Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

It is a well circulated persuasion that the grass is greener on the other side. I have personally lived under this assumption for many years, working toward tomorrow, living for those dreams that are just outside the grasp of my fingertips, yet very vivid to my imagination. While I think it is admirable to have lofty goals, I have begun to see the error in my aspirations to save the best China for special times. I have been impressed to begin living for the now.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda...I'm not one of those people who live with the "no regrets" mentality. I do have regrets in a lot of areas of my life, unfortunately. I don't (regularly) obsess about my choices and mistakes. I put forth great effort to live with balance and I'm pretty easy on myself, realizing that I am human and I will make the wrong decisions. Many times I have been found wanting and I didn't quite know what to do about it. I've been blessed to be happy by nature, slow to anger, very quick to forgive. (God is good.) I'm even tempered and strong, yet of a pleasing nature. I've made decisions based upon what I thought others would be pleased with and sometimes come out completely miserable with my circumstances. Begrudgingly I'll admit that I do follow the road to "shoulda" and envision how my life would have been grandiose and more fulfilling had I only made a different decision. I often take on too much because I'm eager and single (so of course my life is super easy! - another blog, another time) and I forget to take care of me. When I'm stressed because of this I tend to alienate myself from other people and the tiniest bit of compassion from someone breaks the dam and floods of tears stream from my eyes as I've reached the point of no return. I have to thoroughly assess myself and begin to pull the roots of bitterness that are snaking down into the deep places of my heart.

Bitter, you say? Isn't that a sin? Yes, I get bitter. I'm not proud of it, but it happens. I'm human. It's not easy to admit the carnality that so easily besets us, but for me to be successful it is important to starve those roots and remove them before they take over and mar what God has set as beauty. Of course that is much easier said than done. I have been wronged and I have wronged others. There is regret in that itself.

Recently I gleaned from the wisdom of a friend. She heard a sermon about living in the "now". In the book of Matthew when Jesus performed his first miracle of turning the water into wine, the remarks were not that "you saved the best wine until the end" rather "you saved the best wine until NOW". As her words cascaded down me like a cool stream running down a mountain, taking with it the debris and leaving a clean path in its wake, I received a confirmation to my soul-searching restlessness. I have been at war with myself. The lilt of her words gave me the courage to stop the frantic planning and seeking for the accomplishments of tomorrow. As commonplace as it sounds, I should give today my best go. I should wear my favorite shoes and don a darling hat. I should go ahead and take that trip or get that pedicure. I should smile more and I should spread kindness and compassion always because someone needs it today.

So what now? I'm turning THIRTY in 30 days. I've been saving the best of myself for someone else, for something else, but now that I'm cognitive of it I can change. I'm promising that I will not live my thirties in the shadow or mirrored image of my twenties, neither will I live for the accomplishments that I'm sure to gain in my future. I'll embrace today and all of the wonders that come with it. I'll celebrate the small stuff and enjoy more fully the little blessings that I so easily take for granted. My heart and my house are open. That doesn't mean that I will not continue to have dreams and plans for I find them important. Instead, I will do more to put those plans fo the past into action now and begin living the dreams I've had for so long so I can replace them with newer, bigger, better ones.

Thanks for reading. I hope you start living for today, as well.

Details of my open house party at my beautiful, historic home coming soon!

Feline - Friend or Foe?

To say that I am not a cat person is a gross understatement. God, in His infinite wisdom, made me allergic to them so I could have an easy scapegoat in lieu of offending cat lovers. I have started speaking out against cats and their wily, wicked ways. I’m going to talk about the spawn of satan meow.

Earlier this year I was at a friend’s house to watch movies. He went upstairs to take a call from his girlfriend and I was left alone downstairs with his two very territorial cats. The big one, let’s call him “Monster”, crept toward me, his black and gray tail flicking back and forth. Our eyes were in a deadlock and neither of us willed the other to look away. (I’m good at staring contests.) Being a polite person, I have taught myself to take my shoes off when enter someone’s house, as to not track anything in from outside. In my peripheral vision I noticed I had worn flip flops that day, so I didn’t have the protection of a pair of socks. Drat. This Monster started pacing back and forth in front of me on the couch, both blocking me in while subsequently claiming his territory. I knew he could feel the fear as I projected an invisible wall of protection around me. He stopped pacing and very gingerly moved toward me. We still haven’t broken eye contact, mind you. He stops at my feet and lowers his nose to my toes. By this time my heart is pounding so hard, rushing my blood through my body so fast that I’m starting to feel light headed. I realize I’m holding my breath and slowly release it in a soft “whoosh”. I’m standing by now, my entire five foot three frame towering over him, letting this creature sniff my feet. He seems to bore of me and I gingerly sit down on the couch, his couch I presume, and tuck my feet under me Indian style. The Monster’s interest has become piqued by something other than this new stranger with a mess of hair that I’m sure he’d like to get his claws in. I’m delighted in his absence and start to relax.

Not long after, as I’m waiting for Casanova to tire of his conversation with Miss Lovely herself, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. Who says cats are the only one with extra preceptory censors? The darn thing is back again and staring at me with his quizzical and satanic eyes. I decide to call the truce. “Hello cat” I quietly say in the most even, soft and melodic tone I can muster. I’m met with a violent HISSSSSSS and I decide it’s time to get away from this evil creature before some real harm is done. I survey my surroundings. It’s a small apartment and all of the downstairs rooms are opened to one another save the bathroom by the door. Aha! I rise from the couch and make my way toward my sanctuary. The Monster follows me, weaving in and out of my legs as I’m making my way across the floor. I duck in the bathroom as quickly as I can and pull the door behind me with a start, almost taking a cat’s face with me. That would have been good luck, for me, at least. ‘Home free’ I think! It is at this time that I first hear the frantic scratch of a paw coming under the lip of the door. “Oh God!” I squeak. The thing is trying to claw his way under the door. This goes on for a minute and I’m laughing amidst tear filled eyes as I’m documenting this occurrence on my facebook to get my mind off of the severity of the situation. “Cat got your tongue” has suddenly taken on an entire new meaning. I had originally planned to stay in the bathroom for a few minutes, but there was no way I was going out there now without reinforcements. I could hear Casanova’s soft voice in the rooms above me and I wondered why he even invited me over anyway. By this time it’s been a good fifteen minutes. I thought guys didn’t like talking on the phone. I stay holed up in my prison for what seemed an eternity planning my escape until finally I hear “Shannon? …..Shannon? Are you here?”

Oh glorious! My name has never sounded so sweet. “I’m in the bathroom.” I say, relief flooding through me. “I’ll be right out.”

This is just one of my many run-in’s with such monsters. I realize it’s ridiculous for me to have such horrid and vivid daydreams of a cat pouncing on me and shredding my skin, but have you ever seen a couch that a cat has gotten a hold of? For that matter, a shredding pole? Are they even called that? I wouldn’t know because I’m not familiar with cat terminology and have no interest in becoming an expert. I have found cats mean, sinister, untrustworthy, unfriendly and unsociable. As I’m not one to generalize or stereotype anything, I would like to make it clear that I do not think every cat in the world is evil, but I do not enjoy the company of a feline friend. I hope you have wonderful cat stories where they’re sliding down rainbows and kissing butterflies and being the best pal you could ever ask for. As for me, I won’t be a cat lady, no matter if I am a spinster.

Thirty is a Dirty Word

I’m twenty nine. At least I can say that truthfully for a few more days. I feel like I’ve been yanked from my life at the speed of light and have been placed into the witness protection program without even getting to say my sappy goodbyes or give kisses and hugs to the ones I love. Gosh, sometimes life is so strict. I’m bound for this scary and dramatic new destination. I don’t know anything about it and I’m being drawn to it with the force of a magnetic field even though I’d rather fight it. Thirty is a dirty word.

Last night I counted up how many days I have left in my beloved (albeit tumultuous) twenties. Unfortunately, my almost thirty year old brain already forgot. Tick-tock goes the clock and I’m standing in my red stilettos watching the second hand as it turns in a perfect circle while everything is buzzing around it. It’s quite movie-esque. Everything in the room is white and sterile except for the blur of people in black and subsequent shade of gray going by so fast that I can’t make out any faces. I’m in black too, of course. Hello…I’m in mourning. Maybe I have a new accent, too. I’ve been listening to a lot of books on CD during my commute and find myself slipping into an English accent which fades to Australian to Brooklyn and back again at the most inopportune times.

For as long as I can remember I have sworn to myself that I wouldn’t be the “person” whom I’m becoming…maybe it was even born on the day my mom turned thirty and, to everyone’s dismay, and my ignorance is bliss mentality, she received a black balloon. Two things about me: I love black and I love balloons. Black is classy, elegant, cutting edge and let’s face it, it’s a good color scheme for most people to wear. To my mom this black balloon was a bad thing. To me it was a lesson learned. Don’t send black balloons to mom. Check. I digress. As I was saying, I have had this internal pact with myself to be happy, delirious even, and to satisfactorily enjoy every age for the new adventures it would bring. All of them are beautiful in their own right, after all.

So why am I freaking out? Why are there so many conflicting emotions coursing through my body? Haven’t I, for years, thought 34 (or was it 32?) was the perfect age? After all, a 32 (or was it 34?) year old is taken seriously, has their act together and is respected in positions such as the one I hold. I got through the potty training and that awful awkward pre-teen stage when my teeth were too big for my face and my frizzy hair was tamed into a braid with balls at the top and the bottom (let’s not forget the headband). My rotund little body was shaping into womanhood while wrapped in gauchos and stone-washed coolots that were placed at or above belly button level because that was the style. Gosh I was cool. I wore double slouch socks with the colors inverted and as dorky as I look in those pictures, I got through that and I enjoyed myself. It was during those years that the dreams and hopes began to bloom and my perception of my adult (twenties, mind you) self became solidified. I’ve always known exactly how I wanted to be as an adult. Also, I had this precarious notion that by the time I reached thirty that I would be a married woman with the cutest little curly haired kiddos this side of the planetarium. I would speak at least one more language. I’d be well traveled and wildly successful which brings me to emotion number one: Grief.

Yes, I’m grieving the loss of my twenties. Be not deceived, I’m not afraid of being thirty years old. To quote the age old adage “you’re only as old as you feel”, or “age is just a number”. Who wrote those? Cliché, as it may be, doesn’t help me in my panic driven ‘twenty nine for a few more days’ state. I’m figuratively holding on to a “2” and a “9” like you see in photography studios. I have my legs wrapped around the nine with the hole of it hooked into my foot (just in case) and am tenaciously holding on to the two in a ferocious bear hug daring anyone to mess with me. Age doesn’t care and I won’t be a poser. I’m grieving the loss of the dreams, hopes, aspirations, milestones, stuff, and the person I was supposed to be and have not achieved. In many ways I have far surpassed some of those dreams and others can I really help? Life hasn’t given me that hand in this game. Looking back over the years of my twenties, I have had a really good life. It’s been full of drama. I’ve been fiercely happy and extremely sad. We’re all products of our environments and our choices. I haven’t gone all of the places that I have wanted to go, and I haven’t birthed or adopted any children, but there’s still plenty of time, right? Unless I die of some freak accident or come down with a disease that is fast acting I will probably live to see a lot more days. Therefore the grief is mingled with another emotion: Hope.

Hope is what I’ve been dwelling on all year long. It has been an unspoken resolution and I find peace, and well, frankly “hope” in it. So now I’m on to the privilege of making my thirties better than my twenties. In some ways I can see the blessing in my growth. I really don’t care as much about what other people want and the people pleaser in me isn’t as important. I’m taking care of myself. So what am I going to do to reach those twenties and now, by default, thirties goals? Well, of course I’m older and wiser, so I’m going to start documenting this journey and we shall all see where this road leads. Look at me getting a head start now. I am doing this for me not for you, but if you want to read, I’d be honored.

I realize that to open my arms to this new and exciting life I must let go of the two and the nine. As for the next couple of week plus a few days I’ll be reveling in the glory of being a twenty-something.