Writing

The Back of the Closet

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Have you ever, in desperation, looked in the very back of your closet to search for something to wear because nothing you own seems good enough and you HATE all of your clothes? You push aside the tees you wore this past weekend, the blouse you wore yesterday and the top you’re saving for “Casual Friday,” all in the vain attempt to reach the bowels of your wardrobe hoping against hope that therein hangs some incredible unforeseen garment that you’ve forgotten you own and can therefore resurrect!

Aha! You find something! How in the world have you missed it in all this time?!?! This is wonderful! This is going to open you up to endless, interchangeable fashion possibilities! This is going to double, no TRIPLE your number of available ensemble choices! This textile, could perhaps… transform your entire world.

Now, of course, as you stand there… hanger in hand… arm outstretched… admiring the aforementioned “Savior Garment”… there is one thing you know you must check first. And it is absolutely imperative. It is the biggest hurdle you will have to overcome, but you MUST find out before you get too excited and mentally begin pairing things up and creating outfits that will undoubtedly turn heads. I am referring to the all important question: Does it still fit?

<gulp>

Quickly, you consider everything you ate THAT day as a peremptory justification for any minor snugness, should it exist. You try to recall the last time you’ve broken a sweat (not including this one), pushed play on that dusty Denise Austin DVD or even laid eyes on the inside of the gym. Then you begin thinking about all the morning lattes, the mayo on your sandwiches, the bleu cheese dressing on your salads, the 3 p.m. sugar binges, the weekend baseball beers, the weekly-Lifetime-movie-cookie-dough binges… and the fear begins to build.

<double gulp>

Somehow you gather the courage to slide the first appropriate appendage into said clothing item… then the second. So far, so good. Now comes the true confirmation of your intestinal fortitude: Will it button, latch, zip or close without the surgical removal of any vital organs? With your eyes squeezed shut, muttering prayers, you try it. Praise God!! It STILL fits!!! The clouds part, rays of sunshine pour into your room and in the distance you can hear the faintest sound of angels singing The Hallelujah Chorus!

Ah… now the real fun begins. What to pair with this “new” former frock for it’s reintroduction into the rotation. After trying various color and texture combinations, taking into consideration this particular item’s unique strengths and weaknesses… you finally select just the right piece with which to pair it.

You’ll wear it the very next day.

Tomorrow arrives and you’re amazingly able to jump out of bed and kick start your day just by thinking about how nice you will look in the day’s oh-so-stylish ensemble. You will get so many compliments and your envious co-workers will assume you’ve been shopping, when in actuality, you haven’t spent a single dime. In anticipation for your great day, you get dressed, leave for work early and even stop for a latte… because apparently they haven’t damaged your figure too much seeing as this item still fits.

No sooner do you get to work, pull into your parking spot and get out of the car do you realize WHY it is that this piece of clothing was SHOVED to the back of the closet… It may fit you the same as it ever did… but it is so uncomfortable you cannot STAND IT!! You spend your ENTIRE day tugging and pulling and adjusting and hiding in your office, praying for the day to be over so that you can take this freaking piece of crap and CRAM it in THE BACK OF THE CLOSET… right where it belongs.

Life by the Numbers

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It begins and ends with a number. A dreadful sound shatters the stillness of my slumber and I open my eyes to see 3 green and glowing numbers looming ominously over my rapidly-dissolving dreams. 6:00 a.m.

In the midst of a heat wave, I turn on the news to channel 3 see how hot it is actually going to get today so I’ll know exactly how much or how little to wear. 95. With a heat index of 110.

Stumbling down the stairs to my non-air-conditioned main floor, I glance at the thermostat. It says 84. I say a curse word.

With great fear and trepidation I climb onto the scale before climbing into the shower to estimate the damages from my nephew’s 11th birthday celebration the night before. XXX lbs., XX.X BMI … these numbers are for my eyes only. But I do utter another curse word.

Sitting down with a 200-calorie breakfast comprised of 8 oz. of OJ and 8 oz. of cereal with 4 oz. of milk, I obsessively check the stats on my blog page. At 7:20 a.m., there have been 23 views, 2 comments and 9 referrals. 0 new subscriptions. On Facebook, I have 1 notification, 2 messages, 1 invitation to play FarmVille and 1 friend request. I accept the friend request. I have 664 friends. Nope… make that 663. Someone just dumped me. Somewhere in the distance I hear a muffled scream as my profile goes swoosh into the virtual trash can belonging to the loser who unfriended me.

Out the door with 20 minutes to spare, I have the misfortune of getting behind 2 of the slowest-moving utility vehicles you’ve ever seen. They are doing 35 in a 55. At this rate, I will be 10 minutes late. Eventually I pass them doing 85 (I imagine my speeding ticket will cost well over $100) and wind up behind 1 even-slower moving 18-wheeler carrying 3 steel coils on a 2-lane highway. I follow him for 4 miles at 45 MPH. Make that 15-minutes late.

The word count so far is 335. In case you’re curious. Though now that I’ve used more words to tell you that… it is higher.

Miraculously only 10 minutes late to work, I have 5 unread messages and 7 projects to complete before 5 p.m. As a graphic designer, my work day is infinitely full of numbers… dates, times, account numbers, quantities and measurements. Therefore, I will spare you the details of the bulk of my day.

At 12:00 noon I call Verizon Wireless to give them $112.68. There is $XXX.XX remaining in my bank account. I utter yet another curse word.

By 5:00 p.m., there are exactly 6 hours left in the day before bedtime. Another obsessive check of blog stats and Facebook: 71 views, 8 comments and 11 referrals. 1 new subscription. Facebook offers 3 notifications, 1 message, 0 friend requests. Dinner at 7, a 2-hour phone call starting at 8 and 1 hour of reading, watching TV, writing or painting my nails before the clock strikes 11. I must get at least 7 hours of sleep a night or I’ll be a hot, cranky mess the next day. Just ask my loved-ones.

Turn off the TV, check the thermostat… 86. Curse word. Lights out. 11:03 p.m.

I wrote this account (get it… account?) as an exercise when it occurred to me how much of my daily joy and pain is tied directly to NUMBERS. Why must we quantify our value based on hard numbers… from how much we weigh to how much we earn? From how many virtual “friends” we have to how many people visited or commented on our blog today? For 1 day I’d like to ignore these “values” … and derive my worth from that which cannot be counted. Who’s with me?

Who Are “They”?

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They say drinking a glass of red wine everyday is good for your heart. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. They say owning a pet lowers your blood pressure. They say driving a red car increases your chances of getting a speeding ticket. They say more and more children are being diagnosed with food allergies. They say playing video games contributes to Attention Deficit Disorder. They say purple is the new black.

So I have just one question: Who exactly are “They”? Because it seems that “they” sure have a hell of a lot to say. I mean, is it just me, or has anyone else ever wondered about this?

Recently I was having lunch with a friend, making regular small talk and naturally “They” came up in the conversation. I don’t remember in what capacity exactly, though it doesn’t really matter. It might have been something like: You know, they say that the polar ice caps are melting at a much faster rate than initially projected. Or maybe: I just heard that they say carrying a few extra pounds is actually healthier, so lets ask the server for another basket of bread! Or perhaps: They say it’s better to wash your hair every OTHER day, rather than every day.

Whatever the topic of discussion, I stopped for a moment and asked her: Have you ever wondered who THEY are? I mean we are always quoting what THEY say and we seem to base a lot of our decisions on what THEY recommend. If THEY are so frickin’ important, how come we don’t seem to know who THEY are?

She didn’t know either, but confessed to both reciting and following the advice that THEY offer with some regularity.

Who are these people that we would constantly listen to whatever “they” say? They seem to know everything, from what we should eat to what we should wear. What medicines we should take for what ails us and when. What we should read, drive and listen to. What we should do for fun, for improved concentration, for effective time-management, for better-behaved children, for healthier relationships, for better sleep, for better sex, for slimmer thighs, for thicker hair, for cleaner floors, for softer skin, for whiter teeth, for gingivitis, for wrinkles, for snoring, for dragon breath, for athlete’s foot, for dandruff, for excessive flatulence, for bad credit, for NO credit, for better bowel movements, for increased productivity, for more laughter, for more friends, for more love, for more fulfillment, for better quality of life.

I mean, if THEY know sooo much… I for one, would like to meet these people!! THEY have been telling us what to do for centuries now, and THEY seem to enter our conversations on a daily basis, if not an hourly one. I don’t know who THEY are, but if anyone out there does… PLEASE let me know!

In the meantime, while we continue searching for the ever-elusive, all-powerful, all-knowing, collective “THEY”… be aware the next time you hear yourself or your companion utter the phrase: “You know, they say…”

The Survivor Tree

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In the middle of a busy city, surrounded by traffic, concrete and glass, stands a very special tree. To simply look at it, you would assume it’s just an ordinary tree. And if you did not know the history of it or the reason why it is so special, perhaps you might walk right by without giving it a second glance.

It isn’t a very big tree, it isn’t a rare type of tree… yet it stands humbly and proudly in the center of America’s Heartland serving as an icon of survival. People travel from miles away to stand beneath the shade of its branches and reflect on its sheer existence and resilience. Perhaps they gain strength, perhaps they feel the freedom to surrender to their emotion and weep, perhaps they receive healing, or perhaps their chests swell with pride to be in the presence of such a cherished natural landmark.

I have had the unique fortune of visiting the tree 3 times in as many years. And on each occasion when I stood at its base, examined the bark and gazed up at the sunlight streaming though its canopy, I have been inspired. Several times I have driven across this country, and while passing through I have never failed to stop in Oklahoma City and pay a visit to my favorite tree… The Survivor Tree.

The tree got its name by surviving the bombing that occurred at the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on April 19, 1995, killing 168 people, including 19 children under the age of 6 and 3 unborn babies in addition. The survival of the tree was quite amazing considering that the sheer force of the blast ripped most of the branches from it. Glass and debris were embedded in its trunk and fire from the cars parked beneath it blackened what was left. Most thought the 104-year-old tree would not survive. However—almost a year after the bombing—family members, survivors and rescue workers gathered for a memorial ceremony under the tree, and they noticed something quite extraordinary. In the midst of this field of desolation and despair… this tattered tree was beginning to bloom.

Drastic measures have since been taken to see that the tree is cared for and preserved in honor of those who survived that tragic day. A beautiful memorial surrounds it so that anyone who cares to may come and marvel at the wonder of the tree’s endurance. The inscription on the wall around the Survivor Tree reads: The spirit of this city and this nation will not be defeated; our deeply rooted faith sustains us.

As I look back, I am reminded that my deeply rooted faith has sustained me thus far. You see, each time I traveled across the country and took the opportunity to stop at the memorial, I was never really “just passing through.” In my case, all three times found me in the midst of a personal life transition and when I approached the tree, it was always with a burdened heart. Standing on the hallowed ground of such a place, one’s mind cannot help but reflect as it reels with doubts, fears and endless questions about this thing we call humanity. But each time… the Survivor Tree stood there for me as if to say: You WILL survive this circumstance, after all… more fragile things than you have survived much deeper devastation.

Shopping for Jeans With PMS

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Ladies, we all know what a nightmare it can be to find that magical pair of jeans that somehow makes us look 10 lbs. thinner, 6 inches taller and 5 years younger without breaking the bank, or giving us a nice muffin-top or (gasp) a dreaded camel-toe. Now imagine—for a moment—what it might be like to shop for said item during (shhhh) that time of the month.

Surprisingly, it is not as bad as you would think. I have new cause to believe that shopping for that new pair of jeans while experiencing PMS may just be a great idea, rather than the homicidal-tendency-inducing-disaster that one would initially suppose.

Here are just a few of my reasons why:

  1. You are already in a pissed-off-mood with a take-no-prisoners attitude. This enables you to blow right past all of the other younger, hipper, skinnier patrons and annoyingly-chipper, SUPER-HELPFUL store employees while you search for the ever elusive “right” pair of jeans.
  2. Your patience is extremely short. Therefore you are able to cut the crap when it comes to finding that miracle pair. You are “over” lying to yourself about what size you actually wear and can skip immediately to the BACK of the rack where your REAL size hangs.
  3. If you actually locate said “elusive ‘right’ pair of jeans,” and they actually FIT you with the extra 5 pounds of water weight you are currently hauling around in your trunk, gut and thighs… then you KNOW that they will fit you even better 7 to 10 days from now.
  4. Due to the previously-mentioned extra 5 pounds of water weight you are currently hauling around in your trunk, gut and thighs… your expectations have been severely lowered. So when the mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-whose-the-skinniest-bitch-of-all moment of truth finally arrives… You are actually PLEASED with what your reflection says about you. One must NEVER underestimate the positive power of lowered expectations.
  5. If you have located the “elusive ‘right’ pair of jeans,” and they actually FIT you with the extra 5 pounds of water weight you are currently hauling around in your trunk, gut and thighs… AND you have been successful in your reflective encounter with the “mirror-of-lowered-expectations,” THEN you are ABSOLUTELY ready to proceed and face the credit-pushing cashier when she inquires about your potential interest in obtaining a store charge card. You are fully equipped to look her square in the eye and answer her with a strong, resounding and powerful “NO!”

So with your head held high, bag-in-hand and credit-in-tact, you can exit the store. You have your new jeans, the store has your money, no tears were shed, and most importantly… no bodily harm came to any of the parties involved. Mission accomplished.

Now go out and rock those new jeans bitches … and get down with your bad-ass, pre-menstrual selves.

To Be or Not To Be (Liked)

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From an early age we learn that it is good to be liked. To be liked by our teachers, neighbors, family members and especially peers. We come to understand that it is important to be found pleasing in the eyes of others and to be someone that they enjoy being around. Therefore, it is basic elementary logic to say that from an early age we ALSO comprehend what it means NOT to be liked.

Whatever your first encounter with not being liked looked like, we have all had one. And it is beyond terrible. It usually happens in the sandbox and it is tear-your-heart-out-throw-it-in-the-sand-and-stomp-on-it awful. But somehow we survive and we wind up surrounding ourselves with the people who DO like us… and we continue on our merry way toward adulthood.

As we age, however, I believe we wind up in one of two camps. The I’m-so-cool-I-don’t-care-whether-you-like-me-or-not camp OR the I-WANT-no-make-that-I-NEED-everyone-to-like-me camp. Unfortunately, my tent is firmly staked in the soil of the latter. And life is harder for people like me. Oh how I wish I could be one of those people who doesn’t give a damn what others think of them.

I am 36 years old and STILL troubled if/when someone doesn’t like me. For example, (yes, this is the whole hopefully-cathartic reason I am writing this in the first place) there is someone in my life right now who just DOES NOT LIKE ME. I have no idea why. What’s not to like? I ask myself this question. You don’t know me. How can you NOT like me when you don’t even know me?

In order to protect myself from further misguided hatred I will not say whether this person is a he or a she or in what capacity they are a “part of my life.”  But suffice it to say that they have made it abundantly clear they have zero time for me as well as ZERO interest in ever speaking to or getting to know me.

This puzzles me.

Please don’t mistake my puzzlement for a massive ego. (Puzzlement? Is that a word? Spell-check isn’t flagging it, so it must be. Cool!) Anyway, I don’t believe—contrary to what my family might tell you—that I am perfect or that the sun rises and sets on me. I just don’t think—to the best of my recollection—that I have done anything worthy of such unsolicited disdain. I’m a very friendly person. I’m a complimentary (though genuine) person, and probably the best measure of all is the fact that I make friends easily and often. Wherever I go.

Joanna plays well with others.

So what the hell then, is this person’s problem? (Heavy sighing) I don’t know. I have asked myself a million times and a million and one times I have come up empty. I guess they just don’t. I have absolutely no clue as to why, but for continued health and happiness (and lower blood pressure) I realize I must let them go. And perhaps… PERHAPS this could be one giant step toward seeking out a plot of land in that OTHER, more-desirable, cooler camp.

How To “Vacation” Every Day

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I walked in the door and the sandy, muddy shoes would tumble to the floor. The carpet—soft beneath my bare and tired feet—felt absolutely luxurious. I immediately started to run hot water in the tub while peeling off the rumpled clothes of the day. Sinking into the warmth that soon enveloped this weary traveler, I felt both cleansed and relaxed at once.

My toes wandered to the spigot, playing peek-a-boo above and beneath the water. Staring at and beyond the mirrored reflection of my brightly-polished toenails was my only entertainment … and it was more than enough. “Ahhh sweet, sweet vacation”  I thought to myself and closed my eyes while the stress of the days leading up to these precious few just melted away.

And then it occurred to me. This isn’t some fancy jacuzzi with high-powered jets and a special tray for trashy novels and fruity cocktails. It was a standard, run-of-the-mill bathtub… and I have the exact same one at home. AND, I just happen to have hot water and carpeting too. So why don’t I indulge in this most glorious and peaceful of practices more often?

That’s a really good question. Why don’t I?

And for that matter, why don’t I also…

Drive with the sunroof open and the windows rolled down? Enjoy more wine with my meal? And take my time while eating it? Listen to my favorite CDs instead of the crap they offer up on the radio? Go for a walk and leave my watch at home? Eat ice cream from a sugar cone? People watch … and then laugh at them? (Oh wait, I already do that.) Discover the beauty in the common intricacies of nature? Put my feet up, sit still and turn my face toward the heat of the sun? Set down the remote and pick up a book?

I guess I think I’m in a hurry. There’s always too much to do and not enough time to do it. I couldn’t dare pause progress in order to do such frivolous things. But here’s the truth … there IS time, and I CAN do these things—I just don’t arrange my life in such a way as to make them a priority. For some reason, Americans tend to believe that we must take time off from work, spend money, pack our bags and disappear to some far-flung corner of the globe in order to truly “get away from it all.”

Not that there’s anything wrong with THAT. I happen to adore far flung corners of the globe.

HOWEVER… a few weeks ago, while on vacation, I learned that many of the BEST things… many of the most treasured things were the things I could have been doing all along… If only I made the time.

A Tiny Taste of Fame (Just small enough to choke on)

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“So this area is called the ‘Dashboard’ and this is where you pull all of the strings to create the pages that people see.” I explained to my mother who knew very little about blogging and cared even less. Then I showed her around my blog and eventually over to the WordPress homepage and the Freshly Pressed section.

Pausing ever-so-reverently on the Freshly Pressed area. My eyes glazed over like Homer Simpson’s when he sees a beer or a donut and I dramatically drew a circle in the air around The Page with my index finger and with an equal amount of drama said to her: “Mother, THIS is where I can only hope to end up some day. THIS is the goal. THIS would be THE place to be.”

A day or two later, I did the same thing to my boyfriend.

I can be a bit of a drama queen.

My fledgling web log was just 10 days old. I had 13 subscribers and anywhere from 40 to 80 hits a day. And then last Friday something amazing happened. Going to my blog to check the stats (as I had begun doing religiously) hoping each day that the numbers would climb, I told myself not to expect much. I literally SAID to myself: “Don’t be disappointed if the numbers are low. You are NEW at this and it will take time for people to discover it.”

But the numbers weren’t low. They were skyrocketing! And I immediately thought there must be something wrong with WordPress and that this had to be a mistake of some kind. I knew enough to be able to check where the majority of hits were coming from and I saw that it was the WordPress homepage. So naturally I went there. And that’s when I saw it. My baby. My blog… right there in the middle of the page. The picture, the name…  I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was actually seeing what I thought I was seeing.

It was for real.

I called my boyfriend. I called my parents. I emailed my friends. I wanted to run yelling through the streets: I’ve been Freshly Pressed!! I’ve been Freshly Pressed!! I did refrain, however, for fear of looking like a lunatic since I’m pretty sure that a large slice of society probably would assume that “Freshly Pressed” is something akin to water-boarding. But on the inside I WAS running and yelling.

Since it was a Friday, I was fortunate that my blog stayed on FP for 3 whole days (plus one more if you count the day that it slides back to the “earlier” site). Four whole days of extra exposure to the world and readers and hits and comments and spiking stat charts and emails and “likes” and subscribers! I had never experienced anything remotely like the rush I got from it. By the end of the 4th day, I was exhausted. I looked like a junkie in desperate need of a fix. My eyes were red, I was cranky from very little sleep and I just generally looked like shit. It was then that I realized how HARD it is to stand under the white-hot light of overnight celebrity. No wonder so many people crack under the pressure.

It was going to be short-lived and I was aware of it every second of every day. And it was wearing me out. Staying up late to watch the numbers, answer comments and emails, read other people’s blogs and nurture new virtual friendships. I kept thinking: I’ve got to stay after this or it will all slip away! Soon the clock will strike midnight and my carriage will turn back into a pumpkin, my gown to rags and my fine white horses to rats… I will be the little-ol’-graphic-designer-from-Ohio-who-writes-for-a-hobby once again. I will be just another regular gal doing the 8 to 5, eating frozen Lean Cuisines and watching Hoarders with my cat.

What can I say? I did the best I could for 4 days. My family and boyfriend—God love ‘em—did their best too. My boyfriend asked me daily what my numbers were and whether or not I was getting enough sleep. He and my parents reiterated how proud they were of me. They graciously listened as I told them about some of my new online connections. My parents showed their friends my blog while at a dinner party instead of passing around pictures of grandkids.

On Tuesday morning I logged on to my computer and  much to my chagrin, the numbers were abysmal compared to the day before. Back to normal I guess. My moment in the spotlight had expired. Like the rollercoaster that is 60 seconds of sheer unpredictable terror and thrill and then comes screeching to a halt… The ride was over. I then glanced at the clock: 15 ‘til 8… I grabbed my purse, my keys, my coffee … and headed to the office.

As I pulled out of my driveway I heard the faintest voice as though over a muffled loudspeaker say: Please exit quickly to your left in order to make room for the next passenger.

I Hate Camping

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I remember the day with startling clarity. It was the day that I finally accepted my disdain for camping. I was in the mountains of New Mexico, gazing out across a picturesque valley with a deep blue lake surrounded by lush pine. The water was sparkling in the sun like a thousand white diamonds while a cool breeze caressed my face… and I was elbow-deep in nasty, tepid, grey water… washing dishes.

“I think I hate camping.” I said to my friend who was sunning herself on a nearby picnic table. Now, to convey the actual weight of this statement coming out of my mouth you must understand something. My ex and I owned a camper. A REAL camper, loaded down with all of the trappings for camp life… from the fireside cookware to the pump-it-yourself travel toilet (which never got used anyway because no one wanted to clean it). And the friend that I was speaking to was one-half of the couple that we always camped with.

“Seriously?” she asked me. “You don’t like camping!?” Her voice raised an octave and cracked as though I had just confided in her that I was, in reality, a Russian spy working undercover in America’s desert southwest.

“Yes. Yes I do.” I said matter-of-factly with a growing air of confidence. “I mean, look at us. We are on VA-CA-TION (said extra slowly and loudly for maximum emphasis and effect). We took actual time off from work to come all the way up here, set up camp, don filthy flannel and sport greasy hair only to do DISHES in nasty water, sit in the dirt and stare at one another. IT’S WORK. It’s all work (again with the slow yelling for effect). And I can be doing this WORK at home. Except that at least there I have hot running water and an actual toilet that flushes and clean, soft things in which to wear, sit and sleep on!”

She sat on the picnic table staring at me in utter shock and disbelief while I poured out my dirty little confession. I didn’t care if she disagreed. I didn’t care if I offended her. It was my moment. My epiphany. WHY must I love camping? Who decided that humans should just LUUUUUUUV camping? Because it sure as hell seems like everybody does. Or at least that’s what they tell you. It’s what they want you to believe so that you will think they’re this outdoorsy, tree-hugging, adventurous individual capable of just “goin’ with the flow” and bein’ “one” with nature… Well, it’s a load of crap. And if they think it, they should just admit it. Like I did on that day.

It was a thing of beauty I tell you. Making peace with the fact that I did NOT enjoy this thing that I was supposed to enjoy and not being afraid to say so.

So today, for anyone reading this, I’m going on public record and proclaiming that I DON’T LIKE CAMPING!!! Why should I set up an entire HOME outdoors when I already have one indoors? Why should I wash my dishes in gross, tepid water, carry a damp roll of toilet paper under one arm and a shovel under the other while trotting off to the bushes to “do my business,” sleep downhill with my head or other critical body parts on a rock (when tent camping at least), schlup around camp all dirty and smelly with nappy hair and covered in scratches and bruises from aforementioned bush-peeing or rock-sleeping? Hmmmm?

I love to do all SORTS of outdoorsy things. Fishing, hiking, mountain climbing, whitewater rafting, horseback riding, SCUBA diving… the list goes on. In fact I’ll try just about anything… once. But when I am done with my adventure for the day, I want to order dinner from a menu and for someone else to set said dinner on a warm plate in front me. I want to sleep in a fresh bed surrounded by endless, fluffly layers of down-filled goodness. I want a hot shower and clean underwear. I don’t think this is too much to ask.

In one way or another, if you are going away somewhere, camping or otherwise, you are most likely taking time off from work, packing your things, and spending money. Therefore, why shouldn’t my precious time and money be spent paying SOMEONE ELSE to do the dishes?

Filling the Pages

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“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ~ Mark Twain

Inspiring words, no matter your age. And although I cannot yet say that I am examining my life from the perspective of 20 years ago … I believe I am far enough to say that I wholeheartedly agree with him. Ideally each one of us would look back on our lives and feel no disappointment whatsoever. But realistically, when we do look back—if there is any disappointment present—it most likely lies within the things we did NOT do rather than those we DID do.

The opportunity we did not explore… The path we did not take… The dream we did not chase. The place we did not go… The thing we did not say…

On the night before I went off to college, I sat on my bed journaling. I was thrilled about all of the things that were in front of me. It may sound cliché, but I remember the feeling like it was yesterday. The world was my oyster. Places to go, people to meet and experiences to have. Trying to capture my excitement in ink, I wrote the following: “I feel as though my life is rolled out in front of me like a warm and welcoming stretch of highway. I cannot wait to see where it will lead! Soon these things will be over and the pages of this journal will be full and everything will be a memory.”

I am twice as old today than I was when I penned those words. I am grateful that I grasped that concept when I was only 18 because those very pages are now full of some awesome memories. But I just can’t believe how quickly they filled! As we age and the restrictions of responsibilities creep in, it becomes more challenging to adopt Twain’s philosophy, but it’s not impossible. I believe that his words are not only for the young. As long as we’re breathing there are pages left to fill. Starting now… Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.