Insanity: Denim Edition

Let me catch you up to speed by explaining my picture above:

Pile #1: Jeans that legit don’t fit anymore (17 pairs)
Pile #2: Jeans that fit, but hurt (2 pairs)
Pile #3: Jeans that fit and don’t hurt (1 pair – as in uno, lone, single, solo, solitary)
Pile #4: Jeans that have never fit and I’ve never worn – tags on, but bought anyway because they were super cute and were going to provide me with motivation to work out more and/or eat less (2 pairs).

THANK GOD FOR PILE #3. 🙏

Ya’ll please. This is insanity. I keep ALL these jeans.  I can’t bring myself to let any of the ones that ‘no longer fit’ go because they USED TO FIT. I’ve worn every single pair at some point. All 17! I loved each of them for their own special reasons. Perfect low cut. Perfect back pocket design. Perfect discoloration. Perfect length for heels. Perfect length for flats. Perfect man made holes. Every pair – Just. Perfect. I can’t get rid of the ones that ‘fit but hurt’ because I’m SOOO close to zipping them up without jumping or using a wire hanger. (My ladies from the 80s know what I’m talking about! If you didn’t need a hanger to get that zipper up, your jeans weren’t tight enough.) But in 5 – 10 pounds, I’m gold! Gold, I tell ya! Also, I can’t get rid of the ones ‘I’ve never been able to wear’ because that just makes me a quitter and a spend thrift, right?

So they all stay. 🤷‍♀️ Insanity.

Now, full disclosure – I had two pairs of jeans in Pile #3. Recently and reluctantly, I had to say goodbye to one of them. 😢 The beginning of the end started a little while back when I was being seated at The Cheesecake Factory (shocking) and felt an odd sensation upon sitting down. I could feel the seat touching my ass. Directly. That’s weird, right? Awkwardly, I stood up, turned around and asked the person sitting across from me if there was something wrong with my pants. Making it even more awkward– it happened to be my older brother. He then had to inform me that the ‘problem’ was that my ass was hanging out of my pants. Awesome. My brother has now seen my ass. Sigh. “How bad is it?” I asked him.
Enter evidence…

So you can see, it wasn’t even a tiny rip – it went down half my right cheek. That sitch pretty much ended all the errands I had planned post lunch. But y’all – I LOVED these jeans. SO MUCH. They were my perfect holey ones that, let me stress, didn’t hurt. So, I continued to wear them but just made damn sure I wore a blouse that would cover my backside (as seen here when I was heading to the NKOTB concert. Yes, NKOTB. Because I’m cool. What?).

Perfection.

But the butt ‘hole’ kept getting larger and larger. Not only did it eventually work its way up to my waist as well as down the remainder of the pocket, it widened. This was not good. Thankfully a dear friend – and you’d have to be a dear friend to extend this, offered to patch up the backside since I was having anxiety over the idea of giving up my favorite jeans. SHE OFFERED TO PATCH MY BUTT. Y’all … this job was SOLID. It was like when you get a hernia repair and they tell you that spot is actually stronger now than before. I was set. Crisis averted! (High five, Mindy! 🖐 And super-duper thanks!!! Muah!!!😘)

Sadly, in an unfortunate turn of events, all was well until I ‘turned the other cheek’ so to speak and the left side ripped wide open. This rip…. (moment of silence) ended the career of these jeans because it split from ass to knee. FROM. ASS. TO. KNEE. There’s not a patch big enough to handle that chasm.  The material of my jeans clearly had been crying out in pain. Screaming, if you will. It’s like they honestly gave up because they couldn’t handle the pressure anymore – literally! 

So, I’m down to one pair that I can wear. It’s become my uniform the past three months. If you happened to see me in person this summer and I was outfitted in jeans – that’s them! And if anything happens to these, I honestly don’t know what I would do. Perhaps be relegated to shut-in status at my house until pajama bottoms in public become an acceptable form of dress? I know…I know…. “Buy another pair. Go up a size.” Blah blah blah. Yada yada yada. Shut the hell up. I CAN’T. I REFUSE. Because of PILES NUMBER 1, 2 and 4!!!! Seriously, there is quite the current investment of denim sitting in my closet as we speak. I’m not getting another pair when I, in theory, can get off my enlarged ass and get back INTO one of the NINETEEN FREAKING PAIRS mocking me from my closet.

So there’s that. 

I was running errands one day this summer and an associate in a store asked me, “Aren’t you hot in those jeans?” As I disbelievingly stared at this woman knowing it was a 114 degrees outside, two scenarios played out in my head as possible responses. First option: Punch her in the throat for making an idiotic comment. Second option: Scream “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I’m on freaking fire, lady! But it’s the only freaking thing I can fit into right now THAT DOESN’T FREAKING HURT so thanks a shit ton for making me feel self-conscious about it when it’s literally like walking on the freaking sun outside.”

Editor’s Note: The word ‘freaking’ has replaced a more authentic but non family friendly word.

Instead I went for option three: the non confrontational but socially appropriate response of laughing in a self deprecating tone, while answering ‘They’re comfy?” 🤷‍♀️

Now, in case you think it’s just my arse that has exploded, rest assured that the remaining parts of my body have joined in on the fun. I call this the “Sports Bra Kicker” part of the story. You’re welcome in advance.

Most women, I assume, have a ‘fat section’ in their closet – even if they aren’t fat. I know there are some skinny b*tches that normally wear size 2 but when they feel particularly bloated pull out that shameful size 4 and hope nobody notices. Please tell me you can see my eye roll. Boo. Hoo. But we can at least relate in our own way. (Even you men – I know what it means when you wear a shirt untucked. Your denial in weight gain has resulted in an entire brand being created where ‘untucked’ is now fashionable. Case in point: https://www.untuckit.com. All I can say is “Well done, boys. Well done.”👏👏 And – fun fact, if you click on the link you’ll get 20% off your first order. No need to thank me. 😘) But back to me – my fat clothes have categories. I have them in every genre – including work out wear. This one sports bra in particular I almost got rid of two years ago when I lost weight. It was so big and loose it didn’t support the ‘girls’ anymore when I would go running. (Yes, I run… ish. Leave me alone.) Let me say that again though and listen carefully to what I’m saying:  

I almost gave it away because it was SO BIG it was no longer functional.
Another way to put this? It was a vacation for the seams. 

Here is what happens when I wear it now. 😳

This was 30 minutes after removing it. Let that sink in. 30 MINUTES!

Y’all…do you know how hard it is to take off a tight sports bra when you are sweaty?? It’s worse than peeling a screaming toddler from your leg at church drop off. Did I even take it off though or am I still wearing it? You can’t tell!
Is that blood?
Blisters?
Permanent scarring?
Internal damage? 
Ugh. For the love. 

So these are my current issues that I’m dealing with in regards to my clothing. Screw you 40s. I’m not buying bigger sizes!!!!!!! I’M. NOT! 🤬

Yet. 😬😫

Anyone want to go to Cheesecake Factory? Asking for a friend. 😔🙄🙋‍♀️

Insanity.

You Are Not Having a Bad Day

Starbucks is out of strawberries for your Pink Drink?
You’re not having a bad day.

Stuck behind that freakishly slow cyclist on the one lane road? (Looking at you Continental!)
You’re not having a bad day.

Got that umpteenth rejection letter on a book you thought was your best work?
You’re not having a bad day.

Flat tire on the overpass of I-635 with a toddler that just pooped in the back?
You’re not having a bad day.

Teen daughter slams the car door in your face after you tell her you love her and to be kind?
You’re not having a bad day.

Super cute dog that you love more than your own kids throws up on your new area rug?
You’re not having a bad day.

Order a frozen skinny margarita at Mi Cocina and the machines are behind so your margarita is soupy – which is the opposite of frozen?😠
Okay, you MIGHT be having a bad day.

Anyhootie…

We could keep this going for a while, right? You get the point. All of these actually happened to me within the past month. It felt like a bad day at the time. I pouted about all of them – especially the skinny rita one. Not even kidding. You have one job MiCo – it’s the frozen margaritas. The Mambo Taxi! C’mon! But one thing I’ve learned the past two weeks is I don’t really have bad days. Not after what I’ve seen my twin brother and his wife go through. I’m going to be their cheerleader right now. (Digression: I always wanted to be a cheerleader …. to perform, be in the spotlight, wear super cute outfits….SIGN. ME. UP. So I’m going Rah Freaking Rah for a minute!) Andy and Michelle haven’t just had a ‘bad day’. If you took ‘a bad day’ and not only super sized it, hulk-a-fied it, and loaded it with steroids – it still wouldn’t come close. In fact, I think they would welcome what we would deem ‘a bad day’ in a heartbeat.

And that’s where it started. With a heartbeat. They welcomed baby Audrey into their world 18 days ago knowing that a heart defect was there – but had a plan in place. Things were going to be okay. What they didn’t know was that this little precious child entered the world with several other devastating health issues hidden behind her flawless baby skin. It is the worst kind of advent calendar where every day they open a box and receive a new disaster. But they handle each new box with “Okay…what do we do now.” They have no choice. Audrey is fighting for her life.

The most amazing thing through all of these 18 days which must feel like nothing short of an eternity to them – is that I have NOT ONCE heard my brother complain or wallow. He is handling everything with brilliant humor and extreme exhaustion. But he’s handling it. He runs back and forth between the hospital, my house, Michelle’s mom’s house, his house: checking in on his 2 year old daughter Ella, his dog, his wife. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. (And we are not geographically easy. Y’all have seen the meme that reads “It takes an hour to get from Dallas to Dallas,” right?) Yet, he’s holding all these pieces together and I have not heard him complain ONCE. The one thing that placed an absolutely large tear in my own heart was when he told me – with a quiver in his voice, he needed a miracle. I. Went. Fetal. (And maybe he goes fetal too but not publicly?) He is handling all of this with strength I’ve never seen. Well, that’s not true. I have seen it. This unparalled super human strength? He gets that from my dad. ❤️ My hat and my heart are tipped to you, bro. I got your back.

Michelle – in case you are thinking, “Hey? Is this whole thing about Andy?” (Well, we both know he can suck the attention out of a room, for sure.😉) I was actually saving you for last. You are a mother freaking bad ass, warrior princess, tough as nails, take no prisoners, unbreakable, superstar, rock star, shining star. The word infinity is actually too limiting when it comes to the amount of love and respect I have for you. To use Andy’s style of movie examples, you are Ripley in Aliens. These obstacles that get thrown at you at a dizzyingly daily pace are those evil horrible creatures trying to attack you and little Newt. You just strap yourself in to that contraption every day and proclaim “Get away from her, you b*tch.”

So girl keep going after those aliens, because in the end, you’ve got this. Hopefully at some point soon, you will have an ounce of peace and can climb into that sleep pod for a much needed break.

So, Y’all… Please…

If you are heading into the weekend feeling pouty. Feeling mistreated. Feeling tired. Feeling ugly. Feeling bored. Feeling unmotivated. Feeling meh. Feeling frustrated….Take a breath.

You are NOT having a bad day.

If anyone is interested in keeping updated, check out Andy’s public FB posts titled Daddy Diaries 2. Grab a kleenex but also get ready to laugh.
https://www.facebook.com/andrewchunt

Hugs by Proxy

Fleeting Hugs

When I picked my girls up from camp this summer I got two types of hugs:

From the 11 year old The Running Hug: a huge smile spread across her face when she saw me and then she sprinted towards me with a full on embrace that easily lasted 30 seconds. That was a hug.

From the 14 year oldThe Stiff Back Half Hug: somewhat of a semi smile emerged before she could force it back down while one arm kind of made its way awkwardly around part of my back coupled with the greeting “Hey Amy”. Was that a hug? Was it? At least it wasn’t The Heisman Hug. That’ll rip a mom’s heart out! Wait…Did she just call me Amy in public?

Sadly, I know that my ‘authentic’ hugging days with my girls are fleeting. I also know, however, they’ll come back to me full fledged when they have kids of their own … and those kids start acting – dare I say – like they do?
Cliché,  but … I. Can’t. Wait! (Insert evil laugh!)

But this did get me to thinking…

The Enemy

My kids (mostly the older one) are at an age where they don’t necessarily want to hug me or for me to hug them. I get it. I don’t love this new concept … but I get it. Sometimes I force one on them because I think they need it (whether they admit it or not). Sometimes I give them their personal space because I think they need it (whether they admit it or not). But the season of unlimited, unabashed, carefree, I love my mommy, can’t get enough hugs is turning. Mainly because of this: I’m the enemy. Guess what? I’m supposed to be the enemy. They need to know I’m going to hold them accountable for poor choices. They need to have a little bit of fear in their heart. They need to worry “What will mom think if I do this?” I’m TOTALLY okay with that. But this new role as their personal antagonist comes with major push back, teen aggression, disgust at my mere presence and the occasional “I hate you” muttered under their breath … sometimes muttered over their breath on purpose so I can hear it. All the feels.

That’s fine. Bring it. Gonna love you anyway.

Proxy Hugs

I think hugs are vital to emotional survival, especially at this age. I was at church the other day and ran into two former students. These boys, now 12, happened to be in the same first grade class that I taught. One student is just a natural hugger. He hugs me every time he sees me and has for the past 6 years. It was a no brainer that we raised our arms out to each other at the same time. The other one I used to hug more when he was younger – but he’s a little more stand-offish now. He tends to air an “I’m too cool to hug” vibe. But I saw him watching this whole exchange and would never want him to feel that he wasn’t worthy of a hug from me – especially when his friend had just garnered one. So I held out my arms to him and said, “Bring it in, but only if you want to.” He smiled at me, then kind of laughed, then went straight in to that hug without abandon. Hmmmm … Different people have different personalities. Duh. I get that. But I can’t imagine ANYONE who doesn’t want to feel loved. This age needs love. Because they ARE going to push boundaries. They ARE going to fight for that independence they think they deserve (LOL!!!). They ARE going to get mad us at. Nobody really wants to hug in the middle of an argument, right? So there’s my dilemma.

Here’s what I’m suggesting: Hug my kids for me.

No, not strangers. C’mon, y’all. Let’s not start that argument. I’m talking about your tribe. Everyone (I hope) has a tribe? My tribe includes moms that treat my girls like their own and dads that become coaches and mentors. It includes aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins. I know them. My girls know them. I trust them. I love them. So my peeps – and you know who you are (In your head you are already thinking “She’s totally talking about me!” 😉 and you’re right! I am!! 🥰) – Get a good one in! My girls already feel a comfortable bond with you. You’re a safe place for them. And unlike me, you won’t get the push back that I do because you don’t have to discipline them, make them do their homework, harass them to pick up their dirty clothes, nag them to walk the dog they assured me they would walk. You can just show them love and support during these ages that are flush with insecurity and fear. So sure, hug my child. Go for it. Make it worthy. Don’t half ass it. You have my blessing. It doesn’t have to be the Running Hug … that would be weird, especially if it’s you that’s running. It could just be a classic Side Arm with an Extra Squeeze. That’s cool! And I will, in turn, hug your babies as well. I call this the Parent Hug by Proxy. My kids are getting that parental love they need when they don’t want it from me. And if you are getting your own push back from your kids – you are getting a Kid Hug by Proxy. The other special thing about the Kid Hug by Proxy is that several of my tribe have no kids by choice or by pain. You still have valid wonderful love to give and I’d consider it an honor if my child was worthy of your hug. 

I’m seeing this as a win/win for us all, don’t you think? 🤷‍♀️

So y’all…please. Hug my kids. At least until they fully come back to me. ❤️

I’ll Miss You Most of All…

My Dear Sweet Waist,

Old friend, some letters are harder to write than others. This one fills me with sadness but I’m comforted knowing we had a good, albeit short, run. I miss you more than you can imagine and am flooded with memories of all our special times together. Now that you are gone I pray we’ll reconnect, but understand if we don’t. 

Do you remember that bikini I wore 12 years ago on the cruise? And the trip to Cabo we took later that summer? We both got so many compliments. How proud I was of you with the sleek lines…the definition. We had both worked so hard so you would finally have your chance to shine. It was your turn, my friend, and I’m thankful you had that spotlight…although fleeting. What about all those nights when I needed to roll over and it was effortless? Effortless. You gracefully moved wherever you went. Many of my favorite memories of you aren’t even big events – just the way you would let my shorts hang right below you – so comfortable. The way you allowed Belly Button to be smooth and simple. And bending… If I had to bend over to pick something up, you never – NEVER – got in the way. Sigh. You were always a giver, my friend. You were always letting someone else have their day in the sun…like Ribs. When she finally debuted in the cropped shirt I was much too old to wear – you said nothing. You knew how good it made her feel so you stayed quiet.

And I took you for granted. Oh how I took you for granted. I see that now. I really do.

Poor Exercise tried hard to get us back together so many times. SO many times. But Exercise and I just never could get along…could never see eye to eye. She always left me an exhausted angry sweaty mess. That can’t be healthy? Right?

Yes, I’ve tried several other ways to get you back and failed. Queso and Margarita always seemed to get in the way. But it was never because I loved them more. Well… that’s a lie. I did in the moment and I’m so sorry if that hurt you. If there was anything I could do to get you back I wish I could say I’d do it – but we both know I won’t. We’ve both seen failure after failure that just matriculates into an unhealthy dose of self loathing on my part – which isn’t good for either of us. At least we can be honest about that? 

You know….it’s funny. Once Gall Bladder had to be forcibly removed this year (and don’t get me started on the shit he tried to stir up…we both know it wasn’t good for anybody to have him here anymore) I really did think that you might come back. Foolish on my part. I get it. Clearly the damage was done and I see that now. 

Please know this. Even if we never see each other again, and honestly, we probably won’t, I will always love you. In fact, just as Dorothy told Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, “I’ll miss you most of all.” And I will. So take care of yourself and take comfort that at least you’ll never have to do a core workout again. Because let’s face it – that’s really the only time we fought.

Please be at peace.
Love you more than carbs and Chardonnay!
(Actually – clearly I don’t. I’m a horrible person. You deserve better! So so sorry!!)

Amy

PS: If you see Young Tush though, steer clear. I know you guys were friends but it was really shitty the way he backed out of here literally overnight leaving a disaster in his absence. What an asshole. So not cool. But that’s another letter for another day. xoxo

Cicada Shots

A New Texas Drinking Game

Game description:
1. Go outside with a shot glass and a bottle of your favorite ‘beverage’. (On a hot Texas night, might I suggest a little Tito’s that has been sitting in the freezer for a while.)
2. When you see a dead cicada on the ground – take a shot. 
3. When you see a dead cicada that you realize is actually alive because it aggressively rises from the dead and flies directly at your head, take TWO shots.
4. If you spot a cicada shell attached to a structure before your partner, he/she must take a shot.

Game Variations:
Dead Shell Walking“: You can actually just play this game using only shells. It still works.
Silence of the Locust“: Sit on your patio with said beverage and drink every time you hear their hypnotic yet terribly disturbing chant. The easiest way to accomplish this is to continuously drink without ceasing by use of a trusty camelbak (because you CAN’T STOP DRINKING PEOPLE BECAUSE THE SOUND NEVER STOPS!!!! IT. NEVER. STOPS. Y’all!!!! Please!!! It’s creepy! They know we know they know we know!).

For Silence of the Locust, I’ve selected this one that comes in what I call “cicada spring green.”



WARNING – and I can’t stress this enough – by playing this game, the chances of you shatting yourself and passing out in your neighbor’s yard 15 minutes into this game are highly likely, nay, certain.  

#somany #whysomany #IgetitsnaturalbutitsNOTnatural #makesureyouknowyourneighbor #yourpassoutpicWILLshowuponNextDoor


Fun Fact: as a child I would gather all the locust shells I could find around my house and stick them to my shirt. Then I would try to creep my mom out by walking in covered with dead insect shells. I felt especially proud when I found the Holy Grail of shells…one shell ‘attached’ to the back of the other. Don’t act like you have no idea what I’m talking about. 😳😳😳

I realize that might be a lot to unpack. I’ll give you some time.


Y’all Have fun! Play safe!

10 Things That Undeniably Let Me know my Child Loves and Respects Me Tenfold

Let me preface by saying that this list could EASILY be more than 10 things. Not to brag, but my child really loves and respects me. I just shaved it down to a few of my favorites. 🤷‍♀️

  1. Not flushing a toilet.
  2. Finding food upstairs when food is not allowed upstairs.
  3. “Starving!”  Yet when I’ve taken the time to prepare dinner is suddenly not hungry (those in the know understand how much I ❤️ cooking).
  4. Referring to me by my first name.
  5. The ‘Eye Roll’ (cliché sure, but effective).
  6. Hearing about all the other moms who are, and I quote “WAY BETTER” than me.
  7. The Door Slam. Classic. Brava.
  8. Calling me a name she thinks I can’t hear….but we both know I can.
  9.  Not wanting to walk the dog that she begged nine years for promising to take care of all dog duties because she’s ‘sooo tired’ (from what???)
  10. Lack of eye contact during all conversations. Not even sure she still has eyeballs. Can’t confirm it. Oh wait…the “Roll.” Never mind.

All. The. Feels. 🥰

Y’all, please… Dear Jesus hear my prayers and protect this child. 🙏

But if anyone is overly concerned with the tremendous amount of ‘love and respect’ that I get (because it almost seems unfair, right?) – No worries. The amount of love I show in return disguised as a consequence is there.
Oh yes.
It’s there. 😘

Coasters and Carousels

Coasters

First off, if you don’t know me very well I need to preface that I have an [unhealthy] love of all things tv/movie. My husband Adam and I delight in working tv/movie quotes into our daily conversations. It’s almost like a sickness. 😬 But it’s funny when our girls see a show and realize that the witty banter stemming from our own brilliant senses of humor is actually stolen straight from a Will and Grace episode. What’s even funnier is when they were younger and thought we were so on trend that the lines from tv/movies copied us. “Mommy! Look! They just said what you always say!” Huh…that’s weird. 😉 But sometimes in my writings, I reference a movie or show because they influence and inspire me. In fact, I feel one of the true values of entertainment is that it normally comes with a lesson. At times it hits you right in the face – like when Dr. Meredith Grey basically tells you during her 5 minute self absorbed monologue exactly what you’re supposed to figure out in that night’s episode. Other times it’s not always easy to find like, say Weekend at Bernie’s – but usually it’s there. Usually? Anyway, carrying that thought forward, one of my favorite scenes EVER is the one from the movie Parenthood where Gil’s grandmother goes into a speech about the differences between roller coasters and carousels. Her point, in a eloquent illustration, is that life can be full of ups and downs OR it can be static and boring. She prefers the ups and downs, the roller coasters, because “you get more out of it.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z18vJwmxFFY (TOTALLY worth the 3 minutes to watch the linked clip. Sorry about the 15 sec ad though. I’m not tech-y enough to figure out how to ditch it.) ANYHOO… the movie debuted in the summer of 1989 before my Senior year of high school. I absolutely loved that scene because it gave me a sense of peace with the chaos enveloping me. What chaos, you ask, for such a young sweet child? HELLO!? I was a 17 year old girl! I carried drama around with me in a designer acid wash denim backpack for Cher’s sake! (Side note: why is acid wash making a comeback? Seriously, why? Fanny packs are hard enough to embrace again). But that scene stuck with me especially as my life continued to be a series of stomach crunching, nervous teetering, nausea inducing, totally exhilarating, teeth grinding, knuckles whitening, hysterically laughing, boldly screaming, free falling ride after ride after ride. That, I like to call, my 20s. Because of that ‘lesson’ from a movie – I looked at my experiences differently. Even when the chaos continued, it was okay. It was a coaster, after all? That’s where the lessons are. That’s where we grow and evolve and challenge ourselves. Granted, some of our ‘coasters’ aren’t ones we willingly strap ourselves into – but rather are dragged onto by circumstance…unfortunately – without the immediate option to exit. But in theory, don’t all rides come to an end at some point? No matter if you chose to get on or were dragged there?

Carousels

Y’all please… Let’s be honest. Carousels are REEEEAAAALLL nice, especially when exhausted walking from coaster to coaster. Carousels are safe. They even have layers of safe. If you feel the slightest desire to be saucy, you get on the horse that goes up and down. But you could be that person that just sits on the rotating bench. You know … I always wondered about those people … the ones that purposely chose the bench. Why? What happened to them that they lost the will to even get on the horse? Not to mention they could just choose the horse that doesn’t move? Although I won’t get into the crushing disappointment as a child of choosing the perfect horse only to realize when the accordion music and flashing lights start that it’s not one that moves up and down. Total devastation. For the most part though, riding the carousel is a risk free, non threatening, easy peazey experience minus any sort of heart inducing palpitations.
Or lessons…

With that said…

I have been riding a carousel for about 15 years and I have to say, I kinda like it. Not complaining.🤷‍♀️ I’ve enjoyed the simple movement mainly due to the fact that I thrive on stability and consistency. I like to know what my day[s] will look like. Blissfully boring would be an accurate description of my happy place. Security is a big luxury and I feel pretty darn cozy right now. This carousel I’m on is like a giant hug. With horses. And cheesy carnival music. And bulbous flashing lights. Is this getting weird now? Let’s go back to a carousel just being a giant supportive hug. And although a carousel is my happy place, I also feel that I’m on the precipice of riding coasters again. Sure it fills me with anxiety. Makes me nervous. Butterflies are brewing. Hands are getting a little sweaty (but that might be pre-menopause😲).
I can see the coaster. It looks like I might get a lot out of it. 🤔

The Takeaway

Do you know what the first ride is at my hometown’s Six Flags Amusement Park? The Silver Star Carousel. The minute you step inside the extremely overpriced and crowded cattle coral – there it is. The coasters? You have to actually seek them out. I’ve been going to this park since 1975 and even though I don’t always ride it, I love seeing it when I walk in. Comforting. Consistent. Safe. And in the chaotic coaster moments of your time in the park, you know where it is if you need a break. So I think I like both rides. I think I need both rides. I think you don’t have to choose one or the other exclusively because life really is about learning to ride them both. As I wrap my mind around my upcoming coasters – I at least always know where the carousel is when I need to rest and recharge. Or vomit.

Embrace both.

Anyone want to grab a Pink Thing now?
Lemon Freeze?
Funnel cake?
Ugh. Food. THERE’S a rollercoaster. That should be my next post. 🤔😬😉😂