Splat

It's just been one of those days. But due to the grace of God and a little yoga, I managed not to throttle anyone. Yet.

I just arrived home from my marathon day of meetings and annoyances. I spent four hours composing and editing an e-mail dissertation opining many subjects, not the least of which is that I am always right. The sooner everyone realizes and acknowledges that, the happier we'll all be, k?

After six or seven hours on the edge, work Jennifer (whom we'll heretofore call Pam to separate her from cousin-in-law Jennifer, and because she looks like Pam from "The Office") and I escaped to our self-proclaimed office yoga studio (a classroom with a huge projection TV where we spread out our mats and sweat through downward facing dog for 45 minutes) to relax and stretch. I like that Pam has decided to join me in my quest for zen and flexibility. It motivates me not to cheat in my poses or throw anything at Bethany, the perky girl from the yoga video. Bethany is less than 10% body fat and wears a do-rag over her uneven pigtails. How can I not hate her?

Luckily I logged three miles on the treadmill this morning before I went to work since I didn't make it home early enough for a third workout. I really wanted to since today I've eaten the equivalent of a small vending machine: granola bar, Reese's cup, and potato chips. All washed down with gallons of diet coke. But when you eat all three meals at your desk, what do you expect? Maybe Pam will bring in a George Foreman grill and make me a sandwich, unless Michael Scott has burned his foot in there.

I welcomed a new group at work tonight (which I LOVE) and that put me in a much better mood, until I left the office and face planted on the asphalt. After looking around to ensure that no one witnessed my lack of grace and checking to see if my laptop sustained any damage, I realized that my right knee was bleeding, and that I ruined my favorite pants from Express. Curses! I'm guessing patches on dress pants aren't a good look, right? My skinned palms, knees and egos will heal, but my $80 pants will not survive.



You know you're getting old when you trip over your own two feet stepping off a six-inch curb and anticipate the body aches that will surely come in the morning. I also may have purchased a fanny pack tonight. But I totally need it to store my keys and camera during races because my running gear doesn't have pockets. I may also need it for the Ben Gay and false teeth in my near future. I'm a bedazzled sweatshirt and a pair of gold easy spirits away from becoming my grandmother.

Luckily tomorrow is an awesome work-from-home day, so I just have to wake up and pick up my laptop. No shower required! It's been a very productive day, wipeouts and arguments notwithstanding.

Let's all get some sleep now, shall we? I'm slumber party giddy and punch drunk.

Like sands through the hourglass

Growing up, I wished my life away. I couldn't wait for the school year to end. To start high school. Begin college. Get a real job. I've spent most of my life, it seems, in hurry-up mode.

Because I couldn't wait to get older. At 16 I'd get to drive. At 18, vote and go to college. At 21... well, you know the rest. It seemed my life couldn't pass by quickly enough.

Until recently. Now it's all a blur. It's totally true what my mom said; time passes by more quickly as you age. It doesn't just fly... it flies at Concorde speed.

All of a sudden, instead of waiting to do things, it seems that I've waited too long for things. My 20s are a distant memory. I'm covering up my gray. Taking vitamins. Watching my chest point toward my knees.

When did this happen? When did I become the spinster who is no longer asked when she'll have children? Why do people no longer wonder when I'll settle down, but rather assume I'm not worth settling?

Old age ain't for sissies. But I'm refusing to go down without a fight. As long as they make good hair color, treadmills, and bras, I will defer the aging process.

I still feel 25. Who cares what my driver's license says?

Now I must go to bed before the 10 o'clock news.

Life had other plans

I've recently been blessed to reconnect with a dear friend who's been absent from my life for too long. We were talking last night about the inherent surprise of life, and how many mornings we wake up in a world we didn't expect.

In the big scheme of things, I live a pretty charmed life. I love my job more days than I loathe it. I have friendships far beyond what I deserve. But I never thought I'd be here at this point in my life.

Perhaps because I'm not sure where here is exactly. I have no idea what the etiquette is of living as a middle-aged person. Do I shelve all ambition and coast until retirement? Do I continue to dream big dreams, make big plans, and frantically stave off the aging process? Should I give in to the sweatpants and early bird specials?

Take the newspaper for example. In my 20s, I was looking at wedding announcements. Soon it'll be the obits. Where do the 30 somethings look first? The stock market report is certainly depressing. So I find myself not reading the paper at all, instead getting my news from Comedy Central. It's less depressing when it's delivered in a pithy, sarcastic way.

Forgive me if this post seems sporatic, but I'm still bogged down in this constant state of life purgatory. It's hard to know when to grin and bear it and when to cut bait and run. Because really, at the end of the day, if we had all the things we wanted would it really make us happy, or would we want more things? Different things?

And sometimes, the things that make us worry turn out to not be so painful after all. Such as running into a boy you don't want to. Yeah, it was bound to happen sooner or later when I pass his house twice a day, but can't it be later, when I'm thinner, happier, and feeling more in control?

I'm still praying for peace and guidance.

I suppose that feeling of not being in control of my life is the hardest. I've always had a plan. Always known what I was doing. Now I have no idea. And where I am isn't a bad place, but I constantly wonder if it's the final destination or merely a pit stop made to increase my dependence on God. Give up control of my life.

I don't want to drive anymore.

Time flies

Remember when you were a kid, and time seemed to drag? The minutes between lunch and afternoon recess seemed to tick by slowly, and it felt like summer vacation would never get here. When it finally did, I couldn't wait for my birthday, but it seemed that month or so was an eternity... time filled with Bible school and slip-n-slides by day and chasing fireflies at night.

Now I'm reeling from the breakneck pace of the past four months, in disbelief that it's nearly time to blow out 36 candles on my birthday cake. I've been driving for 20 years, but it seems like yesterday that I took my first drivers' test, right after Mom and Dad bought me my dream car, a '88 Pontiac Grand Am with a cassette player. I drove it to basketball practice listening to "Must Have Been Love" by Roxette and checking out my hair in the rearview mirror, which I'd sprayed with hair spray and blown dry to stick out as far as possible.

Time, it seems, doesn't just fly when you're having fun. It flies when you're busy working and buying groceries at Wal-Mart. When you're paying electric bills and doing laundry.

I'm not quite sure which is worse: time passing too slowly when you're a child or too quickly when you age. There's either too much or not enough. And you wake up one day and realize you didn't appreciate those lazy nights of bike rides and lightening bugs nearly enough.

Double the fun!

Here's the first public photos of Parker and Emma. Aren't they beautiful?

Emma seems to be the calm one.



Parker and I had quite the conversation. Here he is listening raptly to my wisdom.



Ashley took me back to the NICU to see the kids, and I was just so overwhelmed with emotion that I couldn't stop crying. Really. Me, Miss Devoid of Sentiment, was weeping like a child, which made Ashley cry, which made the nurses start crying.

On a much less happy note, I had my annual eye doctor appointment today, where I found out that, not only were my contacts not strong enough (hence the two-month headache), but I have the beginnings of macular degeneration. I got the speech about getting older, watching my diet, taking vitamins, and exercising for a healthy heart, which evidently prolongs the onset of the disease. Man, it stinks to get old.

Happy April Fools, everyone.

Ironing out the wrinkles

I know that aging is inevitable and infinitely preferable to the alternative, but when did I get so old? It’s as if an alien has invaded my body and I don’t like it.

This morning, after painfully rolling myself out of bed, taking an Advil for my back and head pain, and slathering moisturizer on my formerly oily face, I got in the car to head to work. On the way, I was looking in the mirror at a stoplight (hey… I’m old, but vain) and noticed craters in my forehead. When did that happen? Jimmy Buffett once said, “Wrinkles only go where smiles have been,” but I doubt my forehead’s had much to grin about. Man, I’m tempted to call Dr. Beverly Hills Plastic Surgery and schedule some botox. Maybe they can suck the fat out of my rear end or thighs and fill the crevices in my face.

It’s very disturbing when you realize you’re getting old. My friend Joe and I were talking on Monday night about how we’ve stopped trying to be fashionable and have started buying clothes because they’re comfortable and stretchy.

Now I know why your eyesight goes as you age… so you can’t see how haggard you look. If I feel this old at 35, how am I going to feel in 20 years?

35’s not hold, right? I mean, my uncle’s mother was celebrating her 20th wedding anniversary when she was my age, but that’s unusual.

Guess it’s true what they say… getting old ain’t for sissies.