It's gorgeous out today, I'm fairly caffeinated and this afternoon, I'm headed down to Austin for my sister's bridal shower. On top of that, I've finally reached the point where all of my clothes fit. All of them. I can walk in the closet and say, "Hey, I wanna wear that there article of clothing," and then actually wear it. Without, you know, sumo squats or weeping. It's been at least a year since that happened.
Which is to say, today could be SO much worse.
Also? It's 9AM and all my bills are paid. I've said it before, but I get this really, really good feeling from paying bills. Which is totally nuts since paying bills means that twelve hours after I get my paycheck, all but like, six dollars of it are zip! gone from my checking account. But oh, the satisfaction! I'm so responsible! And did I mention good? I'm really good! And hungry, but that is neither here nor there. Snack time is at 10.
For those who were asking about the artificial sweetener thing - no, it's not because I'm pregnant, you hesh up! I quit because, even with all of the work outs and eating properly and missing wine oh-so-much, I wasn't really getting anywhere as far as the scale was concerned. So, I did some reading and discovered that artificial sweeteners can send your body all the wrong signals, interfering with hormone production and such and I decided I didn't want anything to do with that. So I quit. Two weeks of real sugar in my coffee and yogurt and the pounds came right off. We've emptied our pantry and fridge of anything fake and it feels really satisfying. Ok. Not anything fake. I'm having a really hard time parting with my I Can't Believe It's Not Butter spray. I know, I can't believe it's not cancer. I know, I know. BUT I LIKE MOIST TOAST. And I will employ a whole stickabuttah to achieve it. Whatever, though. The spray butter sits in the fridge right next to the organic ketchup and I'm sure that's got to do some good. Healthy by association. Organic osmosis!
Which is to say, today could be SO much worse.
Also? It's 9AM and all my bills are paid. I've said it before, but I get this really, really good feeling from paying bills. Which is totally nuts since paying bills means that twelve hours after I get my paycheck, all but like, six dollars of it are zip! gone from my checking account. But oh, the satisfaction! I'm so responsible! And did I mention good? I'm really good! And hungry, but that is neither here nor there. Snack time is at 10.
For those who were asking about the artificial sweetener thing - no, it's not because I'm pregnant, you hesh up! I quit because, even with all of the work outs and eating properly and missing wine oh-so-much, I wasn't really getting anywhere as far as the scale was concerned. So, I did some reading and discovered that artificial sweeteners can send your body all the wrong signals, interfering with hormone production and such and I decided I didn't want anything to do with that. So I quit. Two weeks of real sugar in my coffee and yogurt and the pounds came right off. We've emptied our pantry and fridge of anything fake and it feels really satisfying. Ok. Not anything fake. I'm having a really hard time parting with my I Can't Believe It's Not Butter spray. I know, I can't believe it's not cancer. I know, I know. BUT I LIKE MOIST TOAST. And I will employ a whole stickabuttah to achieve it. Whatever, though. The spray butter sits in the fridge right next to the organic ketchup and I'm sure that's got to do some good. Healthy by association. Organic osmosis!
Oh, hey. I'm here. And I'm having Office Space moments at the pace of oh, about six per hour. You know that scene where the beat the ever-lovin' hell out of a fax machine? I came scarily close to doing that to my desk phone yesterday afternoon. Instead, I gritted my teeth, developed a swell little anger headache and went home. I was asleep on the sofa in minutes and didn't even so much as twitch for the better part of two hours. And I'm normally a thirty minute napper. See what you're doing to me, job? SEE? Next up is eating my feelings and it's taken me almost six months to lose the boyfriend weight, so back off! I just feel so frustrated and undervalued some days. I know we've all been there, but honestly, isn't a terrible, terrible shame that we all know what that feels like?
I did a nice job of wigging on the Dork Lord Sunday afternoon, too, that's how much it's getting to me. And as usual, he was really, really good about it. How ever did I find him? Oh, yes. The Internet. Whence all good things spring.
On the brightest of the bright sides, my little sister is getting married next weekend! Oh, man I am so excited. To see her wedded. To see my family. To snorgle the babies. To have a reprieve from the daily grind. My niece doesn't stand a chance against the Omm nomm nomm-ing that is coming her way. And I hear that my nephew now says, "Dammit," which as we all know is a gateway swear. I'm perfectly willing to help him out with the rest of the obscenity catalog and will invest my time thusly. Swearing at seventeen months. I couldn't be prouder.
I did a nice job of wigging on the Dork Lord Sunday afternoon, too, that's how much it's getting to me. And as usual, he was really, really good about it. How ever did I find him? Oh, yes. The Internet. Whence all good things spring.
On the brightest of the bright sides, my little sister is getting married next weekend! Oh, man I am so excited. To see her wedded. To see my family. To snorgle the babies. To have a reprieve from the daily grind. My niece doesn't stand a chance against the Omm nomm nomm-ing that is coming her way. And I hear that my nephew now says, "Dammit," which as we all know is a gateway swear. I'm perfectly willing to help him out with the rest of the obscenity catalog and will invest my time thusly. Swearing at seventeen months. I couldn't be prouder.
I, for one, was afraid Friday would never happen. It was one of those weeks where I was looking for some little evil magical dude with whom to make an ill-advised deal simply to get out of my current situation. Oh, you want my firstborn, the keys to my car and the password to my bank account? DONE! Now, uh, let's get on this straw-to-gold business. I could use a nap. But, aside from taxing, the week was a good one and I'm feeling hopeful about the future. Totally effing tired, but hopeful. And that's not a bad place to be.
Anyway, since I'm having trouble forming complete thoughts that don't center around being prostrate on the sofa in a pool of my own drool, I offer you the following tidbits:
I miss Glee. Like, really a whole lot. Sometimes, when I'm on the treadmill in the morning, I think about how much I miss Kurt or Rachel or Finn and about how if I were the delusional sort, I would send them a letter. Sometimes, I compose those letters while I run. Oh, I know.
Yesterday, I got to hear my niece Penny "sing" and my nephew say thank you ("Dane due!") over the phone. Do people actually die from cute? Because I nearly did. My coworker says I need to get pregnant. Yeah, babies. Because THOSE are free.
I learned - the hard way - that Starbucks coffee and office coffee do not even REMOTELY contain the same amount of caffeine. Surely that's what cocaine feels like. I mean, it must. Holy god.
Did you know that if you "quit" artificial sweeteners, you get withdrawals? I did not. Until the night sweats (getting up to change my pj's twice a night was awesome for the sleep quality factor) and the gnarly headaches. I read something that said the process could take as long as two weeks. Two weeks? At day two, I was ready to mainline some Splenda. All better now. If I lived in Walnut Grove, none of this would have even been necessary. Seriously, most days, I'd rather worry about bears and locusts than all my first world whiney crap. But then, what would I write about? The Long Winter's already been taken.
Anyway, since I'm having trouble forming complete thoughts that don't center around being prostrate on the sofa in a pool of my own drool, I offer you the following tidbits:
I miss Glee. Like, really a whole lot. Sometimes, when I'm on the treadmill in the morning, I think about how much I miss Kurt or Rachel or Finn and about how if I were the delusional sort, I would send them a letter. Sometimes, I compose those letters while I run. Oh, I know.
Yesterday, I got to hear my niece Penny "sing" and my nephew say thank you ("Dane due!") over the phone. Do people actually die from cute? Because I nearly did. My coworker says I need to get pregnant. Yeah, babies. Because THOSE are free.
I learned - the hard way - that Starbucks coffee and office coffee do not even REMOTELY contain the same amount of caffeine. Surely that's what cocaine feels like. I mean, it must. Holy god.
Did you know that if you "quit" artificial sweeteners, you get withdrawals? I did not. Until the night sweats (getting up to change my pj's twice a night was awesome for the sleep quality factor) and the gnarly headaches. I read something that said the process could take as long as two weeks. Two weeks? At day two, I was ready to mainline some Splenda. All better now. If I lived in Walnut Grove, none of this would have even been necessary. Seriously, most days, I'd rather worry about bears and locusts than all my first world whiney crap. But then, what would I write about? The Long Winter's already been taken.
"I'm still here. Snoring."
"I know."
It's rare to catch a moment together in the morning. Ordinarily, I'm up for a jog before 5:30 and out the door by 7:00 - at least a full hour before his feet hit the floor - and so our routine consists of a kiss on the cheek, some mumbles above love you and good days. But he was up, I was up and we were having couples therapy at the bathroom counter.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know," I said, running a finger over the seam of his shirt. "I just feel kinda sick."
After a bad dream, it seems to take me a while to compose myself. And I was having one of those not composed moments. I'd just dreamed that the Dork Lord confessed he didn't love me anymore, that he hadn't for a long time, and that I was - what was the word Nightmare Boyfriend used? Oh, yes. Complicit. I was complicit in his not loving me.
"You said you were tired of my insecurities," I said. "Only, you said it with an impediment, like a little kid would.Totally bizarre."
"We both know that if anyone feels insecure right now, it's me."
I nodded. It was true. Despite the money problems that plague us, I had been riding a nice little tailwind of confidence lately. Meanwhile, he was taking a beating from work and school.
"But that doesn't make me love you any less."
I grabbed a Q-tip from the container on the counter and wet it with my tongue.
"Baby, on the list of things that suck about my life..."
Mid mascara-swab, I smiled before he even finished. I do delight in being the top of his List of Things to Love.
"...you're at LEAST number three."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I'm what? Wait. Number three before or after the dog?"
"Um... well, let's not talk about this anymore."
He grinned, smacked me on the tush and headed down the stairs. I finished my mascara clean up and thought, "Whatever. I totally suck less than the dog."
"I know."
It's rare to catch a moment together in the morning. Ordinarily, I'm up for a jog before 5:30 and out the door by 7:00 - at least a full hour before his feet hit the floor - and so our routine consists of a kiss on the cheek, some mumbles above love you and good days. But he was up, I was up and we were having couples therapy at the bathroom counter.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know," I said, running a finger over the seam of his shirt. "I just feel kinda sick."
After a bad dream, it seems to take me a while to compose myself. And I was having one of those not composed moments. I'd just dreamed that the Dork Lord confessed he didn't love me anymore, that he hadn't for a long time, and that I was - what was the word Nightmare Boyfriend used? Oh, yes. Complicit. I was complicit in his not loving me.
"You said you were tired of my insecurities," I said. "Only, you said it with an impediment, like a little kid would.Totally bizarre."
"We both know that if anyone feels insecure right now, it's me."
I nodded. It was true. Despite the money problems that plague us, I had been riding a nice little tailwind of confidence lately. Meanwhile, he was taking a beating from work and school.
"But that doesn't make me love you any less."
I grabbed a Q-tip from the container on the counter and wet it with my tongue.
"Baby, on the list of things that suck about my life..."
Mid mascara-swab, I smiled before he even finished. I do delight in being the top of his List of Things to Love.
"...you're at LEAST number three."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I'm what? Wait. Number three before or after the dog?"
"Um... well, let's not talk about this anymore."
He grinned, smacked me on the tush and headed down the stairs. I finished my mascara clean up and thought, "Whatever. I totally suck less than the dog."
Over the last several days, there's been such a tremendous outpouring of warm fuzzy, that I would feel like a cranky old hag if I didn't say something. I got caught up in the vitriol, and if I hadn't put the kibosh on feeling sorry for myself, I could easily have missed out on the greatness of the last week.
Thank you.
Thank you for your comments. For introducing yourselves. For being real and honest. Thank you for the emails of support. For reminding me why we wrap ourselves up in this interweb to begin with. And to those (don't worry, I won't call you out) who made PayPal donations to the "ring fund." Seriously, how dear ARE you people? Answer: SO dear. I know you think it's small, but it isn't. Not in monetary terms (we're inching our way there!) and not in emotional terms. Especially not in emotional terms. It is an absolutely overwhelming feeling to be buoyed up by you. It makes my heart feel too big for my chest sometimes.
So, you know, thanks. A lot.
Thank you.
Thank you for your comments. For introducing yourselves. For being real and honest. Thank you for the emails of support. For reminding me why we wrap ourselves up in this interweb to begin with. And to those (don't worry, I won't call you out) who made PayPal donations to the "ring fund." Seriously, how dear ARE you people? Answer: SO dear. I know you think it's small, but it isn't. Not in monetary terms (we're inching our way there!) and not in emotional terms. Especially not in emotional terms. It is an absolutely overwhelming feeling to be buoyed up by you. It makes my heart feel too big for my chest sometimes.
So, you know, thanks. A lot.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but are you Italian?"
I answered too quickly. "No. I mean, yes. A little bit here and there..."
The waitress laughed and shook her head. "I told them! My coworkers wanted me to come over here and get your autograph. They think you're this singer..."
In that second, a name formed in my head, but I thought it can't possibly! Maybe 3% of America knows who she is - an Italian pop singer whose Spanish albums I bought years ago in college to help learn the language.
"... Laura Pausini."
The Dork Lord looked at me from across the table, perplexed, as I snorted a laugh. "I can't believe you know Laura Pausini. But no, I'm not her."
It didn't seem to matter, though. The waitress made some more small talk and then disappeared into the kitchen. Dessert was free.
I answered too quickly. "No. I mean, yes. A little bit here and there..."
The waitress laughed and shook her head. "I told them! My coworkers wanted me to come over here and get your autograph. They think you're this singer..."
In that second, a name formed in my head, but I thought it can't possibly! Maybe 3% of America knows who she is - an Italian pop singer whose Spanish albums I bought years ago in college to help learn the language.
"... Laura Pausini."
The Dork Lord looked at me from across the table, perplexed, as I snorted a laugh. "I can't believe you know Laura Pausini. But no, I'm not her."
It didn't seem to matter, though. The waitress made some more small talk and then disappeared into the kitchen. Dessert was free.
A couple of weeks ago, someone left a note in the comments section linking to a column that struck me as particularly poignant. I've lost the link, and by extension, the author's name. But I emailed this paragraph to a friend,
Anonymous henpecks all sorts of negativity into my comment section but the second I fire back, I'm... well, I'm all manner of things and none of them nice. And okay, yes, I should be above it. I shouldn't care what strangers say. But guess what? I care. I care, among other things, that people talk to me like I've got the intelligence of a used Q-tip. I care that people call me names.
I can't change what people do, but I can change what goes on here. So, in the future, if you'd like your comments to be published, I'd simply ask that you leave behind your name. You have mine. I'm not hiding behind anything. So, that's it. If you're going to sneer at me, please have the balls to own up to it.
"You have but to take a peek in the comments section below this column, any column, any article on this or any news site whatsoever, to see just how mean and nasty we have become. It does not matter what the piece might be about. Obama's speech. High speed rail. Popular dog breeds. Your grandmother's cookies. The anonymous comments section of any major media site or popular blog will be so crammed with bile and bickering, accusation and pule, hatred and sneer you can't help but feel violently disappointed by the shocking lack of basic human kindness and respect, much less a sense of positivism or perspective."There's been a lot of that here, lately. And it eats at me. Because, for the most part, it's been in response to some pretty heartfelt stuff - the kind of stuff I started holding back because the internet can be a really nasty place. I'm not bringing this up as some Call for Entries from sycophants. I get that you may not value the same things. You may not agree with me. You may not even like me. I'm a big girl - I don't need to be friends with everyone on the playground. But what has bothered me intensely is that the hated and lack of kindness or basic respect has gotten so personal. What's more, people leave insulting, demeaning comments in the name of friendship or loyalty and yet do in total cowardice, behind the cloak of anonymity.
Anonymous henpecks all sorts of negativity into my comment section but the second I fire back, I'm... well, I'm all manner of things and none of them nice. And okay, yes, I should be above it. I shouldn't care what strangers say. But guess what? I care. I care, among other things, that people talk to me like I've got the intelligence of a used Q-tip. I care that people call me names.
I can't change what people do, but I can change what goes on here. So, in the future, if you'd like your comments to be published, I'd simply ask that you leave behind your name. You have mine. I'm not hiding behind anything. So, that's it. If you're going to sneer at me, please have the balls to own up to it.
Oh, Universe, you contrary little snipe.
Today after work, we're going to pick up the Boy's car from the mechanic. It's the transmission. And when I say that, you should automatically be translating each letter of that word into dollar signs. Transmissions on sports cars are - even under the best circumstances, with an honest mechanic (which we're lucky to have) - asspensive. So when the Dork Lord called me at work yesterday afternoon to let me know they were also forced to replace the clutch and fly wheel (the mechanic offered to it it labor-free), I hung up the phone and started crying.
Twenty-two hundred dollars, all told. We were both so discouraged, we - us, who joke inappropriately through everything - lost our sense of humor about it.
See, today, I have an appointment with a jeweler to look at rings. Only, ha ha, now that we have zero dollars and six cents between us, that's sure going to make buying one impossible. But I've decided I don't care. I'm going anyway. We'll make it work. The Dork Lord, after a long, honest conversation about how much it means to me, says it's his priority to put a ring on my finger and I believe him. We'll consider this a fact-finding mission. Besides, I've put my foot down about a few things - one being the financial burden of engagement falling to him. Our relationship. Our future. My ring. Why should he cough up all the cash? Phooey on Man Pride, I simply don't believe in it.
This isn't 1946. An engagement ring isn't the price he pays to guard against the event he steals my virtue and runs off, leaving me without prospects. We all know my virtue's been gone a long ole time. Ahem. We're hardly what you'd call traditional, anyway. We've been shacked up since month three of our relationship. Again, virtue? What virtue? I'm tainted. Thank heavens.
Speaking of... once, at BYU, my sister and I were sitting in church, irreverently mocking the sermon as we were known to do, and whoever was at the podium started in on that verse of scripture about a virtuous woman. You know, whose worth is above that of rubies or someshit? With an eye roll, I scribbled on a piece of paper and passed the note to my sister. Just the other day, I found it in a pile of mementos and laughed.
That explains so much about me.
Today after work, we're going to pick up the Boy's car from the mechanic. It's the transmission. And when I say that, you should automatically be translating each letter of that word into dollar signs. Transmissions on sports cars are - even under the best circumstances, with an honest mechanic (which we're lucky to have) - asspensive. So when the Dork Lord called me at work yesterday afternoon to let me know they were also forced to replace the clutch and fly wheel (the mechanic offered to it it labor-free), I hung up the phone and started crying.
Twenty-two hundred dollars, all told. We were both so discouraged, we - us, who joke inappropriately through everything - lost our sense of humor about it.
See, today, I have an appointment with a jeweler to look at rings. Only, ha ha, now that we have zero dollars and six cents between us, that's sure going to make buying one impossible. But I've decided I don't care. I'm going anyway. We'll make it work. The Dork Lord, after a long, honest conversation about how much it means to me, says it's his priority to put a ring on my finger and I believe him. We'll consider this a fact-finding mission. Besides, I've put my foot down about a few things - one being the financial burden of engagement falling to him. Our relationship. Our future. My ring. Why should he cough up all the cash? Phooey on Man Pride, I simply don't believe in it.
This isn't 1946. An engagement ring isn't the price he pays to guard against the event he steals my virtue and runs off, leaving me without prospects. We all know my virtue's been gone a long ole time. Ahem. We're hardly what you'd call traditional, anyway. We've been shacked up since month three of our relationship. Again, virtue? What virtue? I'm tainted. Thank heavens.
Speaking of... once, at BYU, my sister and I were sitting in church, irreverently mocking the sermon as we were known to do, and whoever was at the podium started in on that verse of scripture about a virtuous woman. You know, whose worth is above that of rubies or someshit? With an eye roll, I scribbled on a piece of paper and passed the note to my sister. Just the other day, I found it in a pile of mementos and laughed.
Who can find a virtuous woman?
For she is boring as hell
and I don't want her for a roommate.
That explains so much about me.
Remember how I was going to try new things this year?
On Saturday afternoon, Boot Camp Friend Amanda, the Dork Lord and I went rock climbing at a nearby indoor gym. I'm relatively fit (for me) at the moment and so I anticipated that the climbing would be challenging, but not entirely debilitating. I mean, I do man push-ups now. I do. Three or four whole man push-ups IN A ROW. Yes, siree. So, up the fabricated climbing surfaces we went, zipping down on ropes, and after an hour, worn out, we called it a day. And like I said, I expected a little strain here and there, but nothing too intense. And I was right. All my climbing muscles are tight, but otherwise fine. But the forearm muscle - the one responsible for holding up my loved ones while I was on belay, the one that also helps me do things like, I dunno, hold a pen - is broken.
Being two forearms short of a whole person made our Valentine's Day activities a little complicated. An no, I don't mean that. I mean, while the Boy weatherstripped the windows (if you don't think that's romantic, you are not a cold person living in a drafty apartment. Weatherstripping is love) I fixed a nice dinner. While the wine took some deep cleansing breaths on the kitchen counter and the filet was happily searing, I tossed some greens with mandarin oranges and dried cranberries and went to grate some cheese. Guess which muscle you use to hold a block of Parmesan cheese and run it over what amounts to dull, metal blades. Guess. Oh, yeah. The Belay Muscle. I totally cheese gratered my own thumb and ended up eating dinner with a paper towel wrapped tightly around to stop the bleeding. Ah, a picture perfect Valentine's meal. At least I was warm
Getting old is so lame. You heard it here first.
On Saturday afternoon, Boot Camp Friend Amanda, the Dork Lord and I went rock climbing at a nearby indoor gym. I'm relatively fit (for me) at the moment and so I anticipated that the climbing would be challenging, but not entirely debilitating. I mean, I do man push-ups now. I do. Three or four whole man push-ups IN A ROW. Yes, siree. So, up the fabricated climbing surfaces we went, zipping down on ropes, and after an hour, worn out, we called it a day. And like I said, I expected a little strain here and there, but nothing too intense. And I was right. All my climbing muscles are tight, but otherwise fine. But the forearm muscle - the one responsible for holding up my loved ones while I was on belay, the one that also helps me do things like, I dunno, hold a pen - is broken.
Being two forearms short of a whole person made our Valentine's Day activities a little complicated. An no, I don't mean that. I mean, while the Boy weatherstripped the windows (if you don't think that's romantic, you are not a cold person living in a drafty apartment. Weatherstripping is love) I fixed a nice dinner. While the wine took some deep cleansing breaths on the kitchen counter and the filet was happily searing, I tossed some greens with mandarin oranges and dried cranberries and went to grate some cheese. Guess which muscle you use to hold a block of Parmesan cheese and run it over what amounts to dull, metal blades. Guess. Oh, yeah. The Belay Muscle. I totally cheese gratered my own thumb and ended up eating dinner with a paper towel wrapped tightly around to stop the bleeding. Ah, a picture perfect Valentine's meal. At least I was warm
Getting old is so lame. You heard it here first.
The walls of my cubicle kinda depress me. So does this fragile industry - doing my job well does not necessarily mean success in times like these. In fact, it almost never does. But that's okay. Because I have a plan.
The most freeing thing ever is realizing you have choices. I can choose to stay in a gray-walled cube for the rest of my life, because the job is predictable and the pay, somewhat reliable. Because I'm scared to act. OR! Or I can figure out what makes me happy and then do that, working out the money bit when I get there. Which is what I've decided to do. Not right away, but eventually.
I didn't even have to finish the question, "What makes me happy?" before I knew the answer. Yoga makes me happy. I feel my strongest, most beautiful and most capable when I'm pushing past the imaginary boundaries I'd set for my mind and my body, discovering new abilities and most of all, peace. A few weeks ago, I read on Facebook that my old boss (from way back Boston days), had been accepted to a yoga teaching program and I was thrilled for her. After discovering hot yoga back in 2002, I went on and on to her about it and looky, here she is several years later, becoming a teacher. Serious warm fuzzies. After e-high-fiving her, I realized - that's what I want. So, I'm going to teach. Not right away, like I said, but eventually. I have some goals I'd like to reach, pre-requisites to achieve, some money to save, yadda, yadda and then, it's game on.
Sometimes I lie awake in bed at night with little anticipation butterflies in my stomach - the way I used to feel at the start of a new semester. So much possibility! The Dork Lord is sided firmly on Team Yoga Teacher, which couldn't make me happier. It's nice to have someone in your camp, who wants your ultimate happiness more than anything - especially when that person shares your concerns about finances and you know, having a roof overhead.
I've always known people who love what they do. Or rather, made the choices and sacrifices to do what they love. My sister quit the rat race, went back to school and became an elephant trainer. She now works at the San Diego Zoo saving elephants. My brother ditched a job in software to go to school nights and weekends so he could be a cop. He loves to tase, what can I say? I'm a little disappointed with myself that it took a big forehead slap to realize I found my passion a long time ago and didn't make a go of it, but mostly, I'm just pleased that I found it at all.
The most freeing thing ever is realizing you have choices. I can choose to stay in a gray-walled cube for the rest of my life, because the job is predictable and the pay, somewhat reliable. Because I'm scared to act. OR! Or I can figure out what makes me happy and then do that, working out the money bit when I get there. Which is what I've decided to do. Not right away, but eventually.
I didn't even have to finish the question, "What makes me happy?" before I knew the answer. Yoga makes me happy. I feel my strongest, most beautiful and most capable when I'm pushing past the imaginary boundaries I'd set for my mind and my body, discovering new abilities and most of all, peace. A few weeks ago, I read on Facebook that my old boss (from way back Boston days), had been accepted to a yoga teaching program and I was thrilled for her. After discovering hot yoga back in 2002, I went on and on to her about it and looky, here she is several years later, becoming a teacher. Serious warm fuzzies. After e-high-fiving her, I realized - that's what I want. So, I'm going to teach. Not right away, like I said, but eventually. I have some goals I'd like to reach, pre-requisites to achieve, some money to save, yadda, yadda and then, it's game on.
Sometimes I lie awake in bed at night with little anticipation butterflies in my stomach - the way I used to feel at the start of a new semester. So much possibility! The Dork Lord is sided firmly on Team Yoga Teacher, which couldn't make me happier. It's nice to have someone in your camp, who wants your ultimate happiness more than anything - especially when that person shares your concerns about finances and you know, having a roof overhead.
I've always known people who love what they do. Or rather, made the choices and sacrifices to do what they love. My sister quit the rat race, went back to school and became an elephant trainer. She now works at the San Diego Zoo saving elephants. My brother ditched a job in software to go to school nights and weekends so he could be a cop. He loves to tase, what can I say? I'm a little disappointed with myself that it took a big forehead slap to realize I found my passion a long time ago and didn't make a go of it, but mostly, I'm just pleased that I found it at all.
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