Running from Reality: A Midlife Meander Through the Absurd

Let’s talk about expectations. When you’re knee-high to a grasshopper, do you envision yourself, decades later, as a 42-year-old survivor of both a stroke and the relentless existential dread that comes with being a modern human? Do you foresee a domestic landscape populated by a nine-year-old space expert (who knows more about black holes than I do about, well, anything), a six-year-old bottomless pit of a child (whose digestive system operates with the efficiency of a garbage disposal), a three-year-old dictator (who probably runs a tighter ship than most Fortune 500 CEOs), and a husband whose devotion to wrestling occasionally surpasses even his fondness for his long-suffering wife?

No? Me neither.

Life, as they say, has a way of rearranging the furniture. It presents you with a neatly packed suitcase of dreams and aspirations, then promptly throws it off a speeding train. You’re left standing on the platform, blinking in confusion, surrounded by scattered socks and a crumpled map of the world as you thought it would be.

And so, one finds oneself at an… interesting juncture. Not ungrateful, mind you. Gratitude is a very important thing and I practice it daily. But also not… entirely thrilled. Frankly, some days, the sheer weight of it all—the demands, the responsibilities, the unrelenting cacophony of tiny voices—can feel like trying to swallow a particularly dense and thorny cactus.

This, dear reader, is where the running comes in.

Because when life serves up a generous helping of the unexpected, you have two choices: you either roll over and play dead, or you lace up your sneakers and attempt to outrun the encroaching sense of… something. What that something is, I’m still trying to figure out. Midlife crisis? Existential angst? The lingering effects of neurological trauma? Probably a delightful cocktail of all three, shaken, not stirred.

Now, about that cactus. You could try to stomach it whole and learn to appreciate its unique flavor profile (a flavor that, I suspect, closely resembles despair). Or, you could opt for a slightly more palatable solution. Which is, in my case, a small, round, Lexapro-shaped lifesaver. Remember that thorny cactus? Well, this little pill helps to smooth down the spikes. Not a cure, mind you. More of a… temporary truce.

The reality, as I’m slowly coming to accept, is that some days the chatter in my head resembles a flock of startled parrots engaged in a heated debate about the merits of various brands of birdseed. Other days, it’s more like a swarm of angry bees, buzzing furiously around a nest of anxieties. Saturdays, in particular, can be perilous. With the structure of the workweek stripped away, and the schedule blissfully (or terrifyingly) sparse, there’s simply too much time to think. Too much time to ruminate. Too much time to engage in the delightful pastime of self-loathing.

The medication has quieted the noise, and the relief is palpable. But it’s also… unsettling. I’m calmer. Less anxious. Something I haven’t felt in years. It feels a little like wearing someone else’s skin.

Here’s the kicker: I’m still trying to figure out who “I” am now. The stroke, the medication, the relentless march of time—they’ve all conspired to create a somewhat… unfamiliar version of myself. I don’t quite recognize myself. I haven’t been myself in about three years now, and I’m still trying to figure out where the trail leads. Am I back to myself? Am I a new version? Am I just out here, aimlessly running?

But this, surprisingly, is a happy post. Because in the midst of all this uncertainty, there’s a glimmer of something resembling hope. A sense of relief. The freedom to breathe, even if the air feels a little… different.

And, dear reader, you’re getting to witness it all unfold. As I stumble and fumble my way through this new normal, as I tentatively piece together the fragments of my former self, I’m sharing it all with you. You’re getting the real-time, uncensored, occasionally-slightly-medicated revelation of me. Aren’t you just thrilled? I know I am. Mostly. Well, sometimes. Okay, maybe only on Tuesdays. But still… progress!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a three-year-old dictator to appease. And a five-mile run to “escape” into. Wish me luck. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

Running Towards the Redhead

Ah, the peculiar alchemy of Disney magic – where else but in Anaheim could the whiff of bromine-treated water become as cherished as the scent of fresh-baked churros? Let us embark on a journey through time, tide, and olfactory obsession, to explore how a pirate-themed boat ride became a cultural touchstone steeped in equal parts history and… well, let’s call it “eau de buccaneer.”

A Whiff of History: From Wax Museums to Waterborne Legends

Picture Walt Disney in the early 1960s, dreaming not of talking mice, but of pirates. His original vision? A walkthrough wax museum in Disneyland’s New Orleans Square, where guests might ponder the sobering realities of 18th-century maritime crime. But fate, like a tipsy parrot, had other plans. After the success of the Carousel of Progress’s audio-animatronic marvels at the 1964 World’s Fair, Disney pivoted. Why settle for static wax when you could have drunken pirates belching Yo Ho in three-dimensional glory? Thus, the ride we know today was born – a splashy, cacophonous ode to pillage and plunder, opening in 1967, three months after Walt’s death, as his final love letter to kinetic storytelling.

The attraction’s façade, modeled after New Orleans’ Cabildo (where the Louisiana Purchase was signed), cost $8 million to build – a sum that, in a delicious twist of irony, matched the price Jefferson paid for the actual Louisiana Territory. Disney’s Imagineers, it seems, have always had a flair for poetic accounting.

The Scent of Nostalgia: Bromine, Bones, and Bedlam

Now, let’s address the elephant – or rather, the skeleton – in the treasure room. Early riders might’ve unknowingly floated past genuine human remains. In a move that would make even the most hardened pirate blush, Disney initially sourced skeletons from UCLA’s medical labs. “Realism!” declared Imagineers, eyeing their unconvincing plastic prototypes. Over time, these macabre decorations were given proper burials… save for one stubborn skull. Rumor insists it still grins from a bedpost in the Captain’s Quarters, a bony holdout from UCLA’s cadaver collection. (Disney officially neither confirms nor denies this, but cast members have been known to wink at the notion.)

Yet for all its skeletal intrigue, the ride’s true legacy lies in its smell. That damp, metallic tang clinging to your clothes isn’t mere water – it’s bromine, chlorine’s posh cousin. Chosen for its gentler scent and resistance to California sunlight, this chemical brew creates an aroma as distinctive as Davy Jones’ locker. Combine it with artificial smoke (burning timber! Gunpowder!), and you’ve bottled the essence of pirate life. So potent is this sensory cocktail that fans now buy Pirates of the Caribbean-scented candles – because nothing says “cozy evening” like evoking moldy caves and cannon fire.

A Ride Through Time: Swashbuckling Revisions

No attraction survives 58 years without controversy. Purists still mourn the 2018 overhaul of the “Auction Scene,” where the infamous redhead shifted from matrimonial merchandise to pillaged poultry. (“We wants the redhead!” became “We wants the chicken!” – progress, Disney-style.) Yet the ride endures, its updates layered like barnacles on a ship’s hull. Even the 2006 addition of Jack Sparrow, swaying drunkenly among the animatronics, feels less like corporate synergy and more like finding a celebrity at your local pub.

The genius lies in the details:

  • 620,000 gallons of brominated water, swirling through 1,838 feet of canal.
  • 120 audio-animatronic rogues, including a pig snoozing peacefully beneath a bridge – a nod to Disney’s belief that even pirates appreciate a good nap.
  • That sleeping pig, by the way, has fans. Real fans. People who’d sooner skip Space Mountain than miss their annual glimpse of swine serenity.

Why We Keep Coming Back: The Alchemy of Memory

What explains our collective obsession? Perhaps it’s the ride’s paradoxical charm – a jolly romp through murder and arson, sanitized for family consumption. Or maybe it’s the way that bromine-laced air acts as a Proustian madeleine, whisking ’90s kids back to sticky summers and souvenir straw hats.

Disney’s Imagineers didn’t just build a ride; they engineered a sensory time machine. The bromine, the skeletons, the coyly winking skull – these are the ingredients of nostalgia, simmered in a kettle of technical wizardry and sheer audacity. So next time you catch that musky scent lingering on your shirt, remember: you’re not just smelling water. You’re inhaling history, one chemically enhanced pirate fart at a time.

Yo ho, yo ho, indeed.

Running Back to the Saddle

In the crisp autumn air of Indianapolis, with leaves crunching underfoot and the promise of adventure hanging thick as morning fog, I found myself standing at the starting line of the Indianapolis Half Marathon. It was October 2023, and I was about to embark on a 13.1-mile journey through the heart of the Hoosier capital, a feat that seemed as improbable as finding a cowboy riding a horse down Broadway in New York City.

You see, dear reader, this wasn’t just any race for me. Oh no, this was my first major foray into the world of competitive shuffling since a rather inconvenient stroke had decided to pop by for an extended stay in my brain. Here I was, a former college athlete who once squatted small cars for breakfast, now questioning whether I could manage a brisk walk to the corner store without keeling over.

But let me tell you about the ingenious decision I made, one that would make even the most seasoned race veteran nod in approval. I splurged on the opportunity to start my day in the hallowed halls of the Indiana State House. Picture it: while other poor souls were huddled outside like penguins in a snowstorm, I was stretching my questionable limbs in the warm embrace of democracy, munching on a breakfast that didn’t come wrapped in tinfoil. It was a stroke of brilliance if you’ll pardon the pun.

As I waddled to the starting line, a mere stone’s throw from my cozy State House sanctuary, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of panic. Had I trained enough? Was I still the same person who had once pushed out babies with the ease of a vending machine dispensing snacks? The identity crisis loomed larger than the giant timing clock ticking away mercilessly above our heads.

The race began, and to my utter astonishment, I found myself running. Not the graceful gazelle-like strides of my youth, mind you, but a determined shuffle that would make any powerwalker proud. For five glorious miles, I was unstoppable. That is until my right shoe decided it had had enough of this foolishness and came untied.

Now, dear reader, picture if you will, a somewhat disheveled woman bent over a curb, fingers swollen to the size of small sausages, attempting to tie a shoelace. It was a sight so pitiful that a kind stranger took pity and performed the task for me. I briefly considered asking them to carry me the rest of the way, but my pride (what was left of it) wouldn’t allow it.

The next few miles were a blur of monotony, broken only by the occasional cheer from a spectator who had clearly mistaken me for someone else. But as we approached mile 10, something magical happened. We found ourselves running alongside the race’s overachievers – those annoyingly fit individuals who were already finishing. It was both inspiring and mildly infuriating.

As I crossed the finish line, my boys waiting with expressions that were equal parts pride and “can we go home now?”, I wanted to shout from the rooftops about my triumph over adversity. But instead, I settled for an internal victory dance, and the knowledge that I had, indeed, proven something to myself.

In the end, as I hobbled what felt like another half marathon to reach our parked car, I realized that toughness comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s squatting small buildings, and sometimes it’s putting one foot in front of the other when your brain has other ideas. And since that realization has landed me in therapy, well, at least I have plenty to talk about.

Running from my Birthday

Ah, birthdays. Those peculiar annual rituals where we’re expected to celebrate the inexorable march towards our own mortality with cake and forced merriment. For most, it’s a day of joyous reflection and an excuse to indulge in socially acceptable gluttony. For me, it’s become a rather more complicated affair, thanks to a mischievous little cerebrovascular event that decided to gatecrash my party just as I was about to hit the big 3-9.

Picture, if you will, a scene of impending festivity. Balloons at the ready, candles poised for their fiery demise, and a cake so laden with sugar it could send a hummingbird into diabetic shock. But instead of blowing out candles, I found myself blowing bubbles in a hospital bed, my brain having decided to take an impromptu vacation without so much as a postcard.

The next few days passed in a haze of confusion and medical jargon, as if I’d suddenly been dropped into an episode of ER, but with significantly less George Clooney and a lot more bewildered mumbling. By the time I resurfaced, I felt compelled to inform my long-suffering husband that “something was definitely wrong.” I imagine his response was along the lines of, “You don’t say, dear. I thought lying comatose in a hospital was your new hobby.”

Now, birthdays and I have a relationship that’s about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus in a snowstorm. The stroke merely added an extra layer of complexity to our already strained association. It’s as if my birthday has become a sort of morbid anniversary, a day when I’m supposed to simultaneously celebrate my continued existence and mourn the person I used to be. It’s like trying to have a party in a funhouse mirror maze – disorienting, slightly nauseating, and with an unsettling sense that you’re not quite who you thought you were.

I’m well aware that my attitude towards this annual milestone is about as cheerful as a wet weekend in Miami. But when you’ve spent over a year cataloging your deficits like some sort of neurological accountant, it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for party hats and noisemakers.

And let’s not forget the baby – my third little bundle of joy, who had the misfortune of being born just 6 weeks before his mother decided to audition for a medical drama. I missed out on all those precious newborn moments – the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, the spit-up on every clean shirt. It’s enough to make a person weep, or at least wish for a time machine and a neurologist on speed dial.

So here I am, forever 39, stuck in a perpetual loop of birthday ambivalence. It’s a day that serves as a stark reminder of what was lost, what was gained, and the peculiar journey of rediscovering oneself post-stroke. But who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll embrace the occasion with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. Until then, I’ll be here, blowing out candles and silently thanking my stubborn brain for sticking around for another year of this bizarre adventure we call life.

Running from my Superpowers

In the curious realm of parental entertainment, my 6-year-old has developed a penchant for a game called “This or That,” a sort of pint-sized Sophie’s Choice, if you will. The rules are simple: choose between two options, each more absurd than the last. Would you rather consume earthworms for superhuman abilities or possess ocular laser beams? The latter, naturally, unless one harbors a particular fondness for soil-dwelling invertebrates.

During a recent expedition to the Ohio State Fair – a veritable cornucopia of deep-fried delights and livestock beauty pageants – we found ourselves embroiled in this peculiar pastime for what felt like several geological epochs. As we navigated the labyrinth of exhibits, dodging the occasional overzealous turkey leg enthusiast, the topic of superpowers inevitably arose. Flight versus strength, the age-old conundrum that has puzzled philosophers and comic book aficionados alike.

By some cosmic coincidence, we soon stumbled upon a children’s exhibit where young visitors could declare their superpower of choice. My offspring, clearly well-versed in the art of snap decisions, were ready to stake their claims in the pantheon of imaginary abilities.

Oz, ever the speed demon, declared himself the Usain Bolt of the prepubescent set. Wynn, apparently fancying himself a pint-sized Hercules, opted for strength. But it was Cub, our resident boy wonder, who threw us a curveball worthy of a major league pitcher. With the solemnity of a Supreme Court Justice, he proclaimed his superpower to be “brains.”

Now, Cub’s intellectual prowess is no secret. The lad’s cranium practically hums with cognitive activity. But in the cruel world of childhood social dynamics, being the smartest kid in the room is about as popular as a ferret in a sack race. It’s a predicament I know all too well, having spent my formative years as the class brainiac, a role that’s about as comfortable as a corset made of cacti.

Since my unfortunate tango with a stroke, my own cerebral circuitry has been performing a rather unorthodox cha-cha. The thoughts in my head and the words from my mouth seem to be engaged in an endless game of telephone, with predictably garbled results. However, this neurological rewiring has bestowed upon me an unexpected gift: a finely-tuned hogwash detector that would make even the most seasoned carnival barker quake in his boots.

It’s taken some time to adjust to this new superpower, but I must say, it’s far more useful than any gadget you might find in the pages of a Sharper Image catalog. Though I do sometimes miss the days when I could string together a sentence without feeling like I was solving a particularly vexing crossword puzzle, there’s something to be said for being able to spot nonsense at fifty paces. In the grand game of “This or That,” I’ll take my newfound bullshit radar over laser eyes any day of the week.

As I pondered the peculiar phenomenon of superpowers, it occurred to me that we’re all walking around with our own unique brand of extraordinary ability, like a vast collection of human Swiss Army knives, each with a different set of improbable gadgets. The real trick, of course, is figuring out what your particular superpower might be. Is it the ability to fall asleep instantly on long-haul flights? Perhaps you’re blessed with the uncanny knack of always choosing the fastest-moving queue at the supermarket. Or maybe you possess the otherworldly talent of being able to predict rain by the throbbing of your left knee.

Whatever it may be, there’s something truly magical about witnessing someone else’s superpower in action. It’s like stumbling upon a secret garden or finding a trap door in your living room that leads to Narnia. These hidden talents are rarely on display for the general public, tucked away like family heirlooms or embarrassing childhood photographs. But when you do get a glimpse, it’s as though you’ve been granted access to a sliver of that person’s very essence, a fleeting peek behind the curtain of their soul. These moments of witnessing raw talent in action are to be cherished, like finding a four-leaf clover or spotting a double rainbow.

As for my own brood of pint-sized superheroes, I count myself fortunate that they’ve already identified their unique talents at such a tender age. While I’m still grappling with the intricacies of my newfound bullshit detector, they’re out there embracing their powers with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most extraordinary abilities are found in the most ordinary of places – even in a household where the primary superpower seems to be the ability to generate laundry at an alarming rate.

In the end, perhaps the real superpower is recognizing and appreciating the extraordinary in others. And if that’s the case, well, I might just be ready to don a cape and tights myself. Though on second thought, perhaps I’ll stick to admiring from afar. Lycra, after all, is not particularly forgiving on a middle-aged frame.

Running from the Phoenecians

Ah, dear reader, strap yourself in for a journey through time and space, or at least through the peculiar realm of Disney’s imagination, as we explore the marvel that is Spaceship Earth. This gargantuan golf ball, this colossal cue ball, this spherical spectacle that looms over Epcot like a geometric tumor, has been boggling minds and confusing pigeons since October 1, 1982.

Picture, if you will, a structure so audaciously futuristic that it makes the average UFO look positively pedestrian. This 18-story geodesic dome, wrapped in a dizzying array of 11,324 triangular panels, stands as a testament to human ingenuity, or perhaps to our species’ collective madness. One can’t help but wonder if the designers were inspired by a particularly vigorous game of connect-the-dots.

Now, imagine my wide-eyed wonder as a young lady in 1996, stumbling upon this behemoth for the first time. “Good heavens,” I thought, “has a colossal alien egg landed in Florida?” Little did I know that this extraterrestrial-looking orb housed a ride that would take me on a whirlwind tour of human communication, from prehistoric grunts to the information superhighway, all without the need for a single textbook or a stern librarian’s glare.

Inside this titanium-clad time machine, we’re treated to a parade of narrators that reads like a Who’s Who of distinguished voices. From Walter Cronkite’s reassuring tones to Jeremy Irons’ silky British purr, and now Dame Judi Dench’s regal intonations, it’s as if the history of communication is being whispered to us by a rotating cast of celebrities who’ve somehow found themselves trapped inside a giant ball.

The current iteration, narrated by the inimitable Dame Judi, is a sensory smorgasbord. As we glide through time in our “omnimover” chariots, we’re assaulted by the scent of burning Rome (a curious choice for a family attraction), while interactive screens invite us to ponder our future. It’s all set to a soundtrack so catchy that I often find myself humming it in the shower, much to the confusion of my neighbors.

But here’s the kicker, dear reader: without this plastic fantastic voyage through human achievement, I might not be here, tapping away at my keyboard like a caffeinated chimpanzee. The very existence of this blog, nay, the entire online Disney community, owes a debt to those intrepid Phoenicians and their newfangled “alphabet.”

So when I inevitably collect my “Most Spectacular Epcot Blogger in the Known Universe” award (a category I’m still lobbying to have recognized), I’ll raise my glass not to some deity or Hollywood star, but to those ancient scribes who set us on the path to today’s digital wonderland.

Here’s to you, Phoenicians! May your legacy live on in every tweet, blog post, and wildly inaccurate online review. Without you, we might all still be communicating through a series of elaborate grunts and interpretive dances. And let’s face it, some of us struggle enough with emojis as it is.

Running from Myself

So, it’s been a while.

A lot has happened since October, 2020. To say the world has fallen apart is an understatement. Since the last time i’ve posted, the world has gone to shit, i’ve gotten a new job, twice, i’ve had a baby, and most importantly, I had a stroke. Yes, I said that right. I had a stroke.

It’s hard to explain what has happened, and not just because my short-term memory is virtually non-existent. I’m gonna try to go through the timeline, if for no one else but myself.

May 2021

I started a new position at my workplace, Labette Community College, as a Workforce Coordinator. I immediately knew that it was a stepping stone. I was just nothing that I was interested in, but I was good at it, because I am organized, meticulous, and trust-worthy.

June 2021

I started the month by finding out that I was pregnant, so surprise, with my 3rd boy.

July 2021

I was asked by my husband’s boss to apply for a position within his school district. The position was for a Marketing and Communications Coordinator, and it was everything I dreamed of. The position was the first of its kind in the school district, so you were basically creating your own position. I had free reign, and a solid marketing base. It was a dream to be asked to apply, and even more exciting when they called with an offer.

October 2021

At 22 weeks pregnant, I started having concerning contraction. We went in for the first time on October 22, and the contraction didn’t stop until February 9, 2022. I started working half days then, as it was almost too much to sit at my desk for 8 hours a day.

February 2022

My baby boy is born. It was a tumulus delivery, and there was no doctor present. I was induced, but even with warning that the baby would come fast, I delivered at 8 cm. I never made it all the way to 10.

March 2022

On March 22, I had my 6 week follow up appointment with my doctor. My exam went fine, the baby was great, and we went on about our business.

March 24th was like any other day. I was attending a conference in Pittsburg, about 30 mins away. I got home that evening, went to the grocery for a pick up, took hot chocolate to the tennis coach at the court across the street from our house and fed the baby like normal. I was still breastfeeding, and sat on the couch while my husband is at wrestling practice and my mom was in the kitchen with my 4 year old. Once he was done, I went to get up and felt like my eye was on fire! My left eye was watering so bad, I went to the kitchen to tell my mom, when all the sudden I got so dizzy I couldn’t hold the baby anymore. The rest is just faint memories until the next afternoon, my 39th birthday, and my mom Facetimed my dad. He said, “Go to the hospital.”

They sent me home…

But are you bleeding?

Let’s be honest: How many times have you yelled this up the stairs to your kids? If you immediately said daily, you can be my friend. Unfortunately, about 40% of the time the answer at my house is, “YES!” That doesn’t mean they are actually bleeding. I think they just know that that will actually get me to put down what I am doing and go upstairs to find out what is going on.

After yelling this ump-teen million times over the past few quarantined months (and my boys are only 5 and 2, so we have YEARS of this left), I started thinking about this exclamation in a difference light.

I tend to overthink, overanalyze, worry myself sick over things that will probably never happen. And through all my anxiety I end up wasting time and energy that isn’t necessary. Recently I decided to start using “But are you bleeding?” to my classify my worries. It is a good barometer for how bad things actually are. I will give you an example:

Yesterday, my husband (who is now a grade school physical education teacher, a story for a different day) text me to tell me that my son’s teacher is in quarantine because her husband tested positive for COVID-19. My initial thought was this:

Then the questions start up in my head-

-How much time has Cub spent with her since she has been exposed?
-Her son is also in Cub’s class, so how much time has Cub been around him since he was exposed?
-Cub sits next to her son in class, so how many things have they both touched that could potentially expose us?
-Has Chas been in contact with either of them?
-What if we have to quarantine?
-I don’t have enough groceries to feed these kids for 2 weeks!
-Does this mean I could sleep in?

The questions go on and on… You can get consumed in them. So here is where you apply my logic: But are you bleeding? In this situation, is it a matter of life or death? Well, it is COVID, so that leaves a few more questions. Fortuantely, none of us have pre-existing conditions that would warrant complete panic. Assuming we act responsibly, it probably is not a matter of death.

So, I don’t think we are bleeding. And even if we are, maybe just a trickle.

I can order online and pick up groceries at Wal-Mart, or my mother-in-law could pick them up for me and drop them off on our front porch. Another way to stop any bleeding.

Yes, everyone has probably been exposed. Fortunately everyone was wearing masks. We have not been contacted by the health department to quarantine. Winning!

Everyone is feeling fine. No symptoms to report. Winning again!

And if you did have to quarantine, yes, you might be able to sleep in. Well that would be major winning if we had to quarantine, but we don’t so its losing.

Anyway, that is how you stop the bleeding in about 27 steps. Any questions? Wait, what was I saying? Is confusion a symptom of COVID? And here we are, back to the beginning. No one died! Yay! But Lord, am I tired!

Life position reclassification

I’ve decided that I am redefining my position in life as of yesterday. To be honest, I listened to a podcast that gave me sort of a brilliant thought. How the fuck am I supposed to know how to do, well, anything?

Sure we have role models and specialties in our fields of study, but am I truly supposed to know what it takes to be the perfect wife to my husband, or the perfect mom to my kids? No two marriages or births/babies are alike. So how can anyone in their right mind do it right?

Reclassifying things in my brain helps me think about them in a less overwhelming fashion, and the thought that I “shouldn’t” automatically know how to do everything has lead me to reclassify my position in the world. I am now officially an undergrad student in LIFE. Once my kids graduate from high school, I will move onto the Master’s degree in Life, to be completed when I kick the bucket.

Maybe it’s good to die young. Maybe people like Kobe Bryant have completely mastered what they needed to and that’s why they leave us so suddenly and at such a young age.

We all know those people that live forever too, made of grit and grizzle. Often times they have the worst habits, drinking, smoking, and maybe living as long as they do is the universe telling them that they didn’t learn quickly enough, so just stay there till you do.

Of course this is not a suggestion to go find a way to die. This is just a thought on the fact that if we are not students for life, we will never continue to grow. Our experiences will change our knowledge, but maybe that isn’t enough. Maybe we should all be more conscious about trying to be life’s students. Maybe that would make this world a better place, and potentially keep people from posting so many stupid videos on TikTok… probably not, but it would be worth a try.

The Story of Two Wolves

Funny, this is my first post in over a year. Funnier still, I started this post about 3 weeks ago, and am just now finishing it off. But I think that tells you a lot about my life right now: NEVER “stable”, “safe” or “predictable”.

I have been dealing with depression over the past few months, some of it created from reasons I am not going to get into here, and some of it from past trauma that I am still trying to overcome. I am not a naturally depressed person. My normal state is happy and interested, but this time I have really been hit hard with overwhelming feelings of being caught in a whirlpool with no entrance and no exit. Thinking I just needed some rest, I have spent the last month really trying hard to organize my life. I know I feel better when I feel like I have control, so that is what I have been trying to regain.

The good news is that I think its working. By making sure that every bobby pin I own is attached to the magnetic strip in my bathroom drawer, I have actually started to feel better. Well, I don’t know that that did it, but by controlling what I can and accepting what I can’t control, I feel like I have REGAINED control… Wow, that’s a weird sentence. But it’s true.

In general, I think its really dumb to say you have control of toddlers. The truth is that they have control of you. You are on their schedule, cleaning up after their spills, making sure they are fed and clean. This is not something you think about or envision when you think about the joy of parenthood, but none-the-less it becomes the reality.

Marriage is the same thing, sort of. At least for me it is. His emotions, his schedule, all that controls my schedule because of the piece of paper that was signed by the Hamilton County clerk and our minister.

I am not going to lie to you and tell you that my life is perfect or that I love every minute of it. The last 2 months have proven to me just the opposite. I can feel like I have everything a person would want, but yet I can feel empty, alone and like I want to escape it all.

Whether or not this is my new year’s challenge post is up for debate. I think one of my main challenges for myself this year is to try to find happy again. I am working on it. But knowing that the end to finding happy is your eventual death makes it an exhausting task, because it will be a constant cycle of finding a new happy as you move through the stages of life. I am still trying to find it right now, but I think I am on my way.