My Kinda Crazy

I’ve went back and forth over writing the last few weeks. Write something uplifting and funny because sweet baby Jesus knows we could use it right now? Or face the red-eyed, coughing elephant in the room head on? So here goes nothing…

A little background: I’m an empath. I soak up all that is around me: the good, the bad, the ugly. I tear up multiple times daily for good and bad. I thrive in harmonious situations when the girl gets the guy and people are rewarded for their hard work. My core people are diverse in many ways: I talk daily with the bluest of blue and the deepest of red. I’m purple, and despise politics; because it’s not harmonious in the least. Oh and I’m in health care, but I LOVE (with emphasis) the arts and firmly believe that there is NOTHING more powerful than music. I know doctors with multiple degrees, and one of my favorite people did not graduate high school.

So – I’m a sponge who has friends in high and low places. Not exactly, but Garth makes it sound so good. My point: I’m soaking up lots of different points of view. So let’s address my humble, empathic opinion of a few remarks involving this whole crap show.

“This is no worse than the flu. People need to calm down.”: Fair-ish. Scientifically similar. Key difference: the flu has a 100 years of immunity and antibodies, and A FLIPPING VACCINE and still kills THOUSANDS of people every single year. That one is easy for me. I’m going to go refresh myself on the “Spanish flu” now…

“This is all about money.”: You damn betcha. When every letter in sports (MLB, NCAA, NBA, etc) is willing to LOSE thousands/millions of $$$ in an effort to stop the spread. Yep, money is involved. When people are forced to close the restaurants and storefronts they’ve poured their hearts and souls into: yep. Money there too. Oh and what about my friends who have gone to school for 746 years with lots of zeros in their student loan debt and they have to close to keep their patients safe? So much money. Let’s not even get started on the trickle down effect for my friends who raise cattle and crops. It’s totally about money. All of it. Money into hospital systems. Money to politicians (Isn’t this a norm?). ALL THE MONIES! But it’s about lives too. So I guess, you pick what matters most, and what you want to focus on.

Speaking of money, “We overreacted and ruined our economy.” Yeah, open up your last quarter’s retirement statement and tell me you didn’t shed a tear. This is flipping awful. It’s disheartening. There’s no simple answer. But I ask, what is the current exchange rate for a human life in US dollars? All I can say is, hopefully it bounces back as quickly as it plummeted. Isn’t there something about a 7 year trend? Finances aren’t my thing either, but perhaps this is a nice reminder that living on credit isn’t always the best. Perhaps Dave Ramsay and his 3-6 month emergency fund recommendation doesn’t sound so foolish anymore. And now we know what to invest in just before the next pandemic: Titos and Charmin.

“We have to stop this virus.” Ummm…I’m all for big dreams and goals, but there’s no stopping this. In fact, if we STOP it, it won’t really be gone. 14 days isn’t enough. It’ll come back and we won’t have ANY immunity to it. So…in the IDEAL world, we want everyone who can tolerate it to actually get it and win their immunity idol, all while buying us time for scientists to create a vaccine to save those who won’t tolerate this virus. Though this feels like a terrible sci-fi movie, we DO NOT get to pick who gets infected…so the best way to protect those who won’t live through it is to stay the F away from them. This will buy our hospitals space and our scientists time to understand this little bastard better.

“The media is to blame.” I think the media has a responsibility to keep people informed, even if the information is scary. Do I think the media is a bunch of divisive, fear-mongering turds sometimes? Yup. Do I think those of us who use Social Media or like to gossip are just as guilty? Yup. We don’t do our own work to investigate people or posts. We pick what we feel is right and share it with all our friends. I wish we all could use the phrase I use for my kids: “Is it true? Is it kind? Is it helpful? If it’s not, then keep it to yourself.” Myself included.

“This is all about politics.” Well when our mayor, our governor, and our president are all on the news every single damn day, I’d say there’s some political involvement. See my note above about my love for politics, but here’s my two cents…If we could just listen to hear, instead of listening to argue and we could contain our snide remarks and pre-judgements, maybe we could catch something useful. ENDLESSLY when we’re talking politics, we’re talking about what we hate in the opposite person, never what we love about our party/representative. It’s all elephants and asses to me. You may not like who is saying it (or their hair, or their skin color, or where they’re from, or blah blah blah – you people and your social media cowboying of nastiness astonish me), but they are surrounded by people from both sides of the color wheel and even the “DUMBEST” people are right sometimes. I mean, I’m pretty sure COVID is kind of purple too.

“This only affects the old and those with weakened immune systems” Depending on the college, the statistics, and the news station, I believe saying less than 10% of people who get this will have serious complications is a safe bet. But damn it: that’s my grandma, my running buddy, and possibly you. Because you might have a heart defect that you’ve trounced around with your whole life. So, I will wear my mask. I will sanitize my hands til they bleed. And I will do my best to get them through this round unscathed until the disease is better understood and a safe vaccine is found. Those at higher risk are worth it to me.

“I just want things to go back to normal”  (Ok this one is me.)  I miss my running group.  I want to run my races. I want to sit at a concert and feel the magic.  I’m so tired of rinsing my coffee cup to switch over to vodka. Kidding…sort of.  Lord knows I want to bless the teachers with my children again. 🙂 Everyone has their list of norms: their events, their hobbies, their habits, their celebrations.  We are all missing out. All of us. There’s not a single person right now whose thinking, “Man, this is the life.” All I can think is that all of our lists will be even sweeter when we have some immunity and understanding of this little bastard virus and we can return to our new normal.  

So there’s your window into a heart that feels the weight of the world. I don’t think anyone is entirely wrong. I don’t think anyone is entirely unscathed. I don’t think anyone is loving this. Some days I cry and feel hopeless, and some days I feel inspired by the ingenuity and the spirit of humans.

In the end, my hippie heart believes that rainbows always follow storms…even shit storms like this.

Be good to yourselves and patient with everyone else.

Cue Carly Simon – I want to talk about anticipation…and not just the man’s embrace she was desiring.  (In case your dad didn’t make you listen to everything 50s-70s on the radio as a kiddo: ANTICIPA-A-TION).

When did life get so busy that we can no longer wait? I found myself recently grumbling about 2 day shipping…on hand soap…delivered to me…on my front door step.  WHO. THE. HELL. AM. I?  I’m in such a rush in life that I can’t wait for someone to ship me hand soap in 2 days? Maybe this isn’t the best example, because I could clearly swing through the local HyVee and pick up some Dr. Meyers, but the point is not lost.  I wanted it instantly.  Like I-dream-of-Genie-head-nod make it appear fast.

Times are changing.  New technologies allow us to order our stuff online and get it in days, sometimes hours.  There’s drive thrus for food and coffee, and you can even ORDER AHEAD at a FAST food restaurant so it is there and waiting the moment we get there.  Zero wait.  Zero anticipation.  We want things, and we want them NOW.  Are we lacking patience? Or is it just a commodity that companies can offer so we eat it up:  no waiting MUST be better than waiting.

So, I ask, what’s the harm in waiting once in awhile?  As a child I remember the anticipation of Christmas and birthdays.  Am I right that the weeks leading up to Christmas is far better than the evening of Christmas?  The spirit, the constant loop of Christmas movies, the decorating and baking and wrapping (I’m kidding, I still loathe wrapping presents).  Then Christmas evening when the gifts are given and the celebrations are over, I have this hole-in-my-heart feeling.  364 more days until I get to see that glow in my babies’ eyes again.    Or the week before vacation – getting ready, packing, ANTICIPATING freedom and relaxation.  Then the last day of vacation you feel the gloom of having to return to the real world again.  Wuff – it’s tangible gloom.

Have you ever saved up your money for something big? As a child I wanted a trampoline so badly…I saved every dime of my babysitting money.  Counted it endlessly.  Looked at the trampoline every time we went to the store.  I WAS SO DAMN EXCITED to get that trampoline.  Truth be told, I don’t remember a lot of time jumping on the trampoline after (this may be because my brother and his huge friends jumped on it and stretched out the springs…giant jerks!)…but I remember WANTING it.  I remember saving for it.  I remember the anticipation.

And it never fails – I will count down the days to a concert – and then about mid-set I start to feel a bit sad…it must come to an end: so am I sad that it’s half over or that the excitement and anticipation is gone? For the record, this is probably why I have a constant concert schedule in place.  NEVER-ENDING ANTICIPATION. 🙂

Yes, our schedules are fuller than they’ve ever been.  We’re not living in the days of Andy Griffith: the demands of today’s society are higher.  Social expectations say that if we aren’t getting 286 things checked off of a list then we aren’t succeeding.  Efficiency is a skill, that’s for sure.  The phrase “wait time” carries a hugely negative connotation.  But doesn’t the thought of sipping lemonade on the porch swing sound better than toe tapping and watch-glancing in anxiety.

I think we may be cheating the next generation (and ourselves).  Each day that passes we remove more waiting from our life.  Then we get mad at our kids because they want their food NOW and they crave constant attention and entertainment.  Go to a restaurant once and look around for the families – how many kids can you count on phones/tablets?  Yes, distraction is great because ain’t no one want to hear kids screaming about how hungry they are…but you have to catch my drift some.  We are slowly removing their (and our) ability to wait.  Even worse, I fear we’re thieving them of the excitement that comes with the wait…the crazy magic of anticipation.

I’ve joked recently that I’m having a midlife crisis, but I’m not certain how to handle it.  I have no desire to buy a car (ok, maybe that’s a lie – I’m looking for a mid-90s Jeep Wrangler that has speakers able to play CCR perfectly while the wind blows through my hair.)  But a sports car: something fast, sleek, sexy – yuck. Can you imagine the insurance payment? And I don’t even know what kind of car I drive right now – it’s silver, four wheels, and needs a wash cause my damn back-up camera is blocked by midwest winter sludge.  What else- an affair! Puh-lease. Ain’t no one have the time or energy for that. Plus, it’s winter – it’s months of an excuse to not shave! So no sports cars. No affair. I’m not much of a drinker, and have a hard time putting my hard-earned money down at the roulette tables.  How else do the movies tell us to handle this mid-30s unsettled-in-my-own-skin time of life?  

I came across a quote by Brene Brown that stopped me in my tracks – it was like someone had a microscope on my soul and verbalized what I had been feeling for months.  She referred to the pull of middle age as not a crisis but an “unraveling” and a “desperate pull to live the life you want to live, not the one you’re supposed to live”.  That’s such a good line, you should read it again. A DESPERATE PULL between what you want and what’s expected of you.    

For years we listen to our parents and role models tell us what is right and wrong.  We are slowly conditioned by everyone around us – for at least 18 years. Then we go off on our own bringing experiences into the next step.   Maybe further our education – where we’re “out on our own”, but we’re following class schedules and tests that are set out for us. We’re listening to our professors and our upper classmen and going through the motions.  

I don’t think it’s until we’re out into the real world – paying for it all, responsible for it all, no professors or parents “guiding” us, where we start to truly formulate who we are.  But initially we’re so dang excited to be “independent” that we forget to think about things deeply. I believe that it’s later that we are mentally able to consider what we like, what makes us happy, what challenges us.  It’s later when we start to contemplate who we really are and what we want in life. Usually that’s after we check off the socially acceptable check boxes of growing up. Graduate, graduate again (not required, in my opinion)…here comes love, here comes marriage, here comes a baby in the……you get the point.  Sure, all of our previous experiences helped us to understand what we liked and didn’t like. But all of the these big flipping choices are made and done – and after that we figure out who we are? I’m still not sure how I feel about that.   

This time in our life also come with an immense amount of guilt.  Do I regret my littles? Never. No way. But sometimes, do I just want to not think of what’s for dinner and if there’s enough vegetables on their plates?  Abso-freaking-lutely! The look I get from some people when I say I’m leaving town to go on a trip and will miss one of my littles events – ugh! It crushes me.  Insert DESPERATE PULL between what is expected and what I want. But can’t there be some balance? Aren’t I being a good mom if I want to show my daughter that it’s really good to challenge her body to run a race, or work her ass off to pay for a fun trip with her friends – because friends are CRITICAL to not just surviving, but enjoying this life?  Or am I selfish? Did I choose to be a mom, so that’s what I am 100% of the time? No excuses. I want to say that there’s “nothing else I’d rather be doing than being with my kids”, and a good chunk of the time that is very true. Not a day goes by that I don’t think in my head, “How did I get so lucky? Gosh I love these kiddos.” DESPERATE FLIPPIN’ PULL.  

The friendships change too.  The friends who I used to go shopping with, well, that doesn’t happen as much when you’re spending your time decluttering.  Sometimes you end up with less and less in common. Sometimes the pettiness of gossip isn’t entertaining anymore and you are dying to sit down at a table with people who want to discuss ideas and goals and the world.  (A bit of hearsay isn’t bad once in awhile, but you know what I mean.) The people who you’re drawn to may not be the same anymore. And that’s hard. It’s hard to let friendships fizzle in the name of embracing your unraveled soul.  

And what about my husband?   I am not the woman he married.  I’m not the woman I was 5 years ago.  Hell, depending on the time of the month, I’m not the woman I was 10 minutes ago.  🙂 Fact is, I met him when I was still in the no-self-esteem, do-what-is-expected-of-you-stage.  Like a fine wine, I’ve aged. Not just my dimpled tush; but my soul, sense-of-humor, sense-of-purpose, drive…who I am has molded into a woman I become a bigger fan of every day.   By some lottery, I chose a man who loves my core… and I’ve managed to maintain my ever- gleaming personality. (Sarcasm folks – it’s a roller coaster at my house). By some lottery he’s stuck around – and kept up with my slow unraveling into the hippie groupie that I am.  He’s even semi-on board about the Jeep.  

So we embrace the tattered threads of unraveling what you thought you were (or perhaps, more fittingly, what you thought people wanted you to be) to  finally become who you really want to be. It’s sort of annoying that I’ve spent so many years following rules, taking tests, trying to check another thing off the list – but luckily I’ve also been experiencing, trying, failing, feeling, and molding.  Molding into the woman I am today. I still prefer to please over disappoint, but I’m more and more comfortable with ordering a pickle in my beer at a table full of wine drinkers…and ain’t no one telling me what kind of music I should listen to anymore.  

Maybe the crisis isn’t the unravelling.  Maybe the crisis would be if you didn’t unravel…if you didn’t slowly mold into the version of yourself you love most.   Cheers to embracing that desperate pull.

What would you do if I told you that you could take up any career you want and guarantee that you’d be successful?  Income, home life, soul – you get it all! GUARANTEED to NOT FAIL. Anything you want. What would you do?  

 

Can you answer this question?  I’m struggling. 

 

Last night I let a friend or two in on a not-so-hidden secret:  I’m underwhelmed by my profession. I’m underwhelmed by healthcare.  I’m underwhelmed by expectations and hopes. I’m underwhelmed by people.  Not all people, but enough people that suck the flipping life out of me that I don’t want to leave my office some days.  I’m underwhelmed by the entitlement of some people (for the record, it’s not just millennials). I’m underwhelmed by my return on investment.  Don’t worry, Mom and Dad – -it’s probably a phase, I have no intentions of quitting to become a groupie like I threaten…at least until my student loans are paid off.    

So here I sit, listening to the podcast of a guy who has made his career helping other people find their passions and fulfilling careers.  As far as I can tell (one episode in), people call in and he asks them questions – mostly about what they want out of life or their jobs. They proceed to mumble their answers reluctantly.  Then he repeats what they’ve said, only louder and with enthusiasm. This man is essentially a mirror with a megaphone and some pom-poms.  

 

Ok, it’s a little more than that.  He asks the right questions and he listens (there’s a novel idea).  Then (here’s the kicker, folks) he makes people believe it’s possible.  He casts away their doubts, borderline makes them feel foolish for ever doubting themselves.  I wonder what it’s like to live with this man. I wonder what he puts in his coffee. It’s gotta be more than coconut oil. 

 

I’m half-tempted to scream “I want to write!” into my toothpaste-splattered mirror (seriously, how many times a week do you other moms have to clean your mirrors?!?) and then shame myself for not blogging for a year.  Sadly, I don’t think it will have the same effect.  

Kuddos to this man.  It seems quite simple, really:  he asks, listens, reaffirms, and encourages.  None of these things require 3 degrees, special equipment, or a license.   Kuddos to this man for helping others find their passions, let alone encouraging them to convert what makes them tick into what pays their bills.  It’s got to be an intoxicating environment of people who have the courage to finally sling-shot caution and fear of failure out the window.

 

Maybe I want his job.  I love when you can tell how much a person cares about something by the way their eyes light up to let their soul shine out when they talk.  I love when people look at you surprisingly when they realize you’re actually listening to them. I flipping love seeing people succeed at something they were once scared of doing.   I’m also very good at raising my voice – ask my neighbors. Does anyone know if college degrees are returnable/refundable?

 

So, my friends, what is it?  What would fill your cup EVERY. SINGLE. DAY?  The answer isn’t your Keurig. What will fill your soul cup – the one that keeps you ticking, excited about life, and excited for another day?   He’s right: its so important!

 

It’s bad math to spend five days a week waiting for two.  

Who here wants more? Yep, raise your hand! You know you do! Super-size it! If two is good, three must be better. Let’s get more auto ships, more deals, more options, more things…preferably in bulk, and on sale with free shipping. Gimme more.

Lately I’m a bit jaded by the “more mentality”. Will I seriously use the extra 1000 square feet, or will it just be more space to clean? Will a brand new vehicle get me anywhere faster or safer, or just eat up my paycheck? Will that new pair of jeans make my my ass look like Jennifer Aniston’s, or am I just excited to save 24% and get rewards points? Fact is, the more I worry about having more the less excited I get. And it’s not just less excited: I get stressed. Worried. Disappointed in myself. Then confused on why all of this stuff really matters. Then mad that I’m selfish enough to want more. (I know it’s crazy where my mind goes…if I had a map, I’d get you one.)

Don’t get me wrong: I just spent two hours of a road trip looking through the Prime Day sales filling up a cart full of “great deals” and “must haves”. But in the end, must I cook with an Instant pot? Unless it sends me reminders to get milk and chops the damn onions small enough so the kids can’t detect them, I don’t predict it will be life-changing for me. And there’s a 99% chance that the cute romper that’s on sale will give me the same diaper-wedgie-butt that every other flipping romper I’ve tried on does. (*Delete item….hmmm maybe just Save for Later…it might be the one romper that works. F-it. That model is 14…and has zero cellulite. Delete. Delete. For the love of Pete. Delete!)

What the hell sucks us in to wanting more? Is it the thrill of the hunt? The “savings” of a sale? Filling up an emotional pit? Are we just mimicking the behavior we see in those around us, or maybe trying to keep up? Are we desperate for connection and falsely connecting with THINGS instead of beings?

I propose we Kon Mari the shit out of our lives. Literally. Because if it can be thrown in a dumpster, it’s not the good stuff. And if we have some sort of drive to constantly search for more then let’s make it the good stuff. Gimme more of the things that don’t require folding, dusting, or moving. (Double win!) Let’s explore. Let’s laugh and joke. Let’s challenge ourselves. Let’s drink coffee on a deck. Let’s make slip and slides out of tarps and garbage bags… and Dawn dish soap. (Cause we’re all about living on the edge, baby!). Let’s be the crazy mom laughing and running through the park with our littles – in the same shorts we’ve worn since college that may or may not have little splats of paint of them from the 9 million hours of fence painting a few summers back. Let’s just live our life collecting the things that fill up our souls instead of our homes (and storage units)!

And let’s not just do it…let’s own it. Let’s look in the closet and grab what makes us feel good and comfortable and let’s walk out that damn door. Doesn’t matter if it was cheap. Doesn’t matter if we’ve worn it 187 times before. And then when we get wherever we’re going, let’s not lust over someone else’s boots or purse or extravagant China. Let’s feel good. Let’s not feel inferior. Lets own who we are with more confidence than what we’re covered in. (Read that again.)

Whose with me?! Get your pitchforks and Goodwill garbage bags, people!

Ok, I’m kidding.

But I do challenge y’all (myself included) to think about what “things” make you the happiest. Because I’d bet a Palm Breeze and a unicorn romper that the majority of your list can’t be bought. Gimme more of that list.

So last night I joined 11 other ladies for our annual Halloween Bunco party, complete with clever costumes, yummy food, dice, and (duh!) booze.

As I sat at the table watching the nuns giggle and the deer and the hunter scream and high-five each other, my heart warmed up.  I took it all in: The laughter, the shrieks, the curses, the squishy card table top…the smell of White Claw and Ultra.

I love this group of women.  I love the laughter and the fun.  I love the cheering and the embarrassing stories.  Some of these ladies I have known since birth and some of them I brain-fart on their kids’ names.  But I love them all.

I’m not sure of their favorite bands, how/if they vote, or what they order at Jimmy Johns.  But I know that being around them for the few hours once a month…(or six months depending on how well we all have our shi*t together) makes me so happy.

How important are these zones of comfort?  We can cry and laugh. We can cry because we’re laughing so hard. We share excitement about new babies and frustrations with work.  We talk about funny memories or TV shows. No one worries about whose sitting where and what we are wearing (I mean unless it’s the ugly Christmas sweater party where the voted best sweater stands to win a fine bottle of wine…or some Pear Berry lotion.). I mean, seriously, I went in g’damn pleather pants. If that isn’t comfort zone, I don’t know what is.

There’s something pretty powerful about a group of gals who can take time away from their work, their families, and their duties.  There’s something pretty awesome about a group of gals who you can freely laugh and cheer and drink and cuss (maybe that’s just me!) with.  

We don’t see each other enough…that’s a fact.  But for me, this time is so precious and freeing.  And I really think that if I needed something these gals would be beside me…and I would do most anything for them. Like plant a bird flying (think fingers, folks) gnome in their front yard cause we miss them…or let them count their Bunco even though I’m pretty sure it was their fifth role.

So find your Bunco time: find the carefree, judgement-free time.  The time where there’s no one to feed but yourself, where your tummy will hurt from laughter, your buzz may make you confess more than you intended, and hell…you may even win $25 if the dice are in your favor.

Keeper Moments…

You’ve had those, right? The moments in your life where the rest of the world disappears. You remember the sounds, the smells, the people, every damn detail. Especially the feels. The moments that are so great you want to box them up with a pretty little satin ribbon to put on a shelf. The moments you want to be able to re-open and re-experience at any given moment. Those are the keeper moments: the untangible treasures of life.

Like you’re sitting in the nosebleeds surrounded by thousands (THOUSANDS!) of other souls. You know nothing about them: who they cheer for on Sunday, who they voted for, what their income is, or how they treat wait staff. BUT the lights are low, all eyes are on the feller with the beads of sweat on his brow pouring his heart into his guitar and the chorus. And that whole room of strangers…their sweaty eyes are gazing to the stage singing in sweet unison the beautiful words, “For a moment, all the world was right”. And your heart could flipping pound out of your chest at the power of music and unity.

Or what about when you wake up to your pajama-ed three-year-old grunting as he climbs up the edge of the bed to plop down right next to you, snuggling into your armpit, and asking if you’ll take him on a “date”. The look of his baby blues, the warm sunshine through the sheet of your “leg tent”, the sound of his giggles, the nearly audible pounding of your heart as you spend your earliest waken hours falling in love with your little…again.

Pack. That. Shit. Up. Please don’t let me forget the feel of his little hand on mine. Please.

How about the sanitary smell, the mumble of nurses in the background, the beeping monitors, and the raspy voice of the sweetest woman you’ll ever know talking to you from under an oxygen mask, “They’re treating me real well here, Emmy.” The look of her white hair under the straps of the mask, the feel of her wrinkled, chilled hand in mine, the way her eyes followed me all of the way out the room.

Let me never forget the feel of her hand and the sound of her voice saying my name the very last time.

What about when the months of planning are done…hair and make-up are complete. The dress is on. Guests are seated on the squeaky pews and the smells of fresh roses and musty church are in the air. Your favorite people are standing next to you waiting for the violins to start…and you sneak a peek around the corner at your future in the tux at the end of the aisle. The sweet returned grin and butterflies. Holy shit, those butterflies.

May need a bigger box for that one. Even if someday I can’t remember my name, I know I’ll remember that moment and those butterflies for ever. Ever.

Keeper Moments. I live for them. They are the profound moments in our lives… If only we could really box them up and put them on a shelf for safe keepings to revisit. Then again, I’d need a much bigger house and ain’t no one want to dust more shit!

And maybe they wouldn’t be so special if we knew that this wasnt the ONLY time we’d ever get to experience these amazing moments. Maybe we’d pick up our phone or stare at the TV. Maybe we’d become completely unaware of how precious these moments are….And how very precious they are.

Collect them. Store them. Hold on to them.

I recently had a lovely gal come in who shared with me that she was given 3 to 5 months to live…and I have to admit that I choked back tears while she had a smile on her face and non-chalantly spoke of her grim future.
I spent the entirety of our next 15 minutes together working my damndest to make her smile. I complimented her sparkly earrings that perfectly matched the broach that perfectly adorned the bright pink turban-y hat that perfectly covered her head of what I can only assume was covering an imperfect head of hair. I admired her beautifully painted toes. I asked her about her tattoos. I joked. I praised. I listened.
All the while she sat calmly soaking it in: responding with such grace and wit. She seemed so attuned to herself and the world…it was enviable.
So here’s my question: why don’t I start treating everyone like they have months left? Truth of the matter is, a perfectly healthy person next to me could have days or even hours. Shouldn’t the last moments we have with people be those of laughter, praise, and positivity?
And on the flip side—who knows when it’s my turn to kick the bucket? (I hope I have many more years to watch my littles grow…and torment my husband…but let’s be real.) And when I think about it, I really want my last moments to be calm…soaking up every beautiful thing this world has given me. I want to laugh. I want to be witty. I don’t want my last moments to be the shit-show daily grind of rushing here or squeezing a quick phone call/text/email/Facebook stalk in there or a short-fuse moment with my babies or a bickering match with my hubby…I picture something SO much better for my last moments in my mind.
Alas…here’s my proposal for a better, kinder world…and maybe even world flippin’ peace. What if we A) treated everyone like they were dying and B) took the (ever handsome) Tim McGraw’s advice and lived like we were dying.
Can you imagine how differently conversations would go? How much more tolerant we would be? Kinder? Now that’s a world I want my babies to grow up in.
Potential problem: everyone has to participate…cause the second some twit comes in being rude to my staff and tapping their foot at me cause their world is superior to ours. Well, then that goes and switches it up…and makes me think other things about death. (Calm down! I’m joking…or am I?)
So let’s go out there and make it real. Make people laugh. Wear your sparkly earrings. Listen. Be funny. Be witty. Be calm. Be engaged. Let’s make this world (or at least our world) just a bit better.

 I recently went to an outdoor concert. We had general admission tickets and got in line to get in when the gates opened so we could be up close. It was hot, but feeling the sweat of Billy Currington should be worth it, I thought.  
Here’s what I learned: people suck and general admission is not a good place for me. The swarms of young gals with butt cheeks hanging out of their shorts that came weaseling their way in front of me to shake their barren mid-riffs, spill their vodka-cranberry on me, and wave “marry me?” on their phone in front of my face…yeah, I wished every one of those girls cottage cheese thighs and stretch marks. Sorry hunny, your half-bun and tan legs don’t impress me. I’ve been sweating my chubby Mom-ass off for 4 hours just to be up close and catch a glimpse of Billy’s dimples. Step. Back. 
Let’s not forget about the pleated-short-wearing hipster turds with aviators and half-buttoned, too-small plaid shirts…you know, the sweaty ones with one eye drooping down who rub their disgusting bodies on anyone near them in their pitiful attempt to mouth incorrect words and dance, think it’s funny to spray beer, throw cans, and ( DUH!) pick a fight…yeah, I wanted to shove their aviators sideways up their little asses.   
And before it sounds like I’m picking on millennials I’ll go ahead and call out the gals with their bedazzled shirts, coozied Mich Ultra, and enough eye wrinkles for them to fricking know common courtesy. Yeah—you aren’t invisible either. Go back to the beer tent.
Disclaimer: I’ve always been extra aware of other people. I slouch if someone “might” not be able to see behind me. I strip beds before I leave hotel rooms. I hold doors for strangers. I let people with two items go before me and my ridiculously over-full Target cart. That’s how I roll…so maybe I’m just overly sensitive to this stuff. Maybe not though. 
Some people might say: that’s just how it is in a big group of people. But when did respect fly out the window? When did everyone think they were more important than everyone else? When did covering strangers in $8 beer become the “cool thing”?
Maybe I’m taking this too far, but in the concert of life who do you want to be? The lady who shows up early to fill her soul and rock out up-close with incredible musicians like the men of Whiskey Myers…you know the lady who just happens to have sweat creases in her shirt and bangs melted to her forehead. Or do you choose to be the drunken asshat who shows up late with elbows and egos flying to run up front, because this is your world and the rest of us just have the privilege of living in it?  
I am and will always be the chick with the swass dancing and screaming when Whiskey Myers is killing their song(seriously check them out!) and just an FYI, if you try to fly your elbow or ego at me, apparently I’ll let you know how I feel and make sure your stank ass is behind me so I can catch another pic for my collection.
Just sayin’…
P.S. Billy Currington did not accept the proposal of half-bun brod, but he did return the heart-symbol and say, “I love you too, baby” to the half-melted, swassy lady. So maybe Billy’s on my side.