I'm moving!

Sorry family, not back to Cincy: I'm moving to a new blog address!

From this point forward, I will be blogging on my new blog address:

http://www.citygirlcansurvive.blogspot.com/

I feel a change in name will suit me quite nicely and will match my current persona.

Please re-arrange necessary parts of your life to accomodate this inconvenience.

That is all.

XOXO,
Emily

Hope Floats

“Remember, Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.” – Shawshank Redemption


I think of myself as a pretty hopeful person; I’m always hoping for the best in others, hoping for a positive outcome and hoping to hear good news. I hope for success, hope my work is appreciated and I really hope I don’t trip down the stairs in my 4-inch heels.

Hope can truly be the cornerstone of life; when all else is lost and crumbling around us, all we have left sometimes is our ability to hope. But, when we let ourselves rely solely upon hope, are we doing ourselves a disservice?

A few years ago, I started seeing to a therapist. It felt weird at first; I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t suicidal, I didn’t have some horrendous disorder or experience I was trying to work through: I was just a regular person with real person problems. I needed a way to talk about my issues (however small they might be) and work through my own head. There tends to be a stigmata attached to therapy; people like to think that something major must be wrong for you to reach out to a trained professional for help. Actually it’s just incredibly cathartic to talk about your problems to someone other than yourself.

I’m no longer attending therapy, but the experience taught me many valuable lessons along the way. I think I just needed someone to tell it to me straight, which is exactly what she did: after a year, she told me I didn’t need therapy. Huh? Turns out I just needed to get out of my own head.

Worrying about every minute detail of your life is always a recipe for disaster, she would constantly explain to me. I worried about everything, and then worried about how much I was worrying. That way, I made sure I never had the chance to stop worrying. It was beginning to take a toll, until she asked me to do something every day that scared me: make myself uncomfortable. I was so stuck in my ways, rigidly concerning myself with making everyone happy, that I was making myself unhappy. It was frightening and exciting, all at the same time.

Of all the things I learned in that experience, just one stands out above the rest: the concept of hope. I used to talk about how hopeful I was, how often I wished for things and really hoped everything would be perfect. I’ll never forget the look on the therapist’s face when she processed what I said, stopped scribbling on her yellow legal pad and responded:

“At what point do you stop hoping for everything and start doing something?”

It made me laugh; it was so obvious, but the thought had never crossed my mind that my hope was actually holding me back. Critically ill people don’t hope they start feeling better—they go to the doctor and get treatment to (hopefully!) save their life. Hope is a wonderful, fabulous thing. But, when you allow it to replace the actual work required to make your dreams come true, you might as well walk through life wearing a blindfold. It’s sort of like making a mixed drink: you combine two ingredients in the perfect combination to make something that tastes good and is an enjoyable experience. Hope and work are the vodka and cranberry of life: you must always hope—always—but never let it stand in the way of doing the work to get what you hope for. It’s all about balance.

I remember hearing a beautiful story on TV once of a man who was in a concentration camp during World War II. I don’t remember when or where I heard it, but it’s always stuck with me. He began to describe the horrible conditions, the nauseating sights and smells he remembered from the awful experience in the camps. His children, his wife, all of his possessions were stripped away to never be seen again. Each day, he watched people around him die and he recalled feeling hopeless. With anger and tears in his eyes, he looked up during the interview and, with finger pointed, said:

“They took everything from me. There was nothing left of my life. They could have those things, they could have it all. But, they couldn’t touch my mind. I still had my hope, my thoughts and my dreams. They would never have those things.”

It’s so beautiful to think that we will always have something to hope for, no matter what is thrown in our path. But, it’s our feeling of hope that propels us to take action to chase our dreams, wherever they may lead us. We don’t just hope—we DO. The moment we refuse to allow our hopes to become anything more than a simple feeling is the first moment we accept our failure

I am what I am

Sometimes, I feel as though I have an endless supply of pet peeves. A lot of things that other people do really annoy me, including: asking inappropriate personal questions, feeling entitled, not having any manners, laziness, etc. I could really go on forever, but I’ll spare you the misery of my overly critical nature.

Of all the many pet peeves I possess, there is but one that tops the list: cheesy, open, public displays of gratuitous affection. One of my very favorite examples of this phenomenon is an episode of Seinfeld that we all know and love, titled “The Soup Nazi.” In said episode, Jerry and his girlfriend are “that” couple, opening calling each other “shmoopy.” It’s the classic “No, I love YOU more!” concept that makes most of us gag. Other examples include baby talk, constant hand-holding and putting your hand in your significant other’s rear pants pocket.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my husband very much. I enjoy affectionate exchanges, but I don’t need to tell the world our loving pet names for one another. No one cares, no one is interested and I’m pretty sure the earth is a better place without that part of our lives on display.

Strangely, though, this leads me to a candid confession: when no one is around I am THOSE people I despise so much. Seriously, if you were a fly on the wall at my house, you would vomit all over the wall from all my crazy baby talkin’. I don’t know how it began, but my weird baby talk cheese ball train is dangerously close to derailing.

Personally, I blame the dog for all of this. She makes me want to talk to her like a baby; I swear she enjoys gratuitous baby-talk as much as cheese flavored Beggin’ Strips. I’ve never been in a mine field before, but talking to your dog is pretty darn close: one minute I’m going about my business, then next BOOM! “Rudi doggie, do you want mommy to throw your towely-poo?”
For those of you who do not know, towely-poo is an old towel, tied into a knot that is Rudi’s most favorite toy, second only to shirty-poo, which I’m sure you realize is an old shirt, also tied into a knot. Is this really what I’ve become?
Growing up, we didn’t have a dog. I had a guinea pig, but that really isn’t close to canine territory. So, it’s quite impossible to know the origin of my sheer craziness in regards to our poochie-poo. I know: again with the crazy addition of “poo” to everything I say. But, she likes it!
The funny thing about all of this is that, at no point, did I take a step back and try to stop the inevitable progression into crazy dog owner territory. I mean, when talking to my dog I openly refer to my husband as “daddy” and I’m of course “mommy” and we have no children. I sing to my dog. I let her lay on the couch. I openly invite her into my bed. I talk to her. I chase her around the dining room table. I monitor her poop schedule. I let her lick my face. I brush her teeth with beef toothpaste. I scratch that special place behind her ear.
It’s like I have no regard for my personal dignity when I think no one is watching me act like some deranged mother. I mean, as long as I’m not acting this way in public it’s OK, right?

Who are you?

It’s a simple question, one that we’re asked quite often by strangers. Someone asked me this the other day, and after telling them my name the look in their face made me realize they wanted to know much more. Who am I? Well, I’m a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a PR director, a runner, a blah, blah, blah. I’m a lot of things to a lot of people, as we all are, but who am I really?


It begs a deeper question that goes beyond our name: deep down, who are you? I’m not talking about your identity; I’m talking about who you truly are at the core of your being. When the makeup comes off, the jewelry is put away and you lay in bed at night just like every other human being, what makes you your unique self?

So often, we use our makeup, our clothing and our “things” to create a persona for ourselves. We think we’re fooling others by adorning ourselves with the most expensive this or the best that, but are we really fooling anyone? If all of our things were gone tomorrow, what would we be left with?

I sometimes feel like I spend too much time worrying about what I am to everyone else, rather than working on who I really am to myself. When it comes down to it, it really and truly doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. Why must we have such an overarching desire to fit in or to make others think we’re perfect and fabulous at every second of the day? It makes me tired just thinking about the work involved in achieving the impossibility that is perfection.

We sometimes hide who we truly are because we fear it will ruin our lives or make others dislike us. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I love Ellen DeGeneres. I love that she’s strong, self-deprecating and unabashedly herself, regardless of what others think. (That’s also why I love Lady Gaga so much, but that’s another post for another day.) Ellen has been very candid about the impact that truly being herself had on her career at one time: when she came out in 1997 on a Time magazine cover, she went without work for three years.

Yet, through it all she remained true to herself—even when it meant her career might be over. These days, she’s doing amazing things with her life. In the end, staying true to herself has paid off. That's the way it should be.

More than anything, I love Ellen’s message to the world. In a recent interview with Katie Couric for Glamour magazine, she said this:

“Find out who you are and be that person. That’s what your soul was put on this earth to be. Find that truth, live that truth, and everything else will come.”

*SWOON* Isn't that fantastic?

So often, we hesitate to truly be our authentic selves for fear that others will judge, criticize or dislike us. I'm just as guilty as you are. How frequently do you say what you think someone wants to hear, simply so you can keep the peace? Do you just go through the motions, doing what others expect of you because it's easier?

I distinctly remember feeling so overwhelmed at age 18 when I had to choose what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Seriously, how on earth can a teenager possibly make such a life-altering decision?

What if I make the wrong decision, I lamented to my parents for months on end. What if I choose a path and I spend the rest of my life in misery, ruing the day I ever made my choice? It was, to say the least, the biggest decision I've ever made in my life. Looking back, I know in my heart that I made the right choice. My life isn't perfect, but I know that I'm right where I should be, living out my life's passion and doing something that I love. I made the right choice because I knew, in my heart, that I wasn't an accountant or a lawyer; I was a writer, a talker and if I didn't allow myself to be those things, I would be miserable for the rest of my life.

So, who am I?

I'm head over heels in love with writing

I always follow my heart, not my head

I never follow the directions

I don't think it could happen to me--whatever "it" is

I love deeply and quickly, but hold grudges endlessly

I worry--a lot

I'm clumsy, but only because I quickly rush through everything

I always believe that there is still hope, even if it's impossible


Here's some unsolicited advice: figure out who you are now, because if you don't, you'll spend your life being what everyone else wants you to be.

You Run Away

"Do not spoil what you have by desiring which you have not, but remember that what you have now was once among the things you only hoped for."

I love analogies. I also love running. So, naturally, I truly love when running can be used for an analogy on life. I run because it makes me feel good and sometimes, it’s the only way I can feel better in general. The benefit my body receives from the physical activity is just a bonus, really.

So, I often ask myself on these treks: what are you running from?

I run for a lot of reasons, but some days it feels like I’m really only running from the one thing I can’t avoid: my destiny. Ever notice how much time you spend avoiding something, only to find it waiting for you, right where you started? It’s like a sick joke that everyone else finds to be hilarious, and you force yourself to laugh along so they don’t realize it makes you want to vomit. It’s as though the universe laughs at all the time you waste, and rewards you with what you deserved in the first place for all your hard work in avoiding it.

I run from what I know, deep down, is my destiny because it scares me. It’s not where I thought I would be, so I like to pretend my destiny doesn’t exist. It’s just so much easier that way. Or, I like to pretend that it’s in my power to change it entirely. It’s so much easier for us to live our lives with our head in the clouds than our minds in reality.

It’ll happen, just relax, don’t worry, take a vacation—that’s what people like to tell us when we fret about the things we cannot control. But, at what point is it really OK to worry, justified to freak out and when do we acknowledge that well, it’s just not going to happen? Not right now and probably not ever. Oh and where do you recommend that I should go on that fabulous vacation? Do my troubles know how to get to Fiji?

I don’t know the answers yet, so I just continue running because it feels better. Running is easier than facing the dread that seems to chase me wherever I go. Running is a hell of a lot easier than waiting for the answers, because a month or two seems more like a year or five. Maybe if I stay just a few paces ahead of the unknown, it will never catch up with me and become reality. Coping skills at their best, right?

To fill my time, I find myself starting to compose e-mails and then save them as drafts, telling myself that I’ll come back to them in a few days. A month later, they’re still waiting for me to write more than the word “Hi, ” Or, I begin to dial a phone number and hang up on the first ring like some deranged prank caller. It’s like I’m slowly trying to drive myself completely insane.

That would be giving up on my dream, I tell myself. I’m not ready to give up, not just yet. But when am I allowed to give up, I wonder? Will I know? Will someone tell me when I can give up, or do I just give up whenever I choose? Does Amazon.com carry the book, “Giving Up on your Life’s Dream for Dummies,” or do you recommend I write that book myself? Just dare me; I'll do it. Swear.

Or, should I continue to exist as my own stubborn self, refusing to give in to common sense when it feels like the deck is stacked against me? Sometimes, I think it’s my own inability to admit defeat that keeps me afloat, continuing to run through the motions. At face value, it seems impossible. In practice, it's the easiest thing you'll ever do.

So, I'm going to leave you with my confusing, vague description of what I'm running from. When I stop running, maybe I'll be strong enough to admit defeat out loud. But for now, I'm going to keep running.
 
The question is: what are YOU running from?
 
Barenaked Ladies "You Run Away"

So happy together: A belated Valentine post

I have a confession: I think Valentine’s Day is a dumb, fake holiday. I’ve never been the sappy type, so a day devoted to expensive gifts and red foil covered chocolate makes me want to barf. I think my husband should be sweet to me all the time, not just on one designated day a year. OK, so perhaps the day of my birth and our anniversary are exceptions to that rule; he should always be really sweet to me on those days.


This is why my super fantastic Valentine’s Day post is 5 days late. Here’s what I wrote on V-Day, but didn’t get around to posting until today:

Some experiences stick with you forever; the moment I met Adam is one of those moments for me. I still remember every vivid detail. It was the early fall of my sophomore year of college, circa 2002. My friends and I went to the University of Dayton for a party, but primarily because one of my friends was crushing hard on a guy on their football team.

I still remember what I was wearing: a horrible faux shredded jean skirt and an adorable black tulle-like tank top from Express with my favorite black platform Steve Madden sandals. My really short, really blonde hair was flipped out in my favorite wing-like pattern, which I seem to recall taking an extended amount of time to perfect.

We headed up north to Dayton and enjoyed cans of Beast before heading to a (no lie) “Mexican Prison Party” in someone’s apartment with my friend’s crush and a group of his male friends. The throwers of said party didn’t care much for us, so they continually asked us to stay in a bedroom because they were worried the noise would get them in trouble. I remember being annoyed and I remember scoping out the guy situation, that’s about it. In my mind, all I recall of Adam is that he was lounging on some sort of beanbag chair; I don’t remember thinking he was cute or fantastic. I still remember what he was wearing: a deep maroon colored t-shirt, holey jeans and sandals.

After the Prison Party was a bust, we went back to a dorm room to play drinking games with more disgusting beer. My extreme lack of a filter and searing sarcasm got the best of me and I began aiming my insults at Adam. He later told me that he thought I was a miserable human being until I caught his eye and smiled at him; which I do not recall. Then, he found me to be quite witty and charming and assumed I was hitting on him. I don’t think I was, but I don’t have the heart to dash his former hopes. He also later told me that he had an eye on one of my friends and thought I was too stuck up. It must have been my flippy hair.

As the night wore on, he and I began talking and hit it off. Our friends, in true peer pressure style, convinced me to go back with him to his dorm room. I did, and that’s when we realized one important unifying force in our soon to be relationship: Bob Seger. I remember the look on his face when, sitting on some disgusting dorm room hand-me-down sofa, I told him that the first concert I’d ever been to was Bob Seger. I fully expected him and his roommates to laugh me out the door; instead he quickly ran from the room. He returned seconds later with a handful of Bob Segar CD’s, shoving them into my lap. After asking me a few times if I had snuck into his bedroom and saw the CD’s, and made up the story to impress him (I didn’t) he began talking about his love for classic rock.

After sending me back to Cincinnati the next morning, we saw one another a handful of times before that winter. We’d only known each other for a few months, but our relationship had quickly blossomed, save one small problem: he was engineering major at the time and was headed to Washington, D.C. for a co-op for the semester. I attended his going away party (I wore a black American Eagle cable knit sweater turtleneck, in case you were wondering) and after the night had concluded, we decided that we would have a casual relationship while he was away.

That lasted roughly a month, until I called him crying and asking if he would be my boyfriend. The rest, as they say, is history. Adam proposed to me in 2006, we married in 2007 and I stopped using a curling iron to flip out my hair. That horrible jean skirt is long gone, but I still keep that Express tank top. It makes me smile every time I walk into the closet.

An inexplicable number of things I hate about you

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of Lent. Every year, this Holy Day rolls around and I find myself scrambling to find something to live without for the next 40 days. Usually, I strive to make things as excruciating for myself as possible. You know, because that’s what Jesus wants.
A few years ago, I gave up alcohol. It was torture and made everyone think I was pregnant. Annoying. Before that, I gave up my much-beloved pretzel addiction. It brought tears to my eyes—less salty than normal due to the lack of salt intake, natch. I honestly have no idea what I gave up for Lent last year; it was that memorable.

As a child, however, I spent most of the Lenten season jumping from one resolution to the next. I’d give up desserts until one was in front of me, quickly changing to something else to give up instead. I probably lasted 3 days, tops. Looking back, I realize that it was just easier to act like I was doing without something than actually doing without it. I do that a lot; working so hard to act like I’m doing something, instead of trying just a little less to actually do it instead.

That got me to thinking about all the things I could change about myself, not give up, over the next 40 days. In contrast, not eating or drinking something seems so inconsequential. So, for the sake of Type A decision making: I have compiled a list of my negative qualities up on the chopping block for Lent.
My least flattering attributes

Bitter sarcasm

Rash decision making

Clumsiness

Compulsive shopping

Harsh, constant judgment of others

Excessive reality show viewing

Excessive question asking

Referring to myself as “mommy” in reference to the dog

Wearing the most inappropriate shoes possible at all times

Laughing uncontrollably in uncomfortable social situations

Paralyzing fear of confrontation

Taking 2 hours to get ready for anything

Building mountains out of mole hills

Overanalyzing everything

Worrying about things I cannot control

Crying about things I cannot control

Crying over spilled milk

Feeling annoyance for people who read while using the bathroom

Trying to please everyone

Inability to keep plants alive

Trying on numerous outfits before leaving the house

Rage-o-holic behavior behind the wheel of a car


While all of these things are stupid and I’m sure annoying for anyone who spends roughly 5 minutes in my presence, I couldn’t possibly rid myself of all these demons in 40 days. Plus, let’s be honest: the fact that I think it’s really dumb that you read a book while pooping is never going to change. Not even I can touch that one, people.

OK, so let's get to my point: I'm giving up something I don't like about myself for 40 days in a feeble attempt to, in some way, become a better person. I'm going to attempt to rid my life of compulsive shopping, overanalyzing everything and trying to please everyone.
 
Everybody OK with that?

What Goes Around

It’s been almost a year since someone broke into our home. I still remember the crippling wave of panic that swept over me that day when it hit me what had just happened. He kicked in a door and waltzed into the one place on this earth where I feel safe. It made me sick to think about what it really meant: after studying my daily routine, a stranger had forced his way into my home, rifled through my possessions and took what he wanted. Then, he walked home and sold it to the highest bidder.


I was shaken that day, but I was mostly angry. It’s a difficult thing, trying to understand why someone would choose to do something terrible to you. Your mind floods with ridiculous questions, mind-boggling scenarios and a myriad of what-ifs. But, as I reflect on what happened last year, I keep coming back to the idea of karma. I’ve always believed that each and every one of us, regardless of who we are and what we believe, will always get what we deserve.

The idea of karma in this particular scenario seems obvious: he broke into the homes of nearly 10 people, stole their possessions and was caught 7 months later. He’s been sitting in jail since October and recently pled guilty to a reduced charge. He is slated to be sentenced for his crimes (including probation violation) later this month. It’s safe to say that he got what he deserved---we all got what we deserved.

Yet, despite all of this, I somehow cannot shake the irony of one tiny detail of this man: his age. Just two years span between us, but somehow we live in completely different worlds. I don’t know him and I hope that his mug shot is the closest I come to ever seeing his face, but deep down I wonder about him. I wonder about the series of horrible choices he probably made on his way to choosing to break into my home. I think about the good choices that brought me to this point in my life and the fact that our paths crossed, in a way, only because I made my choices and he made his. It’s almost as though being a good person and being a terrible person made our lives intersect for just one day—and that’s what disturbs me.

I still wonder what went though his mind that day, even when it sickens me. Did he look around my home at the life I’ve worked so hard to build for myself and realize that he could’ve made something—anything—of himself? Or, was he just thinking about how quickly he could rifle through my jewelry box and run home before someone heard the dog barking? Maybe I’m looking into it too much; perhaps he thinks his life is good and he enjoys being a thief. Hell, he probably thinks it’s me who is the pathetic one, slaving away at an actual 9-5 job and paying off college loans until 2022.

Then again, I imagine the cold steel bars of prison have a way of changing one's outlook on life.

Spend 'em if ya got 'em

I hate mornings. Really, they are just horrible. If it weren’t for the crutch of highly caffeinated coffee, I’d consider skipping them entirely. However, my waytoochipperforhisowndamngoodinthemorning husband has a diploma from an entirely different school of thought. He somehow managed to convince me yesterday that NOT sleeping in was a good idea.  
He also talked me to do the following:
• Wake up early enough to attend 8:00 a.m. mass
• Drink only one cup of coffee
• Spend faint-inducing amounts of money at Home Depot

OK, so maybe I didn’t need any convincing on the last one. “They were having a sale” is my favorite line and well, they were.

Actually, Home Depot is doing this awesome thing right now, which is perfect timing for our bathroom renovation. It’s funny to use words like “perfect” and “timing” when talking about said restroom because those have never, ever been concerns. We ripped this thing down to the studs two years ago and never put it back together again. We were just waiting for the right time, OK? Actually, we just closed the door and pretended it didn’t exist until it slowly drove us completely insane.

Nothing like a big sale to inspire you to accomplish something; that’s why we waited two years to accomplish anything at all. So, to make up for lost time, we bought so much stuff at Home Depot that we had to make two trips to transport it all home in our pick up truck. From a new shower to a shiny faucet, we seriously  bought it all yesterday.

My favorite purchase? This little beauty:

Isn't she pretty?

A bathroom vanity was seriously a major point of contention in this space. This bathroom is really small and located upstairs where not many people will be viewing it on a regular basis, so it became increasingly difficult to justify spending a lot of money on a vanity. I fought tooth and nail and just as I was about to give up the fight, this vanity fell from the discontinued merchandise heavens and we got this thing for a steal, people. As in, $150 less than is currently listed on their website, steal. It was in an odd location, didn't have a price and had a big "DISC" sign on the side of its wonky-looking box. I knew we were destined to be soulmates. I had to resist my visceral reaction to hug the employee who told me its price, so I instead hugged the vanity, preventing anyone else from claiming it as their own. MINE!

So, we brought our loot home and the reality of having to do serious amounts of physical labor dawned on us 5 minutes later. I mean, it's been torn up for two years; what's another 6 months?

No Fair

As a society, we are fixated upon the idea of things being “fair” and equal. As children, our idea of fairness is getting a piece of cake that’s just as big as the piece our brother got. When we become teens, we lament that it’s just “not fair” that we can’t stay out past 11 or borrow dad’s car to hang out with our friends. But, when we become adults, the idea of fairness becomes more significant, more testing on our lives. It’s just not fair when we lose our job because the economy tanks and it’s really and truly unfair that the people we love have to die. We graduate to bigger problems, harsher realities and bigger disappointments.


Sometimes, I think it would be easier to go back to our childhood problems. Do you remember what it was like when the biggest disappointment in your life was not getting what you wanted for Christmas? At the time, it was devastating—tear inducing, even. It never crossed your mind that life was bigger than the Puppy Surprise you would never tear open on Christmas morning. I’m still bitter about that Puppy Surprise, if you couldn’t tell.

These days, our biggest disappointments are the kind that changes our lives entirely. They rock us to our core, making us question our future and again lament that it’s just not fair. But, what is fair? Is fair having exactly what you want fall into your lap the moment you ask for it? Is fair having what you thought you’d want eventually happen right now, unexpectedly? Or, is fair working, crying and waiting for what you want so that you’ll treasure it even more the moment it arrives?

The more I live, the more I realize that it’s all subjective. Everything is. I think it’s unfair that the one thing I want most in this world isn’t mine right NOW. It’s unfair, I sometimes believe, that I can’t simply begin to want something one day and have it fall into my lap the next. Everyone else seems to get just what they want, so what about me? I throw myself a lovely pity party, groaning over all the things wrong with my life. Well, with just one thing I believe is wrong with my life. It’s hard to see the beauty in life when you’re so fixated on what you believe to be its greatest injustice.

But, as with all things in life, our “problems” and perceived injustices are relative. I am not dying, I don’t have cancer and I lead an otherwise beautiful life with more blessings than I can count. Then why, I wonder in my rare moments of clarity, am I so angry? Because, when it comes down to it, I am angry. Why fixate my mind on what I don’t have--what I have begun to believe I can’t have--when there are so many other things to be happy about? Why?

Why? Well, because it’s easy and sometimes it feels good—really good, actually. I don’t know what the answers are and I haven’t a clue what the future brings; these are the things I cannot control. I can control and harness the power of my bitterness and disappointment, wallowing in it like a pig in its slop. It feels good, that cool mud on my skin on a hot summer day. But, before I know it, I realize that I’m covered in filth and I stink. I guess that's only fair, right?

Keep Calm and Carry On

If I'm honest, I will say that things haven't been easy lately. Stress has abounded and relief can be hard to come by in my life. It sometimes feels like it is impossible to be happy when everything is completely miserable around me.

While I'm not above throwing myself a large pity party, it can be quite tiresome to spend your time wallowing in misery. But, how do you tell your head to do what your heart wants? As with most of my best ideas, this one occured to me in the midst of a long solo run on a rainy day in December: I was going to tap into my inner peace and put one foot in front of the other, just as I have with every race in my life.

Have you seen the "Keep Calm and Carry On" posters? They recently made a resurgance in 2000 after being created in 1939 by the British Government during the start of World War II. The poster was never used, but its original intent was to was as a "last case scenario" to be used only should the Nazis succeed in invading Great Britain, in order to stiffen resolve. You can buy prints of the poster on just about anything, from framed artwork to a baby onesie.

Despite undertones in what could be rightfully considered political propaganda, isn't it lovely? Though simple in nature, it serves as a reminder that sometimes all we can do is take a deep breath and continue to live our lives. Deep down, there isn't much in this world that we have control over but ourselves--our outlook, our attitude, our thoughts. Others can take everything away from us and work to make our lives full of misery, but they'll never take our spirit and they cannot touch our minds.

After my run was over and I headed back to home, I did so with a smile. It will be my little secret, I thought, that deep down my blood runs cool and my head will be held high despite the mania surrounding me. That is my choice, and now it's my vow to myself.

This morning I all but forgot about my little promise to myself until I started up the car and headed in to work. That promise to myself stuck and I spent the day enjoying my newfound sense of peace.

Playing favorites

Whether we care to admit it or not, it is nearly impossible not to play favorites in life. Teachers have their favorite students, mothers have their favorite children (right, mom?) and even dogs have their favorite toy. It’s just a fact of life. As for me, I have a lot of favorite things, places and people. Here’s where I grossly lack impartiality:

• Favorite drink: coffee. At home: Starbucks Breakfast Blend. On the go: Tim Horton’s Hazelnut coffee.

• Favorite candy: candy corn. It’s the only candy I eat really, but the fact that I completely gorge myself each year makes up for that very fact. It’s a good thing I can readily access this sugar and food coloring bonanza just once a year, otherwise I fear my skin might turn orange.

• Favorite day: Saturday. On no uncertain terms am I a morning person, but I really, really love Saturday mornings. My personal heaven: wearing pajamas, drinking coffee, snuggling with the dog and reading the newspaper.

• Favorite store: Target. I love the prices, the atmosphere and the general awesomeness of this mega retailer. I also love that I walk past hotdogs, popcorn and Slush Puppies on my way to the clothing section.

• Favorite artistic masterpiece: “The Singing Butler” by Jack Vettriano. If you’ve never seen it, you must. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and I have the perfect spot for it in on a blank wall in my home. Several years ago, I found an oversized reproduction of this painting at a Kirkland’s outlet store for a mere $50 and passed it up. I’ve rued that day ever since.

• Favorite flower: Blue hydrangeas. See my oversized wedding bouquet: ‘nuff said.

• Favorite wine: Blue Nun QUALITÄTSWEIN. No, I do not have any idea how to pronounce that. You’ll find it in the “German” section of the wine store in a lovely blue bottle with a nun holding a basket on the front. No, that’s not a joke. It’s sweet, refreshing and costs roughly $7.

A sucker is born...

Living "out in the country" as we do, you tend to have limited options when it comes to television and Internet access. As for our family, we're stuck with my favorite outdoor decoration, a satellite dish. Make that two satellite dishes, to be exact. Don't get me wrong, I love the modern invention and those hardworking men and women who make sure something is orbiting the earth at all times, but sometimes it drives me crazy.

I'm willing to bet that those satellite people at {Company name edited for fear of removal of services and lack of clear picture} love us. I mean, we shell out some serious dough to be contributing members of modern society. Then, we have our uncontrollable obsessions with shows like Curb Your Enthusiasm that appear only on networks that cost $15 extra each month.

Last month, my better half and I bit the bullet and ordered this premium channel, shelling out a mere (additional) $15 a month to watch the Seinfeld reunion on said beloved show. It was beautiful, it was hilarious and now it's over. 

Show's over? Well, then we don't need HBO anymore. It's all automated (I didn't even have to talk to a real person to sign up for HBO!) so I'll just give that crazy machine with the lady voice that makes me want to scream and tell her to cancel it. Right? Wrong.

Crazy machine with the lady voice: "Please tell me what you'd like to do today."

Me: "CANCEL HBO!!" (that's me screaming so she can understand me)

Crazy: "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you. Did you say you want to cancel HBO."

Me: "I did."

Crazy: "I'm sorry I didn't understand you. Please use commands like, 'Yes' and 'No' "

Me: "YES YES YES YES YES YES"

Crazy: "I understand. You want to cancel HBO. I'll transfer you to a helpful associate."

Me: "ARG."

After explaining to another lady (this one not a robot with a lady voice) that I want to cancel HBO, she reacted as though I told her my dog was just hit by a car. "OH NO! Awww, is something wrong?" said said like we were childhood pals.

Sorry, but that's misuse of the term "AWWWW" when I tell you I don't want HBO anymore, sister. She then wanted to be sure, for good measure, that I realized how many exciting boxing matches and award-winning documentaries were on HBO.

Wait, what? What am I doing? Boxing AND documentaries--I like those things. Sweaty men and informational programs are the height of my intellectual development. Then, as if she was reading from a script, she followed it up with "What can I do to make you change your mind?" I said, "Give me free HBO." That, I'm afraid was on her script and after stuttering a bit she said, "How does $5 off a month sound?"

That my dear, does not sound like free HBO. After that, her script ran out and she gave into my will. Good thing I don't fall for marketing ploys and faux sympathy.

Leaving your mark

I've posted on this topic before, but it never fails to intrigue me: scars. There's just something beautiful about the marks left on our body from truly living and experiencing life. Scars are proof that we've lived and survived, and that's something amazing. I was again reminded of this topic after reading the article below by Padma Lakshmi, host of Bravo's Top Chef and a former model. She has a very noticeable, sizeable scar running down her right arm and does not cover or hide it from the world, which is quite amazing. See her article from the April, 2001 issue of Vogue below and prepare to be amazed.

Almost flawless


by Padma Lakshmi

Can a terrible scar suddenly become a thing of beauty?

It depends, discovers Padma Lakshmi, on who's looking at it.

The accident happened on a Sunday afternoon filled with sunshine. I was fourteen years old and on my way back with my parents from a Hindu temple in Malibu. The traffic was quite heavy for a Sunday. I remember thinking how strange that was. Then there was a loud bang, and I looked out the windshield and saw nothing but the prettiest blue sky. I thought I was dreaming because I'd been nodding off, but then I realized we were part of that blue sky. Our red Ford Mercury sedan was airborne. Flying in a car felt like an exhilarating hallucination, an unbelievable ride that oddly remains one of the most beautiful images in my memory.

We were in the air for what seemed like a very long time, flying off the freeway and 40 feet down an embankment. We hit a tree dead-on and it stopped our fall. Blood, glass, dirt, and leaves were everywhere. We seemed to have been buried alive. The tree trunk had fallen directly on top of our car. I remained conscious, covered in glass, for the 40 minutes it took for the paramedics and firelighters to get through the traffic. They used the "jaws of life"—giant metal upfront cutters—to open the car roof like a sardine can. A helicopter landed in the middle of the highway to take my parents away. An ambulance carried me to the hospital. I finally passed out. When Iwoke up hours later, I had tubes coming out of several places in my body. My right arm had been shattered and my right hip had been fractured. After surgery, I regained the use of both of them but was left with a long scar on my arm. It was half an inch wide and seven inches long. I wished I’d had a conversation with the doctor and asked him to cut on the underside of the arm instead, where the scar would have been hidden. Now it was too late. But my parents and I had been fortunate. We all survived.

When I first got the scar, I was self-conscious about it. I perfected a casual pose that hid it under my left hand and thumb when my arms were crossed. But I also knew my scar was a symbol of my survival. The surgery that put it there had saved my arm. After nearly a year of physical therapy in the mornings before high school, I could once again stir pasta, dance, embrace others, throw a Frisbee or football and, in countless other ways, be a normal American teenager.

Two months before the accident, my mother and I had met a photographer who begged her to allow him to take photos of me for his book. Grudgingly, my mother had held the light reflector for him under the Santa Monica pier. But she disapproved of what was going on. After all, I was only fourteen. The photographer promised my mother not to show the pictures to any modeling agency unless she agreed. A year after the accident, we stumbled on the pictures in a drawer. Now that I had a caterpillar of scarred skin crawling down my arm, it seemed ridiculous to imagine that any agency would be interested in such an imperfect specimen. My mother, I felt, was secretly relieved.

I went to college on the East Coast. I had always stood out for my height, my skin color, my very long hair. But now, all people noticed was the scar. "It's such a shame," they would say. "She's so pretty, she could have modeled." It angered me that people saw me as a ruined beauty. Inside, I felt I was pretty. But while I loved fashion—I knew about everything from Elsa Schiaparelli and Chanel to Halston andJohn Galliano—I never thought I was pretty enough to model, even without my scar. The closest I had come to seeing someone like myself in a magazine was Yasmeen Ghauri on a Cosmopolitan cover in a pink satin dress. Still, I envied those women and kept a secret list of photographers I dreamed of working with: Steven Meisel, Irving Penn, Peter Lindbergh, and, of course, Annie Leibovitz, all the while pretending the scar didn't matter. I was concentrating on higher things.

Then I was cast in a college play. The director worried that my scar might be distracting, so someone in the theater department who was good with makeup offered to help. Night after night, she covered the scar with pancake makeup and powder. Onstage, I was liberated. I felt like another person: not just in character but as another me, who didn't have a scar. By the end of the run, I had learned to put the makeup on myself.

In the last semester of my senior year, I went to study in Spain and was "discovered." An agent spotted me in a Madrid bar (I was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt) and asked if I'd ever thought of modeling. "No," I said, "I'm in college." As if that made me superior. "We have many college girls who model part-time," he answered. The next day my friend Santiago, who was determined to meet models through me, tricked me into going into the model agency under the pretext of saying hello to a friend. At the agency, they insisted on measuring, weighing, poking, and prodding me until I couldn't stand it anymore." I have a scar," I announced. No one was listening. "A very big scar," I boomed. I pulled up the sleeve of my turtleneck and revealed my secret. Then there was an interminable silence. Then Josette, the owner of the agency, said, “Have you seen a doctor about that?”

I felt awful and hated Santiago for taking me there. The phone rang. Josette answered it, then asked Santiago something in Spanish. "We're going to Elle magazine!” he cried out. After that, I did jobs where I wore winter clothes or used makeup on my arm. In one case the client even sprang for retouching. By the end of the summer, an Italian agent paid for my ticket to Milan. My first year in Italy, I got modest work as a fitting model for Gianfranco Ferre, Prada, and a catalog or two, but nothing more. Then I went to see Helmut Newton's agent, who took Polaroids of me in my undergarments. I had been modeling for a year and was immune to the humiliation of being photographed in my underwear. But I hated such appointments because I was very sensitive about my scar, which had become a professional problem. I knew I would get only so far with this aesthetic handicap. (Also, the waif phenomenon was in full swing—and I was a voluptuous 34C-24-34.) As I undressed behind a partition, I told the agent about the scar. "Don't worry, Helmut likes scars," he said. Soon afterward, my booker told me Newton wanted me for a privately commissioned photo, but that it involved full nudity. I agreed, but a few days before the shoot I began feeling more and more anxious. I had never posed completely nude, and two days before the appointment I did something I've never done since. I canceled the job. Needless to say, my agent was furious.

That week I made an appointment to undergo chemical dermabrasion to take some of the dark pigment out of the scar. I was frightened. A doctor in Los Angeles had once stuck a six-inch needle under the surface of the scar and shot it with cortisone. This made the scar flat but left me terrorized. In Milan, another doctor treated it, inch by inch. As anyone who has had dermabrasion will tell you, it's excruciatingly painful. I had never known such agony, even in the car accident itself. But it actually worked. The scar peeled to a neutral color quite close to the rest of my arm. This would be much easier to cover.

Then a miraculous thing happened. Helmut wanted to book me again, for a Lavaz-za calendar (with only partial nudity). I said yes. When I arrived at the shoot, I found that one of my closest friends, Antonio Gazzola, had been booked as the makeup artist. His presence was a good omen. In those early days, he was somehow always there at the right moment. Backstage, he used to whisper to me in Italian that I was just as beautiful as all the other models and that my scar made me special. He knew how anxious I was about the scar and would tell stylists they didn't have to check the sleeves on my rack, because he would make it disappear. Of course they always gave me the clothes with long sleeves.

When Antonio was done, Helmut came to say hello. He treated me calmly and comfortably, as a grandfather might. I began to feel at ease in my own skin; but when he caught a glimpse of my arm, he shrieked, "What have you done?" "Didn't they tell you about my scar?" I began to panic. "Yes, yes," he answered, "but why have you erased a part of it? You've ruined the beauty of it. Antonio, get your paints out and restore that mark to what it was."

I couldn't believe it. I felt like a queen. I can still remember Antonio smiling with a brush between his teeth as he touched up the scar, adding wine-colored lipstick to the lightened areas. "Crazy business," he murmured under his breath. He knew what I didn't: When the designers found out I had shot with Helmut because of my scar, not in spite of it, they would all want to use me. Already models with tattoos and piercings were showing up in American ads for Calvin Klein, and Europe often followed America's lead. Helmut would give everyone in Milan and Paris the courage to use me without camouflaging my scar, Antonio said.

He was right. I was soon booked for an eighteen-page shoot for Italian Elle. Then I shot a campaign with Aldo Fallai and was booked for many shows in Paris, from Ungaro to Sonia Rykiel. At the shows they still checked my sleeves—but now they were checking to make sure the sleeves were short, so that everyone would know who I was under all that makeup. Because I spoke Italian, I was a favorite of the news crews that covered the shows for the style-conscious Italian media. Eventually, RAI television asked me to join the cast of Domenica In, the biggest show on Italian television. I asked the director about showing my scar on TV. "Everyone knows that Padma has a scar," he said. "Don't cover it up."

In my career as an actress, the scar is no longer an issue. I cover it when necessary, but I prefer not to, especially in my private life. I love my scar. It is so much a part of me. I’m not sure I would remove it even if a doctor could wave a magic wand and delete it from my arm. The scar has singled me out and made me who I am. “Everyone knows that Padma has a scar." Now I know what Antonio whispered to me is true. The scar does make me special. I've started seeing my body as a map of my life. I can tell a story about every imprint life has made on my skin: the mosquito bites on my back from when I slept under the Sardinian sun the summer I first fell in love, the scrapes on my leg from the rocks in the Cuban sea during the filming of my first movie. In her introduction to Women, by Annie Leibovitz, Susan Sontag asks, "A photograph is not an opinion. Or is it?" I believe it most certainly is. A photograph can change the way you look at yourself, though it's more complicated than that. Perhaps it was under the right light, or the right lens, that I really saw myself for the first time. I have Helmut Newton to thank for that. People have told me that my scar makes me seem more approachable, more vulnerable; that it inspires a certain tenderness. Ironically, the greatest gift fashion has given me is the courage to expose what is most vulnerable, to be proud of my body. Including my scar.

I forgive you

“Not forgiving someone is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” –Anonymous


I’ve been angry, upset and feeling quite defeated lately. Some days, it feels like I’m insanely running in circles and hoping that on my next pass things will be completely different. I don’t know why I’m angry and I don’t know who I’m angry at, that’s what makes it so crazy. I spend my days feeling like I just lost an important fight and all that’s left for me to do is fold into a ball and give up.

I haven’t always felt like this. No, this feeling just crept up; quietly consumed me and I became its host, like some terrible parasite. “Those people” I tell myself, they are the ones to blame. They’re the ones who refuse to support us, who assume we’re liars and pray each night for us to fail. It’s them I am so angry at; they’re the ones who are ruining my existence. It’s they who are responsible for all the zits on my face and every canker sore in my mouth. THEY did this to ME.

It’s a horrible thing, blaming your misery on someone else; someone whose name you don’t even know, whose face you couldn’t pick out of a crowd. The fact is, they have nothing to do with how I feel. The question I fret over now is, when did I let them in? What day was it when I decided that I was going to let them hurt me? Was it a warm, sunny Tuesday or a cold, miserable Friday? Maybe they crept upon me while I was sleeping, defenseless and calm, silently laughing as they invaded my head. When did I become so weak?

On an incredibly long (and today, painful) run yesterday, it dawned on me: it’s not about me. These people, the ones that hate me; it’s not me they hate. It’s them—I’m just an easier target. I knew what I had to do, I knew there was only one way that I was going to stop being so damn angry; I was going to forgive them. I was going to tell them that I forgive their ignorance, their hatred, their lacking ability to see the future and I was going to stop letting them make my wonderful life completely miserable. They aren't sorry, but I forgive them.

Of all the things in this world I fear, losing someone I love to a tragedy is the most severe I can imagine. Whether it be a drunk driver or a home invasion, my greatest fear, my most severe horror, would be to suddenly lose a loved one. I can’t imagine the pain, fear and anger those left behind feel when something like that happens. How could they not hate the person who ripped a hole in their still-beating heart, those poor people who are left behind to pick up the pieces? Nothing is more amazing to me than when those who survived, those who are left with the pain of losing someone they love, forgive the person who did this to them. They look them in the eye, forgive them and only then can they move on with their lives.

If I don’t do this one thing for myself, I realized, I would spend the rest of my life being no better than those I once hated. For that, I think I owe myself an apology.

What I know for sure

Ellen DeGeneres was on Oprah yesterday and I was touched by how honest, self-depreciating and hilarious she truly is. It's refreshing to see someone who is so wildly successful be so very humble and down to earth. In the December issue of O magazine, she wrote Oprah's "What I know for sure" column, it's both touching and quite funny:

What Ellen DeGeneres Knows for Sure


(She Thinks)

1. My home address. But I'm not printing it here. Nice try, Oprah.

2. I know that "personality can open doors, but only character can keep them open." And I know that for sure because I read it on the sign at the dry cleaner's.

3. I forgot what number 3 is.

4. Sometimes I forget things.

5. I'm sure I'm good at making lists.

By the way, I should point out that there are things I know for sure and things I don't know for sure. Also, there are things I wish I never knew. Like did you ever see that Primetime report about hotel rooms and what's on the bedspreads? Exactly.

Actually, there's nothing I know for sure because I know for sure that things change.

For a long time I thought I knew for sure who I was. I grew up in New Orleans and became a comedian. And there was everything that came along with that. The nightclubs. The smoking. The drinking. Then I turned 13.

While I was doing stand-up, I thought I knew for sure that success meant getting everyone to like me. So I became whoever I thought people wanted me to be. I'd say yes when I wanted to say no, and I even wore a few dresses. And it worked. I got my own sitcom.

The show was very successful. I had everything I'd hoped for, but I wasn't being myself. So I decided to be honest about who I was. It was strange: The people who loved me for being funny suddenly didn't like me for being…me.

I had a really tough time for a few years. My show was gone. My phone wasn't ringing. There wasn't one job offer. And at that point, I thought I knew for sure that I wouldn't work in Hollywood again.

Eventually, I decided to go back to how I started my career, and I wrote an HBO special. Then I got my talk show. And look at me now…I'm on the cover of O. And that's the highest honor we give in this country.

I know for sure I would never change any of the hard times I went through in my life. Because it was in those times that I grew the most and gained the most perspective.

It's our challenges and obstacles that give us layers of depth and make us interesting. Are they fun when they happen? No. But they are what make us unique. And that's what I know for sure…I think.

On the Path

If you hope to expand

You should first learn to contract.

If you hope to become strong
You should first understand weakness in yourself.

If your ambitions are to be exalted
Humiliation should always follow.

If you hold fast to something
It will surely be taken away from you.

This is the operation of the subtle law of the universe.

The law of the universe is subtle,
But it can be known.

The soft and the meek can overcome the hard and strong.

The true strength of a country or a person is not on the outside.

Just as the fish cannot leave the deep,
One must never stray from one’s true nature.

-From the Complete Works of Lao Tzu

Grand Funk Railroad

“Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.”


- Albert Einstein

I’ve been in a real funk lately; I’m tired, I’m cranky and really just unmotivated. My laundry room is overtaken with piles of both clean and dirty clothing and my desk at work is being consumed en masse by piles of paper. Some days, I feel like I’m a salmon, trying my hardest to swim against the current to some unknown prize awaiting me upstream—all while spectators on the sidelines spit obscenities at me, daring me to justify my position.

When things are rough, it’s easy for us to forget about how wonderful our lives are—especially while watching the evening news. I still have a home, a husband, a job and a refrigerator filled with food. Even when the future seems uncertain, we all need a rock to cling to—even if we are our own rock. Disappointment, unfortunately, is a part of life. People who achieve great things are separated by those who give in to defeat by one small but meaningful gift; fortitude. The Beatles received countless rejection letters from radio stations who weren’t interested in their music, saying the world wasn’t ready for their “rock n’ roll” sound. What would the world look like, I wonder, if those who were told “No” on more than one occasion began to believe what their opponents said?

When life throws stones at us, it’s important to realize that someone is trying to tell us something. Perhaps it’s a reminder to savor the good times, or a message to just slow down. Regardless of the reason, sometimes slowing down and taking stock is necessary. For me, it’s been a hard lesson learned. You see, I never slow down—ever. I’m happy while in the midst of perpetual motion, but find great agony in being stagnant. My life is planned to a T and diverting from that plan is just plain scary. What would happen if I didn’t walk the straight line, following the rules and doing what I thought was necessary?

Although it might seem inconsequential, I tested my theory recently by doing something that truly scares me: not exercising for two weeks straight. Frightening, I know. If you know me, though, you’d know that exercise is the cornerstone of my sanity. You’d also know that I secretly fear that the world will come to an end (or my body will turn to 95% fat) if I don’t do something that involves rigorous physical activity for at least 1 hour, 6 days a week. Having an extreme “need” or compulsion to do something is never beneficial—even if the act itself is.

Allow me to be the first to say that it was hard, it was really hard. It’s not like I just sat on the couch for two weeks, but I didn’t undergo my normal 4 mile runs or hour-long weight training sessions. Surprisingly, my body didn’t turn to mush and I actually found other tasks to complete like working in the garden or taking Rudi for a long walk. It was, I dare say, relaxing.

Regardless of what it is you do to remain sane, sometimes you can find sanity in letting it go—even if it’s just for a moment.

Pride Skin

As a child, I was completely consumed by horses. I even wrote my own “horse book” in a spiral notebook, complete with magazine collages and short stories and poems about horses. You could say it was the beginning of a love affair with writing.


Now that I’m an adult, I still have a great fascination with horses. I often find myself entranced by them as Rudi and I take our daily walk by the horse pasture down the road. There’s just something about them that puts me under a spell. I read once that when a horse is injured and their skin is cut, the scar tissue that grows over that wound is known as “pride skin.” How wonderful it is to think that our scars, which we often find great shame in, should really evoke a sense of pride.

It’s nearly impossible to go through life without scars. Just face it—you’re going to fall, you’re going to injure yourself and it’s going to leave a mark. However painful or embarrassing they might be, you’ll always remember how your scars came to exist. Our scars have a story to tell and a memory to evoke, whether we like it or not. They’re never pretty and leave your body changed permanently, but they mean something.

For me, my scars exist as a constant reminder of what my future might look like if I’m not careful. Most of my scars are precautions of the slicing and dicing variety made by a dermatologist. Having a great tan became an almost-obsession not long ago, and now I’m paying the price with practically annual biopsies of moles and the possibility of melanoma. My arms, legs, back and neck are all kissed with scars—some more severe than others. They are all thanks to suspect moles on my now pale skin, reminding me how foolish it is to bathe in the sun.

Granted, I have a family history of freckle abundance and am practically the poster child for necessary sun etiquette: fair skin, freckle-prone, blonde hair and blue eyes. All a dermatologist has to do is glance my direction and then begin to rattle off the many reasons I need to stay out of the sun and slather 4786243 SPF on my body. I have a lot of freckles and I make the doctor earn that $15 co-pay each time I visit as they photograph and create extensive diagrams of my natural body art. I even have freckles in fun places, like on the palm of my right hand and the bottoms of my feet. In grade school, my best friend also had a freckle on her palm and we’d joke that we had maps on our hands and pretend to give directions to our homes using freckles as reference points. See, freckles can be fun!

It’s not that I don’t like my freckles—I just struggle with the concept of what they potentially mean for me. Are they landmines just waiting for me to step in the wrong spot or harmless, but sometimes obnoxious, dandelions growing in the yard? If I had a scar for every freckle on my body, I don’t think I’d have much skin left—and that is what I find scary.

I sometimes gaze admiringly at people who have great tans; they look fantastic. I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness, though. Do they realize what they’re doing to themselves? Will it hit them on some idle Thursday afternoon that life was bigger than having a fantastic tan? Or will they cry in regret 20 years from now in the mirror, lamenting their deep wrinkles and bad choices?

These things seem to come in waves, spinning in cycles as the year’s progress. Years ago, being pale was seen as a thing of great beauty and status. Those who were pale were wealthy; they spent their days indoors and in the shade as their tan counterparts slaved away in the fields. As time wore on, being tan became a thing of status—luxury, even. It was a sign of having the funds to take a lavish vacation, the spare time to lay in the sun or the wads of cash to visit a tanning salon. These days, our paranoid health-conscious world warns us of the dangers of sun exposure, creating bigger and better sunscreen to save us from impending doom. Our affinity for big hats and sunscreen has even led to a mass, nation-wide Vitamin D deficiency.

In the end, I realize that my beauty doesn’t come from tanned skin—it comes from being smart enough to know when to stop. Sometimes, we have to endure a little pain to get the message across. For now, I’ll slather on the Helioplex-infused 100 SPF and look to my scars for inspiration; now that’s something to be proud of.

Cool Customer

It is not in my nature to let others see me sweat; it’s just not how I operate. It’s partly my nature, but mostly my job that has turned me into a “let’s look at the bright side” kind of girl. You’ll never see my eyes tearing up as I run from the room—I save any tear shedding for when I go home. I’m the person sticking their finger in the dam while versing others on what great craftsmanship the structure has and how wonderful the men and women who constructed it all those years ago must have been. That doesn’t usually leave time for me to freak out about the impending doom that lies ahead.

Being in PR, as I am, one realizes quickly how important it is to not only be the voice of reason, but to look the part in the face of disaster. I often liken those in this field to a hybrid of an actor and a magician. They call you to look this way at something bright and shiny, all in an attempt to distract you from the disaster the other way. PR professionals are also the people who expertly craft messages when bad things happen and coach those who will be delivering them in front of a captive audience. Next time disaster hits, (which, lately it seems to happen daily) take a good look at the individual delivering the news. Watch their eyes, hand gestures; facial expressions and tone; all while remembering that each was very carefully orchestrated. You aren’t supposed to notice, that’s what makes it so fascinating.

There’s a distinct difference between who writes the message and who delivers it---they aren’t usually the same person. Any CEO, spokesperson or leader is often just the messenger, not the wordsmith. People forget this, because consideration is never given to the possibility of individuals scheming behind the scenes. Sure, the President is saying it, and obviously approved of it, but someone else stayed up late the night before, drinking Red Bull and proofreading until the early hours of the morning.

As someone who has always loved to write, sometimes it’s easier to write knowing that you aren’t the person who will ultimately deliver the message. There’s just not as much pressure involved when you realize you don’t have to speak those words—you are just the artist crafting them behind the scenes.

If you were to ask my co-workers if I’m constantly repeating anything, they’d say:

It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it

No matter where you go and what you do, you are a representative of this organization

I’m fairly certain I annoy everyone with my unnecessary repetitiveness, but I think the world could benefit from (and avoid a lot of undue drama) if they just remember these things. People often forget that words do matter—and they do hurt. Whoever came up with the “sticks and stones” adage, in my opinion, just wanted to come up with a catchy phrase to convince the playground bully that their feelings weren’t hurt. I say, you aren’t fooling anyone.