Dear Self: Stop freaking the eff out!

I remembered while blow drying my hair this morning at 7:55 that I had an 8:30 appointment somewhere across town and the address of where I needed to be was at work...in the complete opposite direction. 

Crap. 

I wish I could say I handled the situation with grace, but I did the complete opposite. My boyfriend's innocuous question was met with a "WHAT!??" while I rushed out the door pissed that I was going to be late and endure an early morning without coffee. 

Kill me. 

The day went better after that. How could it not? Work is awesome. I still feel like I'm swimming and grasping and all of those other words synonymous with completely overwhelmed, but I do love the challenge. 

I was just sitting on the couch reading blogs and came across one that inspired me to write again. I never want to stay away too long because I love blogging and blogs so damn much. My brain is fried from a lot of late nights at the office lately, but my inspiration helped me find beauty in the most mundane things around me tonight. 

Example 1:

My little DIY jewelry box. It's not much, but it's beautiful and functional and makes my life a lot easier every single day. It's hanging by the light switch in the bathroom and I often look at it and give myself props for spending that two dollars at Goodwill and taking a day to paint it. 

Example 2:

This poem, Ubuntu, by a local author. It's beautiful and (I think!) creatively and cheaply framed. I'm in love with the message and the top graphic. 

Example 3:

I hope to get a dog in the very near future and often tease myself by visiting a Boxer adoption rescue site and looking at brindle Boxers. I can't wait to play not-fetch with a dog of my own someday.

When I was frantically driving to work this morning, holding back tears of frustration, I wish I could've had a window into the future. Maybe I would've simmered down a bit and let things roll off me had I known I'd read inspirational literature, make a triumphant return to blogging and watch a video of the world's cutest boxer cruising around the backyard.

Since I've been gone

I started a fancy new job a couple of weeks ago. I'm able to focus on social media full-time now and work with super smart people at a great company.

Understandably, I've been a little overwhelmed as I adjust to this new change (and chance!) in my life.

I've been having a lot of pinch-me moments lately, and I wanted to take a second to step back and remember just how amazing it feels to look forward to going to work every day. It makes all the difference in the world.

All the difference.

a silly little poem

on rainy nights like this
gads of snails line the walkway to my door
I feel bad when I squish them

the big lie my generation told me

I attribute my late silence to growing pains. When I'm processing heavy stuff, my words seem to leave me. It's like I need all of my brain power to stew on my thoughts until I can come to some sort of conclusion.

Thankfully, I've finally reached it:

My generation lied to me.

Perhaps lie is too strong a word because it implies a willful act. It means that someone, somewhere premeditated an action and determined to kill the truth. Or at least hide it.

I'm going to remain positive and believe that my generation is just mistaken. Misinformed.

All I know for sure is that whoever equated living a meaningful life with doing work that lights a fire in your belly really missed the point. Woefully missed the point.

I've finally uncovered that the path to a meaningful life is a varied as a snowflake.

For some, that means putting in eight hours at a workplace so you can provide a safe home for your family. For others, that means the life of a nomad, living on the road. And, yes, for others that means making a living writing or freelancing or owning a small business.

I don't have all the answers, but I do know this:

For me, finding a meaningful life begins with finding contentment.

I started this blog in a very discontented place. I believed that my life had no value because I wasn't living off my passion. I had let others convince me that I was renting out my mind and settling for something I didn't want. I lost sleep worrying about how to make money off my passion. I cried on my lunch breaks. I put an incredible amount of pressure on myself, believing that I wasn't worth anything unless I wrote for a living. I read blogs and felt like I could never measure up.

I forced myself into believing that I would be happy if I could just ____.

That was my error.

That was the lie I believed. That something needed to happen before I could embrace happiness.

In reality, happiness was sitting there waiting for me to grab her. To claim her for my own whatever the circumstance. I realized that the universe gifted me with unique talents in the field I'm currently in. I understood that trying to convert my passion for writing into a paycheck diluted it into a chore. Instead of letting my words flow and writing about what suited my fancy, I hawked my words to publications that dictated word counts and deadlines and topics that didn't interest me. In the meantime, I let beautiful time go to waste at a job that matters to me, my work that impacts lives.

For weeks now, I've embraced my current moment.

I've woken up excited to go to work. I've fallen in love with a new form of exercise. I've relaxed in the evening watching Downton Abby. I've stopped grinding my teeth in my sleep. I've reveled in sleeping in on Sunday mornings instead of punishing myself logging miles to keep up with the running Jones'.

At the same time, I'm still striving, still looking forward, still excited about the future. The difference is: I'm also perfectly content just where I'm at.

And that's the truth.

Belie' dat homie.

should I train for another half marathon?

Pretty much the moment I crossed the finish line for the half marathon a week and a half ago, I have been stressing over whether or not I want to start training for another one right away.

I am not sure why I can't be like a normal person and bask in the glory of running 13.1 miles without immediately thinking of how I'm going to one-up myself the next go-around.

The thing is, I honestly DO NOT want to go through the training again. It's murderous to spend your entire weekend dreading waking up Sunday morning and running for one, two, almost three hours. I hated walking around like a zombie on my beloved weekend. I hated the anticipation and worry leading up to the race.

The only thing I sort of liked was the running. And I mean it when I say I  sort of liked it.

Actually, there was one other thing I liked: losing weight. I don't weigh myself so I can't throw out a number, but I do know that I dropped a few pounds during the training. I felt good, strong, capable. I'm scared that if I don't keep pushing myself I'll gain it all back. I'm well on my way already without the motivation of the training plan.

I guess the answer is clear in reading through this post:

I'm not going to run the next race. My heart just isn't there. BUT, I am going to join the gym and continue running, taking Zumba classes and lifting weights.

Maybe I'll just give myself a training plan and some other motivating factor for finishing it. Because, really, how is a race any kind of reward for completing nine weeks of training?

You know what is, though?

A little shopping spree or, even better, a massage. Yeah, I could go for that.

Anyone care to join me?

Moving forward

I'm convinced that writing, for me, is a compulsion. My mind constantly swirls with ideas I want to form and spread with my world. Too often, those ideas evaporate before I even have an opportunity to connect them to paper. The one I write about below accompanied me on my trip to the grocery store this evening. I thought it so special, I scribbled it in one of the notes pages of my planner in the parking lot before I began my commute home. 


I think I ate the best six inch turkey on honey oat of my life today during lunch. My mind was full as I shoveled it in staring out the window, thinking and worrying about a call I had to make to the landlord as soon as I took that last, delicious bite.

I watched two girls walk over from the optometrist office next door and pause to take the final drags off their cigarettes, one precariously balancing her cooked lean cuisine sandwich and Diet Dr. Pepper on her hip before heading inside to continue their conversation two tables behind me.

I couldn't help myself from feeling those pricks of judgement in my stomach as Lean Cuisine dropped her cigarette on the ground without taking a moment to stomp it out. The nerve!

Not even thirty seconds later, a couple strode down the sidewalk. A little rough around the edges, battle wounds from life's hard knocks criss-crossing their faces. Without even pausing, she bent down for that cigarette and took a long pull before passing it off to her partner and continuing her conversation.

Moving forward.

Witnessing that small moment from the outside, I couldn't help but consider how interconnected we all are whether we acknowledge it or not.

The exchange of body fluids.
The relief of a few nicotine puffs.
Three lives brushing against each other, separated by one's excess and another's want.
Worlds apart, but moving forward.
Always moving forward.

Look ma, I finished something

I ran my first half marathon yesterday. Though I trained six days each week for the past couple of months, nothing prepared me for what went down on the streets of Sacramento yesterday. Nothing.

First, let me preface this by saying I've aspired to run a half marathon since early 2010. Around that time, I started reading blogs from the likes of Skinny Runner and Healthy Tipping Point. Somewhere along the line, I idealized the race as some sort of magical experience. Not sure why, but I thought it would be this empowering go me come-to-Jesus moment.

It was not.

It more closely resembled 13.1 miles of mental battles and death. Yes, death. It was hard. Not hard like those stupid motivational posters that say "pain is temporary, finishing is forever".

It was hard like losing track of what freaking mile it was after mile 8.

It was hard like I can barely walk today.

It was hard like seeing the 11 mile mark and wondering how on earth I was going to make through another 2.1 miles.

It was hard like holding back tears of anxiety before the starting horn and tears of relief after crossing the finish line.

For other people out there like me, slightly overweight and overzealous mixed with a touch idealism, please realize that training for half marathon will likely be one of the hardest things you've ever attempted. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.

But, if I can do it, you most certainly can too. It's completely within your reach if you fully commit and are willing to drastically rearrange your life and habits for a few months.

I think that's what I'm most proud of. For me, it's not really about crossing that finishing line. It's that I said I was going to do this amazing thing and I did. I wanted to quit so many times, even entertained the thought the night before the race.

But, I did it. I actually finished something, just for me. I think that made a training plan like this worth it.

I think.