sure, I like a lot of the same activities as my grandmother, and I'll gladly partake in them with her or alone, but really, I'm still figuring out new things about myself just about daily. I think that makes me still pretty young in the grand scheme.

My grey streak? It's not exactly a badge of honor, because I can't for the life of me figure what it's done to deserve that. I guess the best I can decide is that it's been a constant. It's stood there, stubborn, despite all the ways I've tried to yank it, cover it, or forget about it. No matter what I do, it takes root and hangs on for dear life. It's watched me change and grow and love and hate just about everything about myself. And it never mattered because it wasn't going to change, not really, not even when it was unrecognizable.  And now, I like it, just the way it is. Finally. 

I guess it's kind of like me. 

promises.

Once he broke down into tears as he told me there was just no other girl like me.

 

Hearing something like that from the one person you want to say it, it's some sort of trap. It's not a promise when he reaches for your hand. It's not a promise when you're leaning against your car and he reaches over and pulls your coat apart, splits it open like a pea pod. It's not a promise when he leans inside and brushes your hair out of your face and looks into your eyes.

 

It's not even a promise when he promises this is the last time you'll have to have this conversation. Please believe, you may both want to remain hopeful that it's true, but it's definitely not a promise.

 

It is a promise when he cries with his hands resting on the picnic table without gloves even though it's prickly cold and you feel a bite in your own fingers despite the fact that you're wearing a pair, so you reach over and put your little hands over his big ones and he looks up at you with those brown oil slicks of eyes and you actually return the gaze for the first time since you met that day. You're outside because you didn't want your heart to thaw this time, the frigid temperature is the only thing holding it together. When you touch him, when you look into his eyes, it's over. You're just a puddle, even if you look intact. It's a promise, but you're making it to him and he already knows you mean your promises, so please, refrain.

 

It's better to be the one not making any promises.

 

You can believe him later that day-  after following you back to your apartment and having sex with you and then falling asleep until he's got to leave again- when he tells you it's only because he hasn't slept since he last saw you. You can believe.

 

In fact, you probably should. And you probably will.

 

Go ahead and believe that he loves you and being around you makes him human.

 

But maybe keep in mind that he's already human no matter what. The chromosomes just match up, the genetic material. The way he acts, sure it's bad without you, but he'll never be anything other than human. We are still animals. Remember that. Because sometimes you'll wish you could will him to become a wolf or a lion or maybe even a bug you can squash with your shoe in passing. But he'll always be flesh and blood and nothing will change how trapped in human form he'll always remain. Behavior notwithstanding.

 

Forgive yourself for never knowing if he's really telling the truth or not. It's okay that despite everything you still want to believe every word out of his mouth. It's a pretty mouth. It's a mouth that means something to you. Even if everything he said was only half true, if you always believe him, you've got a 50/50 chance of calling it right.

 

Sometimes, when things get particularly trying, when he's really feeling low, he'll seek you out again, even after years. Don't mistake this for a change of heart, for love spanning the time and miles in one long connecting stride. He needs validation. He's coming to the person who, when they give it, it actually means something. That's not love. I know, I know. It's something.

 

It is something.

 

Try to take it as the something it is and not the something that you wish it would be. Seeing your name in his inbox, it doesn't send him into a tailspin. It doesn't change things. A wave of nausea isn't sweeping over him right now. He's not telling the whole story. Besides, you're a better storyteller.

 

One day we were at the end of a three hour drive and I knew. I knew we were going nowhere. I started ugly crying as we passed over a set of railroad tracks. I didn't hide it, I wanted him to notice. I wanted him to see what he was doing to me. It's funny how people spring to action when the driver starts getting hysterical.

 

I told him I wasn't getting on the ferry, he'd have to go to the island without me.

 

He made me some more promises, so I got on the boat. But, looking out at the water I knew- Even his promises aren't promises.

 

 

I loved him as long as he let me anyway. I keep my promises.

 

 

And now I keep them to someone else. And it feels better when the other person means their promises too.

 

So much better.

 

 

 

token mildly-offensive religion post.

Sometimes when I am asked, put on the spot, curiously inquired "What do you believe in?" I don't know what to say.

Partially, probably, because on any given day I am not really sure exactly what it is that I believe in.

Is this is question of faith? Of God? Of specifically what I DO to insert myself into a group of people who do the same things, which gives us an identity in this portion of our lives? Is this even about God? About finding common ground? Another manifestation of the fact that we're social creatures? Or is this all a quest for some type of serene knowledge?

Am I part of the safety that comes with numbers? Am I naive enough to claim I know the all or nothing of this great debate? Do I love freedom enough? Because don't you dare question my love of freedom.


AMIRIGHT?!

I just don't know.

Not for lack of introspective thought on the topic, let me assure you. Even when no one asks me the question, I ask it of myself.

Come on! What do you believe in, Sara?

There are obvious answers. I believe in post-it notes, for instance. I am very faithful to my relationship with them. I keep them with me almost constantly. I overuse them if possible. I utilize them to keep me on track, organized, to remind me of things too important to simply file away in my mind. I believe in post it notes because they keep things in the forefront. Because they work for me.

There are the less tangibles. I believe in saying 'I love you" every single time I hang up the phone with someone in my life that I love. Perhaps it is fear that drives this along, just like religion for some, knowing it could possibly be the last phrase I say to my loved one, the last chance I get to set the record straight. Love you. When I stop myself from saying it, it weighs on me until I talk to the person again. I believe in saying 'I love you,' even if it's based on superstition, especially if it's not at the end of a lengthy, pour-your heart out conversation, and again, especially if it is, too. I'm sentimental, I believe in sentiment, in 'I love you's.'

But it only grows from there. What else do I believe in? The power of love? The changes that come with time? Evolution? The New Testament?

Am I a Christian?

What kind?

How do I feel about Jesus?

Do I even believe in God?

Of course I believe in God.

Right?

I was raised Catholic, as were many of my friends. What a trip that was. I mean, when you roll with the Catholic crowd, you get some real crazies. Devoted folk too, but damn, crazy. I'm confirmed Catholic, which means I basically signed a blood oath to remain faithful to their ideals and do all their shit and no one else's for the rest of my life. Okay not really, and not a blood oath, but you know, at 15 they told me I was an adult in the eyes of the church and basically I didn't feel any different except that no one else was going to let me be an adult for like three more years. I jumped on that ship right quick, and since I do things all the way or not all all, I started leading youth group and doing bible study.

I loved that shit. I spent more time at church in my final two years of high school than I plan to for the rest of my life. I learned a lot in a general sense, and I learned a lot about Catholicism. And then I got to college and fell in love with my own freedom and actually being a quasi-adult and boom, all of the sudden my path wasn't on the road to righteousness... I was on the fast track to feminism and left-wing politics.

I'm not trying to bash Catholicism. I honestly feel like it's one of the least social-climby branches of Christianity out there and I love feeling like a part of something when I go back. Also, I have so much love in my heart for tradition, as nontraditional as I can be at times, and so many people I love the most in life are Catholic.

But I'm not exactly a practicing member anymore.

Religion is about more than knowing when to sit and kneel, the words of the chants, wishing those around you 'peace' mid-mass. For some, maybe that's all it is, to be a part of something bigger and feel comfort in knowing all the cues in weekly one-hour doses. It's just not enough for me. Because there are some things that I just CANNOT get on board with, and they pretty much cancel out the joy of feeling like I belong as a part of something.

 One of many of these issues (and I mean many, but for the sake of this being a blog post and not a book, we're going to talk about one very well known one) is the fact that we're not supposed to be cool with birth control or abortion. And I'm thinking to myself..... right. I guess it's the pull out and pray method then? I mean, I know that we're supposed to be forced into celibacy or a life of shame, but man, get real first of all and stop trying to scare me straight second of all.

Not really going to work to today's world.

I mean, I love you Jesus, really I do, but the whole immaculate conception story is really only going to work once and I've got living grandparents I'm trying not to shame and a bad case of the "I'm-in-no-condition-to-be-a-fit-mothers."

Don't get me wrong, I think it's wonderful when people have babies, even when they're not married first. My sister got pregnant four months before her wedding! Now we're all baby crazy! I'm going to be an aunt! I can't wait to squeeze the shit out of that little bundle of joy and teach it to say 'diahrea' before 'daddy' and spoil the everloving shit out of it! Look how accepting I am! YAY!

But I also believe in making the right choices for your body and mind to forge a path toward the happiness we're all desperately (some less desperately than others, assholes) pursuing... and damn, I don't think even I could spin a baby to my advantage right now.

This is life. It's basically the ultimate fight to the death cage match. Earth being the cage. I know, big cage, right? There are no fucking maps or strategies and we're all basically the blind and the blind leading the blind, so you know what, yes, I'm going to take any route/shortcut that will even TRY to make this journey easier. You can call me lazy, but come the fuck on, who is anyone to judge another person's choices in a fight to the death?

HOWEVER, I do believe in this idea of a higher being. Of something greater. Of a reason that we have faith. A reason for faith. Something that can't be explained with words or logic or complex equations.


Trippy, right? Damn right, it's the ultimate trip.

I also believe in an equal playing field and treating people with respect and kindness. I believe that there have been some wise, wise people in our past and even now that have had these lasting ideas that stuck and we all have so much to learn from them. But not everything- so much does not equal everything. No one is all knowing. Except God, maybe. I don't know. That's the point! No one knows! *(#&$*&#$!!!!

I also believe in making the choice that works for you. Not the easy choice, not the wahhhh-I-don't-feel-like-getting-out-of-bed-on-Sunday choice, but the decision to say, "Look, I get it, this is how you feel close to God and I respect that, I respect the validation that comes with ritual and gathering among people that hold the same beliefs and and would never try to deny you from doing what makes sense to you, what makes your soul feel peace." Because that's a beautiful thing for those that want it. And those that don't, psh, I'm cool with you too because to take a stand like that requires some guts and some heart as well. 

But I'm fully committed to finding what makes my soul feel peace. It's not comfortable, not knowing. Floating around and always kind of looking for something that makes enough sense to commit to. I haven't found it yet. I haven't found what makes sense fully and completely to my heart. When I do, I'll know, and I have faith that I will.

For now, just feeling that curiosity and desire sustains my faith that it is out there.

So maybe I don't always know what it is I believe in. But I do believe that it's different for everyone, and I will thank God for that.

a weird day. a full day.

Yesterday was a weird day.

 

 

Too full of emotion and heartbreak and inspiration and strength for one day. No. Not too much. Actually, if I had my way, every day would force so much feeling. So much recognition of what connects us. So many reminders that this is humanity and it is what we have to work with and the best we can do is to seek to stretch the limits that confine us. Push it out. Let ourselves feel it all. Look up from a book at the library and realize you're crying. Not because something sad or catastrophic happened, but because someone finally found the words to say that one thing. Because it feels like it could be you.  

 

 

Yesterday was an emotional revolution for me, from start to finish. On a personal level.

 

 

I learned a lot. Isn't it bizarre that sometimes you learn so much in one span of wakefulness?

 

 

I was honest with myself for the first time in a long time, the kind of honest that feels good even when it's not what you wanted to hear or admit.

 

 

A friend told me yesterday that she'll struggle until the day she dies with the idea that life isn't black and white, and that resonated with me. Because wouldn't it be easier? I can't help but think of myself as black and white sometimes, drawn to the poles and extremes. But the gray, the different shades that fill in around everything easy to place, that is perhaps our greatest treasure, the most important gift granted to humankind.

 

 

The gray. The interpretation, the individuality, the hard call that went the way you weren't expecting, that is the beauty of us.

 

 

Which I think I was trying to say yesterday before I got caught up in confession hour and media criticism.

 

 

We may strive for black and white, for understanding and clear lines, but the truth is that we're gray and I'm beginning to realize how thankful I am for that fact.

 

 

The other day I posted about a friendship I didn't think I could salvage, so I'd decided to scrap.

 

 

For some reason this fits: "Man plans, God laughs." I don't know if there is a God, but I sure hope someone is laughing at all the folly.

 

 

It was done, for me. I was going to cut my losses, even though they were big. Then I thought, maybe after one last conversation. Yes, I decided to go for the confrontation. And in thinking and worrying and trying to form any semblance of organization in what I wanted to express, I realized that maybe I was wrong.

 

 

Not wrong in how I felt, or wrong to take a step back. Every friendship, every true friendship has tests and moments of tumult. But I realized that once I let people in, gently ease my level of heavy into their hands for a moment so they can gauge it before I take it back within me, sometimes, on rare occasion, they hold my gaze and say "Oh, that's how much? Yes, yes, or course. That's no trouble at all. I can help carry that," and then a certain agreement has been reached. That I'm responsible too, for their heavy. That periods of silence can be comfortable and that sometimes what we're carrying ourselves gets too heavy to allow anything else. Not that we don't want to throw it right on top and carry it too, we just can't.

 

Friendship, it doesn't mean approving of every decision, or not stepping back. It means making the hard calls, and also accepting that sometimes, for no other reason than that we can and we want to, we change our minds.

 

I know that I've already done my resolutions, and I'm off to a pretty winning start, although I haven't delved into the bubbly since NYE, but I want to add one more, not for this year, but for forever, for my life. I want to, need to, start dancing in the gray parts. To see the beauty in the fact that nothing, nothing that has to do with the realm of human relationships and the spectrum of our emotional capabilities is black and white. Not just because it's so rare that I feel things absolutely anyway, but because it wouldn't be fair to expect myself to.

 

We are fluid, not steel, not matter how hard we try to be. But that doesn't mean we're not strong, perhaps it just means we have the advantage of flexibility, and change.  

 

And that's just part of what I learned yesterday.

 

 

2012 Resolutions... fresh and early

Matt lavished me with gifts this Christmas and I'm not going to gloat about it, butttttttt... let's just say I'm going to see the Black Keys in March. Among other gifts of clothes, scarves, 4 bottles of my favo champagne, and an owl necklace.

I reeeeeeeeally hope since he's gotten me an owl necklace the past two years that this becomes a tradition.

OK, I'm done.

 Let's reflect on the past year for a sec.

Here are my 2011 resolutions, which were both very tardy and very, very lofty.

I'm in a equally lofty mood going into this year but I'm also at the resolution-making early, maybe because 2011 wasn't that good or bad. It just happened. It's over? Okay. Bring on the next one.

2012 is going to be good, better, but this year it's time to make some resolutions I can actually get behind. Because really, the only one I saw through completely was the book a week goal. Go me! Reading is cool though, that one was pretty important.  I'm doing pretty well at paying my bills on time, too. Just saying.

So here's what I've come up with for the new year at hand and before you roll your eyes, I know there are a lot of items. I don't expect to accomplish all of them.  Okay. that was a lie. I fully believe I can handle this entire list. Go ahead and challenge me.

I'm going to explain everything as I go, so this may be a two parter. On a side note, aren't two-part gifts the best? I love them. All tied together because they're from the same person, but it's really two separate wrap jobs. Awesome. I love getting gifts, especially two parters.

Please bear in mind that these are in no particular order, otherwise 14 and 16 would be at the top, but they're pretty boring so I figure most people won't make it that far in the reading. But they're tomorrow anyway, so fahhhhgetttaaaabouuuutittttt.

Without further ado:

2012 WILL BE THE MOST BADASS YEAR EVER BECAUSE I'M GONNA:

1.  Drink more champagne.

Um, duh. Now this is some shit I can get on board with. I love bubbly. But like, LOVE it. Will not share a bottle with Matt love it. Now, champagne is typically brought out for celebration purposes. I want to celebrate a whole lot more in 2012. Not just the cool shit that happens, but the mundane- I made it through Tuesday! stuff too. I want my attitude to be one of more enthusiam for my life. For how great it's shaping up to be, for my ability to find a reason to celebrate more of it. Thus, champagne will be a staple for 2012.

2. Stalk people less on facebook.

Why is it that I can log onto facebook and skim the statuses and automatically click on any picture posted and find myself actually feeling an emotion toward it? Even if it's someone I haven't seen or talked to in three years. Even if it's a person I didn't like. ESPECIALLY if it someone I didn't like. Why do I have a five or so person rotation that I check up on, just to make sure I'm still skinnier/happier/better traveled/less pregnant/ less annoying than them? What the fuck is wrong with me? I mean, I know I'm bitchy at times, but why am I expending energy on people I have no relationship with? Facebook, I love you so hard, but we're spending less time together in 2012.

3. Wear more black.

It's slimming and it never goes out of style. No, I'm not gothic or anything. Wearing black makes me feel confident and powerful. Who couldn't do with more of those two things? I guess this is also incentive to get my dandruff situation under control. Ugh, relax, it's not that disgusting! It's just dry skin. I think.

4. Waste less food.

This is a big one. I am genuinely embarrassed by the amount of food that Matt and I waste. To an extent Matt is not as bad as I am, at least he doesn't walk into the grocery store with totally unrealistic healthy eating expectations for himself and walk out with three bags of veggies that end up slimey and thrown away. He goes for what he knows he will eat. However, the leftovers ratio of consumed to thrown away is totally skewed to the latter also. Mostly because I'll look down at the little foil wrapped containers and frown then try to find something else because I require a lot of variety. I need to buckle down and eat them! I'm going to force myself to actually eat the food I buy this year. Novel idea.

5. Wear less makeup. Yeah right. Find a way to shrink my pores until my skin looks like Olivia Palerno.

Okay okay. I know I'm not a richy rich celeb and so I don't have the resources at my disposal that they have when it comes to flawlessly smooth and creamy skin. Pus I smoked cigs for years which certainly didn't do me any favors. But I lust after skin with tiny little invisible pores so badly that I've started going to great financial lengths to get there. At this point I'd consider clubbing a baby seal and slathering its pure, virginal blubber all over myself  for perfect skin. Ok maybe not, but I will find the perfect skincare routine this year.

6. Take more leaps/ Be less of a pussy.

I've been standing in the exact same spot with my life for the past two years. I reeeeeeeeally need to bust loose with it and just start throwing myself out there. I know I have a strong support system that will help me up if I fall down and hurt myself or cheer me up if failure is the result. I need to stop being such a pussy about life. It's not waiting. the days keep coming in quick succession and if I'm not going to seize them, someone else will. In 2012, I'm going to go after whatever I dream up. Perhaps not fearlessly, but despite the near-crippling anxiety, I'm going to push through and go forth. Or at least make the effort.

7. Take a second before judging. AKA CHECK MYSELF.

Ok. I like to think I'm pretty open minded with people and pretty accepting. Note that I said 'Like to think." However, sometimes I snap my head back at myself and think 'Self, where did that nasty thought come from? You don't even know her/him!" It's embarrassing, internally scolding myself. So I'm going to try to slow my roll for a second before I jump to conclusions about that woman dressed like a lady of the night who just obviously cut me in line at Target. I don't know everything that's going on with her. I don't know everything that's going on with ANYONE. Before I assume they are just nasty people, I need to remind myself that every one has their own reasons for the things that they do, and most people aren't doing things just to be nasty. I need to chill, retract my mental claws/daggers/bitchy commentary. Heartwarming, I know.

8. Meditate.

I know this sounds kind of hippie-dipppie and you know what? I don't care. I LIKE hippies. I need to work on being more centered. Whatever that means. I've got a million things going on in my head at any given moment because I'm so goddamn intense, and most of the time it's worrying about other people and how to make everyone happy. I need to stop it. I need to take some time alone and just breathe. Take my own emotional temperature. Let myself work through things. and I need to be alone to do it. Surprise, surprise that this one makes the list again, under the guise of another name. But I found out this year that just because I take time for myself doesn't mean I use it wisely. So now that I am taking time for myself, I'm going to try to make it worthwhile.



PART 2 TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ha.

i'm about to f*ck you up with some truth.

I haven't been feeling the blog lately.

It's not you, it's me.

But really, it's me. And I'm about to explain why, or try to.

I've still been writing I guess. Weird little stories and emails that could fill entire encyclopedia volumes. Words are still spewing out of me, but not here.

Which has been caused me to pause and consider,  why not? I started this thing so I'd have an outlet, a place to just let it all flow out. It was a project to bring me up from the depths of feelings of total helplessness over having a job I hated, feeling defeated professionally and locationally, and not knowing where to go from here. And also to get me through Winter. In many ways, writing here has done me a great service, given me something to get excited about.

I started this blog to help me get through a particularly tumultuous time in my life and to help me find some direction. To help my be honest with myself. To force me to think about my life in terms of what would be next, and maybe that would have happened if I'd had to sense to keep it anonymous. But I didn't. I told my friends and I told my boyfriend because I was proud and excited and because I don't know, I guess I needed some sort of validation from the people who I care about.

I didn't think it would be a big deal, my people knowing that I was posting random shit about my life for everyone to see. I didn't and still don't anticipate my blog becoming a space to vent out my feelings about them in a fit of frustration or anger. Except apparently sometimes about Manfriend. Which is sort of passive aggressive of me, I suppose. Sorry about that, M. Anyway, I don't really bitch about my friends, I internalize that kind of stuff.

So if that's not what I'm afraid of, what is it?

Why is being honest to myself, and strangers, and my closest friends proving so damn difficult?

This whole post is a kind of a snoozefest.

I guess my point is this. I'm frustrated. I know I'm a decent writer and I know I can tell a story. But I've been at this almost a year and it still feels unnatural.

I still feel like I haven't settled in and found my voice.

And I'm still no closer to figuring out what that even means.

So here's what I'm saying. I'm not going to write about stuff like bad hair cuts and what makeup products I recommend anymore because I don't really give a shit about that kind of stuff. I don't care about celebrities or reality TV or really even fantasy football all that much either. It was only ever filler and forced material. And if you do like those things, I think that's awesome because I believe everyone is different and that's why I almost never get bored. If you write about it in a funny way or are still a genuine person, I will still love you to death and I'll still read it.

But it feels wrong for me to write about stuff I don't give a shit about.

The truth is I like being outdoors, and reading more than anything else, and this weekend I was in a cabin in the woods at a bachelorette celebration and I'm the only one who didn't bathe the entire time, and I don't even feel remotely weird about it. I've showered twice since and my hair STILL fucking smells like an campfire. I eat fast food more than I should, I feel so passionate about politics that it sometimes makes me cry AKA every time the president gives a speech I cry tears of hope. I'm bad with money, and I mentor little kids because they're interesting and funny and have so much to give if we'd pay attention.  I think my job is giving me an anxiety disorder and at this point I'm ready to resign myself to the lifetime of waitressing that my liberal arts degrees guaranteed me. I can be charming, and also super bitchy, and also a really good listener. Usually not at the same time.

I try. I'm doing my best all the time at being a decent person to share the Earth with, but sometimes I'm just not that good at it. And a lot of the time it makes me feel pretty hopeless, but I'm not going to stop trying.

So that's me. I'm only going to write about stuff I feel something about now. I used to be the kind of person that literally never cried and just rolled my eyes at sad movies and stood like a stone pillar at funerals. Now I'm much more in touch with my feelings, which I honestly like better, except when I'm driving home from work and Adele comes on and I start getting hysterical and before I know it, I'm glaring into the rear view mirror at myself crying and mouthing "I hate you" to myself. Then being in touch with my emotions kind of blows.

I can't promise this will be funny, not that it ever was. But now, it will at least be an honest account of a real life train wreck trying to get back on track. Sometimes that's hard to look away from, right?  I can't promise that I'll post regularly or frequently, but I do promise that everything from this point on will at least be honest.

And that's not nothing, right?

I hope you keep reading, if not, happy trails to you.

XO Sara

thanks, part 3.

Looks like this lovely feature will live to see another week.


The letter below is addressed to my dear friend Devin, who now lives in Chicago. We met at work and he pretty much got me through the first five months at my current job.  




Hey, D.


I'm smiling while I type this right now because I feel kind of silly about it. But let's get it rolling, shall we?!


Remember the first time we hung out away from the office? Thanks for suggesting that. Tennessee beat Ohio State, it was March Madness,  we were alumni rivals and pretty much instant friends. It was a shitty game and I was bitterly disappointed and you started singing Rocky Top right there in the bar in Indianapolis. We barely knew each other and you were yelling throughout the place and cursing at your players and we settled in as friends that very night. Mutual respect, or something like it.


What a gamble though, you know? That transition from work friends to real friends can be a dangerous game. Not for us. The office where we met and the job from hell, it brought us together- so I guess I can't hate it too much. That place is brutal, though huh? I'm still wasting away in my little cubicle cell and you've got two moves under your belt since then. It's fantastic that you keep growing, fighting tooth and nail to get to your professional goal, it reminds me that I need to fight off looming complacency at every turn.

Remember the email thread? There were periods of time I spent more effort crafting responses to the thread than I did on work. Like, long periods of time. Thanks for the bullet points. Thanks for the morning greetings, the promises that it would be a great day, the onion articles, the laughs. Thanks for all of it. I wouldn't have fared without you to prod me along.


I like having a friend that I can relate to, who grew up with a father also in this industry. The constant travel, the moving around. Serial transplants. It's probably why we get along so well, always having to make new relationships sort of forces you to learn how to talk to people, make fast friends. Thanks for getting me that way,  for being able to relate on that level. Charismatic fathers and cocktail hours, we're alike in so many ways.

There's something to be said about strong personalities; at one point we'll be having a casual conversation about anything from sports to politics and before I realize it we're shouting over each other to get a point across. In a public setting. Causing a scene. Per usual. It's never conflict driving our conversation, it's excitement, interest, passion. Thanks for bringing that to the table too, it feels good to have heated and animated conversations. It feels good to have someone give it back.  


You wear your heart on your sleeve and expect the best out of me. You hold me to it. Thank you, truly, for that. And when I'm down and doubting myself and deeping worried that I'll never get out of here, you remind me how smart and talented I am. You tell me how I'm meant for more and encourage me to reach out and take it. I'm so grateful to have such an eloquent friend with so much faith in my abilities. Even when I'm hating myself and lower than low, you will take the time to raise me up, no questions asked. I only wish I can be there that way when you need it too.


Dev, you make me feel cool, and so important. You want to hear what I have to say and you make the effort to stay in touch with me when I'm busy getting swept up in the bullshit of my everyday life. I'm sorry, so sorry, that I'm so terrible at making sure we're still always on the same page, all caught up on what's going on in our own lives. I feel terrible when I miss you or forget to call you back. And then I let too much time pass and I feel even worse and guilty and avoid it altogether.  I feel absolutely horrid that I didn't have the time and energy to drive over to where you were to see you this weekend when you were in town. You would have made the effort. You're always willing to make the effort.


I miss that. I miss getting beers with you after work, sitting outside and taking about our families and our goals and our hellish workdays and the motley crew of our department. You're one of the best and I know you've literally never had an ulterior motive to get ahead. You do things the right way, the fair way. Life is so goddamn unfair, thanks for showing me the good ones can still end up on top. And you'll keep moving up, too. You're a hardest worker I know and you've earned every bit of that cockiness you throw out sometimes.


At the risk of getting overly emotional and sounding idiotic, I want to thank you for being so bold and in life's face. You're always fearlessly wearing your heart on your sleeve and being your this-is-what-I-expect-and-deserve, but also  let-me-help-you-self. You've never once complained to me about how hard it is for you to get around, with the exception of the "Really? You people don't have any fucking handrails? This is a goddamn death trap." Comment last spring after a couple of Beams. I can't imagine how much you've gone through for your CP, and still, it never rules your life or defines you as a person. You'd be damned before it ever did. You've got such a big personality, a great personality, that I often times forget all the shit you've got to deal with on a daily basis.


You're stronger than I'll ever be, thanks for showing me such a forceful strength in spirit. You'll always be one of my best friends, no matter how often we see each other or how frequently we find time to catch up with one another. I'm so grateful to be able to safely say that.


Thanks for coming out, you always bring all you've got.


XX Sara

confiscated.

Friday morning, I felt like I was in a movie. Secret service people hanging out in all the shadows, slyly whispering into their subtle ear/mouth pieces, super thorough purse and body checks, and of course, stressing about the perfect outfit.


In hindsight, I sort of wish I'd spent Thursday night planning an outfit, locating the iron to ensure said outfit was wrinkle-free, taking a shower, mapping directions to the speech site, and cleaning out my purse- as opposed to downing a 27 ounce marg in honor of a holiday to which I have no connection and starting a bonfire in the backyard of my urban domicile that lasted until late into the evening.


But, essentially I did nothing to prepare and didn't get enough sleep, thus perpetuating myself into a state of panic and borderline despair until I finally made it through security on Friday morning.


Let me just go ahead and tell you a little story about girlchild me. I've been OBSESSED with The President of the United States since I found out about voting and democrazy. Hahaha I meant to type 'democracy,' but I kind of like that little slip-up. Anyway, let's keep moving. Initially, it didn't matter WHO the president was, I just held the position to the highest esteem. As I strove for control and perfection in every facet of my life, I'd ask myself OFTEN "What would The President think of this?" or "Would I be proud to show this to The President?" In fact, I could turn a task as simple as cleaning my already-tidy room into a seven-hour ordeal and sob-fest at this simple thought. It wasn't good enough to get good grades and excel in sports, I wanted to make The President proud.


I probably spent most of my formative years waiting for The President to come and inspect the tight corners and perfect angles that I'd spent hours perfecting on my bed-sheets.


But, apparently tequila, sunshine, and old age have softened me considerably, because Thursday night I did nothing to prepare for my first-ever experience in the same proximity as an actual US President.


As I ran around on Friday morning, cursing myself and leaving a wake of confusion and hysteria, I created a mental list of "I WILL NEVER, EVER, MAKE THIS MISTAKE AGAIN BEFORE HAVING THE GOOD FORTUNE TO FULFILL ONE OF MY CHILDHOOD DREAMS."


1. Wake up earlier. If I want to leave at 9:45, I learned that I can't roll out of bed 45 minutes prior and expect to shower and wolf down sustenance as I would on a normal workday. This was, in my own little world, a red-letter day and I should have left myself double the time to spasmatically breathe and try on six reject outfits before finding the perfect balance of preppy-but-not-too-Republican.


2. Decide what you're wearing the night before. Try it on. Iron it if necessary. Lay out in preparation to make this process easier on yourself. I actually ironed a dress-shirt with my flatiron on Friday morning because in my frantic state of alarm, I failed to locate the iron. It was pathetic. I've rarely felt such extreme self-hatred as the moment I realized I was going to be forced to wear a wrinkly shirt on the day I was going to be in a semi-intimate audience to see The President of the United States of America due to lack of fore-thought. Fail.


3.  Map directions. It seems pretty simple. It wasn't... apparently. I also found out after walking a half a mile in heels that I had access to park in the lot not twenty yards from the door.


4.  CLEAN OUT YOUR PURSE PRIOR TO SECURITY CHECK. This is where I mention with chagrin that I had an item confiscated and "Handed over to local authorities," when the secret service or whoever was doing security looked through my purse. Since I was in such a hurry to get out the door, I just grabbed my messenger bag/purse and didn't think twice about its contents. Until Hottie McPursechecker was wading through my shit and I realized I had about 26 loose Midol floating around the bottom, countless random scraps of paper/unwrapped pieces of gum, and this device:

YIKES.

Instant and complete mortification. A congressman and his two school-age children were trying to get through security at the same time as me, and judging from their bewildered stares I can only imagine their conversation when they got to their seats was something along these lines:

"Daddy, was that lady trying to hurt the President?

I don't think so honey, she looked like a well-meaning, but utterly unprepared and semi-careless citizen.

Doesn't everyone know you can't bring stuff like that to see The President?

You'd think so, honey, but she obviously wasn't as welllbred and intelligent as we are. Did you see the wrinkles on her shirt?

Yeah! What did she think this was, the grand opening of a new Walmart?"

Hateable.

I was so embarrassed to see my dangerous, yet really handy tool, that I instantly started sweating and apologizing profusely. I told the guard he could just throw it away, and that's when he laid the bit on me about turning it over to the local authorities. I could have melted into the ground.

4. Important people are always late, so don't fret about being at an event when the doors open. Even I should have known this. Instead of running around like Tucker Max with his dick cut off, I could just have relaxed and realized that his speech wasn't scheduled to started until two and half hours after doors. Plus, I hate pushy crowds where everyone's trying to get in first. I'd much rather not wait in line. So, despite arriving at the speech location thirty minutes after doors, I was NOWHERE near late, I was just unknowingly smart.

All in all, I pulled myself together, managed to weazel into a good seat despite my 'standing room only' instructions, and watched in awe as The President delivered a speech live and in living color in my presence. I can only hope that I'll get the opportunity to see another presidential speech, whomever he OR SHE, may be in the future.

Luckily, I've also let go of the fear of The Prez showing up to inspect my sheets, come on, they don't even pump their own gas, they've got WAY bigger fish to fry.

Hope your weekend was great!

XO Sare

lessons learned.

WHEW.


This weekend was all sorts chalk-full with internal dramafests. I probably don't convey this accurately when I'm slinging down words for the broad expanse of internet anonymity, but I'm actually not a very emotionally expressive person in real life. Specifically regarding insecurities, sadness, disappointment, or the hug or no-hug confusion/mess when greeting/saying goodbye to most people. (Anger is one thing I DO convey well.)However, usually I'll be going through a space mountain ride of tumultuous feelings in my mind, but the external shell is pretty much impenetrable.


It's how I like it.


This weekend, not so much. What's even better, I'm having an especially tough time finding the words to express to people what I'm thinking/feeling- probably from years of practice NOT doing that very thing. So I'm working on it.

This weekend was a seemingly never-ending series of 'Let's teach Sara a life lesson!' moments.
AKA the Universe took the past few days to fuck me up with some knowledge. It was intense. Here's what I got out of it:


1. Not all things that are broken can be fixed.


I sent Mary an email on Friday morning and got a less-than-cuddly response. My expectations were low, but it was still a bitter disappointment. Mary and I have always been good about expressing ourselves to one another and this short correspondence was no exception. Her response cut me to the core and I was glad I had time for a long and punishing run to bang out some of my feelings directly following my reading of her response. Too much time has passed for her, we're too different of people and I've missed too many important events in her life. Point taken. I had this knowledge clinging to my psyche for the whole damn weekend and decided I wasn't going to tell a soul about it. Yikes.

Bottling everything up so tightly causes things to seep out in weird ways... such as:

2. Country music, even though it's not my usual musical selection, will make me involuntarily weep like none other.


It's irritating too, because it's really the only music Manfriend and I can settle on, and if I'm having a bad day, those voices and words just make my eyeballs leak. Even Elliott Smith and Bright Eyes never get me that way. Plus, I don't exactly make the hall-of-fame for graceful weepers. I don't know how, I don't cry often enough.  It's ugly and messy and mostly I get so worked up that I can't breathe, which I try to control, so my throat starts to ache and my face gets all contorted. I hate it. I've actually pondered and wished that I could expel a lone crocodile tear from one eye and let it run down my cheek perfectly until it reaches my chin and begs to be wiped off tenderly with a loving touch- but it's just not me.

Instead I get embarrassed and bitchy and all "I don't want to talk about it." And decide to go for another long and punishing run, which leads to these little knowledge bombs.

3. Don't look down!

I went to an old, familiar park about ten minutes away from my hometown Saturday afternoon to bang out some more feelings and be by myself for a while. I didn't wear a watch or let myself fixate on my shin splints. I pondered my future and my friendships and what I want. I started feeling tired and kind of shitty like someone was pulling a Tonya Harding on me, and ready to just call it good for the day. 

And then something happened.


I realized I was looking down at my blasted feet. It's Spring! The sun was making its second and final appearance of the week, and there I was. Lost in thought and watching my feet hit the ground in front of me. Worrying about getting my knees up, improving my stride. Over thinking the shit out of it.

I know how to run, I've been doing it on and off for longer than I haven't at this point. But for whatever reason, I wasn't trusting myself not to trip over my own two feet, keep a good stride. I'm like that with my feelings, too. I micro-manage every little thing and don't just trust the process. I've concentrated on growing up and maturing for so long and so desperately and vigorously that I'm almost certain I've stunted myself and my own personal growth in the meantime. There is no instruction manual for growing up, 'adult' looks different on everyone, depending on what makes you happy.

When I looked up and started noticing the trees flowering, the other people walking their dogs, the birds flying overhead, I was almost overwhelmed by it all. Running became so much easier because I wasn't fixating on it and letting it control my psyche. I looked up and trusted my own legs and admired the beauty around me, feeling a visible lift in my stride.

I brought that run in hard and almost collapsed onto the ground to stretch at the end, and then this happened:


4. Serendipity is real and people will touch your life and change you whether or not you give them permission to do so.

 I had a great run and I got done and sat beneath an old familiar tree to stretch my legs and catch my breath and down some water. As I get up to leave... my high school cross country coach rolls up on his bike. I almost shit myself. We never got along, but on Saturday, we'd both gravitated to the spot where we'd met as a team for practice once a week ten years ago.

He and I never got along because I'm me and I didn't like bed-times and rules put in place by people other than my parents... and really, even them. I was outspoken about my distaste for the way he treated us and played favorites and how much he expected of us. He once told my team of high school runners on a ride back home after a meet that we'd make terrible parents. It was a frustrating four years for both of us, we knocked heads on everything. But I'm still running. He almost forced me to join the team as a freshman and the new kid and I now realize that it saved my life. I was part of a team, I learned healthy habits, I made the best friends that I still have and currently share a home with. That man gave me an outlet for my feelings and a lifelong hobby. Up until Saturday, I never would have given him credit for any of those things. But the truth is, I still gravitate to that spot when I'm feeling weak to remind me that I'M NOT, and he helped me realize how strong I can really be.

So that man that I never really got along with is still influencing me and making an impact in my life. I hadn't seen him in seven years at least, have never run into him around town, but wouldn't it happen that I see him at the most significant place to link us on that particular day. Weirdballs. We talked for a few minutes and it was so strange for me, all of those realizations dawning that I started shaking. I cut our conversation short and drove away and thought about the person I'd be if he'd never ushered me in to that world, that community and family that comes with being part of something bigger than you can realize at the time.

And then I burst into tears like a little emo bitch, because damn, that's RAW.


Plus, I'd like to add, I was already fucking raw. So cut me some slack.

The rest of Saturday passed. Manfriend and I drove down to visit an old friend and her husband. We got back to his house late and crashed. Sunday was rainy, and perfect for moving languidly, making breakfast together and laying in bed as long as possible. I felt spent and emotionally exhausted. We drove over to visit my family for a few hours and I checked my facebook for the first time all week to discover a second message from Mary. 

DOUBLE FUCKING BONUS. 


5. You'll never get the things you want most in life until you learn how to ask for them.
6. Sometimes when people have time to think and reflect, their perception of things shifts.

Mary's second message expressed that now that she'd had time to think back on our friendship for a few days and really ruminate in the memories of how fucking fabulous we were as best friends that she decided maybe it wasn't too late for us to forge a newer friendship on top of the rubble from one we'd broken together. I say party on.

I guess I'm realizing that you have to learn how to ask for what you most want, because the worst that can happen is nothing, which is exactly where I was to start. It takes time to think rationally after emotional whiplash, people change their minds. Being rash is easy, especially for those with sharp tongues and quick minds, but letting your heart catch up to your head... that's a real challenge.

I'm glad I asked Mary to be my friend again. I'm glad I'm taking time to figure out what I want the most in every aspect and figuring out how to ask for it effectively.

So yeah, I learned a shit-ton this weekend. And as much as I appreciate it, Universe, maybe take it easy on the feelings this coming weekend.

XO Sare