The Reminder

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Have you ever stared at someone because they reminded you of someone you’ve lost? It’s as though the person was there, in the flesh, ready and eager to say the things they didn’t have a chance to say before their passing.

I was driving home from work the other day and found myself staring at someone, only it wasn’t because she reminded me of of a loved one who passed. I was staring at someone who reminded me of someone who was still alive.

Sitting at a red light, I looked in my rear-view mirror. The familiar-looking woman behind me was driving an equally familiar car. Her hair was the same, her sunglasses were the same, and the expression was spot-on. The shape of her mouth, her cheekbones and neck all looked the same. It was my mom, or so it seemed. And all I could do was stare.

And stare.

And stare.

The staring had drawn me in so much that she tapped her horn when the light turned green, but she continued to stay behind me. Stopped at the next signal, I stared some more. The car was a dark gray Camry, just like the one my dad drives. My mom has a pretty severe hip issue, so my first thought was, “Oh, so that’s what it’ll look like after she has her surgery and can finally be out and about again.” For the time being, it’s hard for her to get into anything aside from her SUV, so seeing “her” in a smaller, lower car was like a peek into the future — a future full of health and healing. A fresh start.

Without trying to sound morbid (and making the assumption that I won’t be departing anytime soon), I often think about what it will be like when my parents are no longer here. Will I want to live in California anymore? Will I even want to live in the country anymore? Will I still love Christmas, the holidays and family dinners — or not, because they aren’t there? Perhaps I’ll enjoy dinners with a new, updated and extended group of family members by that time, but I don’t know. I doubt it.

“By that time.” It’s a time that scares me. We really don’t know when it will come — it could come any day, it could come in 30 years. I don’t like thinking about it, but I know that I’ll have to at some point.

But for now, I don’t have to. I saw my mom in the woman who was driving behind me the other day, and that woman made me so thankful that my mom is still here, that she’ll soon have her quality of life back, and I’m thankful for the reminder to enjoy every day with her — because we don’t know when those days will end.

The Crosswalk

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A year and a half ago, I had surgery on my right knee. It no longer hurts when I do simple things that, years ago, I used to take for granted, but it’s also not like it was. It has its moments where it will have a temper tantrum, be in a mood or just simply throw in the towel. It likes to swell when I walk too much, sometimes it simply aches for no reason and other times it will be stiff, as if to say, “I’ve had enough of you.”

I firmly believe in the “no pain, no gain” way of thinking, so I’ve decided to walk for my exercise. Every night. Perhaps some walks will be longer than others, but it’s no longer injured, it’s simply in need of activity. So activity it shall receive.

The other night, I was on the fourth mile of my walk, when I realized my knee wasn’t happy with me. Alas, I was still about a mile and a half from home, so it would need to deal with things for a while longer. The last bit of light was on the western horizon, and the sky was a lovely, rich shade of sapphire. A crescent moon was in the sky; stars were becoming more plentiful by the second, like impatient fireflies coming out to play.

I saw a couple across the street entering the crosswalk after their outing to a local store. Both looked incredibly old and frail — they appeared to be around 80 years of age. Their speed was lacking, and I kept an eye on them since there were a lot of cars out, as well.

The man was in a wheelchair, and the woman shuffled a few paces ahead of him. His legs seemed almost nonexistent, or were — at best — so shriveled up and atrophied that his pant legs were blowing in the evening breeze. Her stance was sad; she was so severely and permanently hunched over that every step seemed to drain her. Still, she hurried as best she could across the crosswalk.

Seeing them out and about due to necessity, despite their conditions, made my knee pain suddenly insignificant. It made me realize how much we all have, even though we may need a reminder from time to time.

It’s not a bum knee, it’s an opportunity to become stronger.

It’s not pain, it’s an opportunity to be thankful that it’s minor in the grand scheme of things, and definitely not permanent.

It’s not a chore to have to walk for my health, it’s a blessing when we look around and see how little health and ability others might have.

Today, as I have been more often than not lately, I am thankful for perspective, and for the reminder that we have it far better than we might initially realize.

Tomorrow is.

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Tomorrow is one of those words that can inspire hope and confidence, signal a fresh start and a new beginning. We often times look forward to it, include it in our plans and talk about it excitedly. Tomorrow has the ability to make us primp and preen, not always in terms of appearance; we get ready for it, sometimes with as much detail as we’d get ready for a date.

Tomorrow seems to be the most popular on Thursdays and Fridays, as it signals rest and relaxation, time with friends, a jaunt up the coast or a meandering drive through the countryside.

“Tomorrow could be the day,” we think. It’s a word that sometimes sustains us and encourages us to hold on — just a few more hours. “Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow has to be better.”

Tomorrow can, believe it or not, also be a dirty word. A shameful word. It’s a word that we can fall back on and by which we rationalize our complacency.

“There’s always tomorrow,” we tell ourselves.

“I’ll start tomorrow,” we vow.

“Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?” the joke says.

When Sunday rolls around, we are rarely fans of tomorrow. Tomorrow is looming, and it’s full of tasks.

Regardless of whether it’s good or bad, there’s something that’s always ready and waiting for us. What is it? Tomorrow. Sometimes it’s like a predator lurking in the brush, other times it’s like a dog, ready with unconditional love and excited to see us. Tomorrow is never a given, sometimes a burden, but always a new chapter.

What’s worthy of our attention and dedication? Tomorrow is — because in attention and dedication, we can learn to live more fully today.

For tomorrow, and for the unknown that’s just around the corner, I am thankful.

Broccoli-land

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While I was sitting in a meeting yesterday, 15 floors above the street below, I looked out across the traffic and surrounding neighborhoods. The trees which dotted the landscape looked like a forest of broccoli florets and, at that second, I realized how ravenous I was.

I’m on day two of Operation: Fair-Weather Vegan — vegan because I am looking for a healthy way to drop all the junk from my diet, and fair-weather because I’m still choosing to incorporate a couple of egg whites when I need to. I realize this is, in fact, called cheating, but fair-weather sounds much more kind.

The catalyst that started all this? An ill-fitting — the ill-fitting bridesmaid dress — that I’ve written about before.

My stomach rumbled. Loudly. Had the day been overcast, it could’ve passed for thunder.

“Did you hear that?” I asked my coworker. She nodded, eyes wide and brows raised as if to say, “How could I not have heard that?”

It’s not that I’m not eating enough, it’s that I’m used to eating everything. OK, “everything” isn’t that accurate, but I’m a snacker. I like a little nibble here and there on office leftovers — things that fill you up the bad way, and I’ve never been one to say no to a fro-yo run mid-afternoon.

The only leftover nibbling I did today was on a stray Edible Arrangement, and I have to say that I’ve never tasted better cantaloupe in my life. It was like heaven; I could’ve sucked on the fruit skewer all afternoon.

I have my friend Erin to thank for the vegan inspiration — she did it for a couple weeks and looked amazing when I saw her over the weekend. I decided to also throw in a few miles of walking each night, and I figure that in a month’s time, the dress and I will be BFFs. As Erin said, it should fit like a glove — just not the latex, bulge-highlighting glove that it currently resembles.

The danger in posting my latest endeavor here is that I could very well fail miserably. The upside is that hopefully it will keep me accountable. I am already envisioning the “after” post, and hoping to make it come to fruition.

Mmm, fruition.

Fruit.

Hungry again.

While a mission of this nature isn’t the easiest on the wallet, I’m thankful to have had the means to stock up and hit the week running. They say it’s cheap to eat poorly, and they’re right — but the real price is paid years down the road when all the fast food and speedy satisfaction catches up. In the meantime, this clean high is amazing, the green tea is comforting, and I’m taking the next few weeks one day at a time.

Viva health.

Embrace or Accept?

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“This isn’t who they are. It is only what happened to them. The human spirit is incredibly resilient. More than ever this reaffirms we should never give up hope.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve read a quote that struck home as much as that one did — and does — for me. Who is it from? Jaycee Dugard.

It’s easy to unnecessarily bury oneself in the past. It’s easy to drag it into the present, and to make sure it has a place in your future like it’s some sort of cherished, irreplaceable possession. I can’t tell you why we do this, but we do. I know I do, anyway.

What are we going to do, pass it along to our loved ones when we reach the end of our life? Of course not — we would never wish it upon them. Then, I ask, why do we cling so tightly to that which holds us down?

Don’t let your past define your future.

People say this often, and yet it’s so much easier said than done. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem to be one of those things people say unless they have some sort of close, personal connection to it. It’s generally not something the innocent would utter, or that a wide-eyed, rose-colored-glasses-wearing individual would say to someone else. It’s usually spoken by people who know first-hand that there’s no value in letting a past define a future, and who have had to struggle through the muck on their own — sometimes for months, often times years.

Something that we do hear a lot, however, is that we should embrace our struggles. I agree that they’ve had a hand in making us who we are, but the last thing I want to do is embrace it. Who wants to embrace pain? Who wants to embrace strife? Who wants to embrace a self-imposed exile because of situations that we didn’t ask for? To me, embracing means welcoming it in and asking it to sit down for a spot of tea, perhaps a scone. It means talking with it and developing some sort of rapport.

I want no such thing with things that are in the past, but what I will do is accept them. I can accept they were there and I can accept their effect on me — the same way we in California accept that we live with earthquakes. The same way we know that not everyone has to be a friend, and that being a mere acquaintance that we want nothing to do with, other than to pass by from time to time, is perfectly acceptable.

Embrace? No. Accept? There’s really no other option.

The road to the future has a rear view mirror, yes, but what we choose to take from those things we’ve passed through is entirely up to us. We can glance back from time to time, or we can take it to heart and know when to veer or change course moving forward.

Moving forward: a commonly used combination of words that implies a lovely sense of motion, a sense of healing. Forward: a word which acknowledges the scars, but holds a lesson in each one, as well.

Today, for scars, lessons and forward motion, I am thankful.

A Beautiful Thing

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They say it’s a beautiful thing. They write songs about it, and those tunes climb the charts. It’s the subject of poetry, art, movies, books, and people make a career out of finding it — for themselves and others.

Love.

Loving.

For as much as we seem to think about it, you’d suspect it’s not as fleeting as it seems — that it would be more plentiful, more strong, more protected.

But look around. Good examples of it feel too few and far between. Many put on a good show, but not even the best facade or collection of materialistic goods can heal what’s broken or bring the magic back. It can fool your friends and family, but not for long. Inevitably, the house lights illuminate what’s been hidden and brushed under the rug. All too often, the curtain falls on a love lost, a love neglected.

When we see good love, we recognize it in a heartbeat. We see it for what it is: protective, solid, respectful, humble, patient, radiant and magnificent. We hope for it for ourselves, we look in awe at two people who are in it for the long haul and, if you’re like me, you say a little prayer for them, too. A prayer that it lasts as long as their breath does.

Unfortunately a long marriage isn’t always a good one. Similarly, a new marriage in this day and age isn’t automatically destined for failure, despite what many think. Some might be jaded when it comes to love, but I think we all enjoy a good old-fashioned love story as much as the next person. And when we see it, we praise it, rally around it and embrace it.

They are so rare.

Tonight, I realize that I agree with the songs, and with each bit of art that has ever placed it on a pedestal over time. It is a beautiful thing. I’m thankful for my parents and the loving example they’ve set, and I’m thankful that so many around me have believed in it and taken the plunge. It gives me hope that they’ll spread more love throughout the world as a team than they ever could have solo, and for more love, I’m grateful.

The Cheering Section

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When someone tells you that something can’t be done, what’s your usual reaction?

Resentment, followed by action? Determination, followed by a series of backup plans being developed so as to not fail? Defeat? Do you move on and conjure up a different goal or dream?

I’m usually in the first or second camp. I can’t imagine how much different of a person I’d be if I felt defeated every time someone said no, or how different my support structure would be.

Parents, friends, teachers of all kinds would be different…all of them wouldn’t be who they are today. Some might say that maybe they’d all be the same, and that perhaps my perception of them is driven by how I’m wired. But I think otherwise. I draw from them, therefore they are me. If I’m different, then they’re different.

I wonder whose words will ring in my ears if I ever see a dream become reality; I wonder whose words will fill my thoughts when I’m in the winter of my life, or if I’m on my death bed. I can’t say now, but I do know that the words will come from my support structure — my cheering section. From those who have been with me from day one to those a bit more recent, the words will come from those who care — who care to be present in my life and encourage, inspire, praise, guide and keep pace with me through the ups, downs, things in between, above and below.

Tonight I am thankful for my cheering section that’s gotten me through more than they’ll ever know, and for their energy that sustains me — day in and out.

Head in the Clouds

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I don’t know what it is, but my thoughts often turn to matters of the heart when I fly. Maybe it’s a byproduct of the adult beverage I need to consume before I board a plane, or maybe it’s just a function of being high above the planet. Whatever the driving force, it messes with my head every time.

Did I exit too early? Cave too soon? Give too little? Share too much? I’m usually guilty of the first and third sins, rarely the other two. I suppose my MO is learned after having gotten the short end of the stick too often. Then again, they say everything happens for a reason. But rarely do we ever think we’re the reason for a certain undoing, a misstep, a change of course. We tell ourselves it was the universe — that it did what it was supposed to do, that it happened the way it was supposed to happen. In reality, the universe might’ve had a hand, but we very well could’ve had the other one.

Something about the way the light rests on the clouds we’ve just passed through or the gentle hum of the engines lulls me into a trance-like state. I find myself wondering if I’ll marry, where I’ll live — where we’ll live, what I’ll finally grow up to be, where I’ll go in life with him — both literally and figuratively — whoever he is.

As we descend, the web of thoughts untangles and I’m back to normal — although “normal” is relative. It’s exhausting, this thought process is. But, not unlike the way we might work at a job we’re less than enamored with, we realize we’ve gleaned from it the knowledge of what we never want to be part of again. Similarly, lost loves and wondering what went wrong and why it wasn’t obvious at the time reminds us to keep it from happening again.

To keep from committing the same sins.

To keep from perpetuating the cycle.

Tonight I am thankful for the thoughts I repeatedly turn to while flying, and the knowledge that the only way to free myself from them is to do things differently. To be different, to think differently and to love in ways I never have allowed myself to love before.

The Bromance in Row Four

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I sat down by the window, and the guy in the aisle seat made small talk with me. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I’m not a big talker on planes.

We’d boarded in the first seating group, so before too long there were only middle seats left. Our middle spot was open until the last guy walked onto the plane. He sat down between us.

The two dudes immediately began chatting — work, where each other lived, went to school, hobbies, best vacation spots, confessions (one was terrified of flying) — and within minutes they were shaking hands and swapping first names.

Middle Seat guy was engaged, while Aisle Man spoke about his kids most of the time. Middle Seat played soccer in college, and Aisle Man ended up bending his ear on good soccer clubs for his son.

I’ve never heard a more refreshingly mature conversation between two dudes. They didn’t talk about getting hammered, sexual conquests, hooking up, drinking on the job or the last time they flew somewhere and munched on pot brownies to ease their flight tensions (these topics, by the way, are ones I heard discussed two weeks ago on my last business trip).

They didn’t talk about salary, their latest bonus or their cars. They talked like two dudes who were smart, interesting, well-traveled, well-read, articulate, kind and multi-dimensional. They talked about swimming with sharks, learning new languages and countries they wanted to visit so they could “experience the cuisine.” I sat back and listened.

“Just stick with it,” Middle told Aisle regarding the latter’s son whose interest in soccer waxes and wanes like moon.

That phrase was said over and over and over in their discussion, as though it’s always that easy.

Stick with it.

I remembered back to my last work trip; I sat by an older man who told me that a spot we flew over in Santa Barbara is where he first kissed the girl he ended up marrying. I imagined them going through hard times over the years and them both just sticking with it.

I thought about my parents and how they’ve stuck with it.

I thought about Middle and his engagement. I wondered whether they’d last. He seemed quite nice, and I could practically picture the kind of woman his fiancé must be. But if they hit a rough patch sometime in life, depending on what that patch was, would he follow his own advice? Would they stick with it then?

We landed, and I was a little surprised they didn’t exchange numbers. They shook hands again and went their separate ways.

When we overhear things, I think we always hear them for a reason. Tonight wasn’t just two dudes talking — it was a conversation that could’ve been applied to my own life, too. Writing? Stick with it. Dreams of travel? Stick with them, then go and experience — the cuisine, the language, the immersion.

It wasn’t an earth-shatteringly deep discussion by any means, but it certainly resonated deep within me. So tonight, I am thankful for the bromance in row four, and for the fact that — had those two guys been anything other than their chatty selves — I never would’ve reflected the way I did.

Feel the Burn

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I pulled a muscle in my back last night trying to get into a Spanx bodyslimmer.

A few months ago, I ordered a bridesmaid dress after trying on the store sample. The sample fit, so I ordered accordingly. Turns out the sample was stretched out, therefore the dress I ordered was too tight.

“No problem,” I thought. “I’ll just drop a few pounds.”

Truth be told, that plan is going just fine (although it’s a good thing I still have four weeks to go). Admittedly, I was frustrated at first, but I’ve been trying to lose the same few pounds since I was, like, in the womb, so I figured this had to be the time that I finally did it. After all, having a bridesmaid dress hanging in my room — staring at me while I sleep — is creepy. Threatening. Fear-inducing. It’s also good motivation.

“Might I suggest you invest in Spanx?” a co-worker said yesterday after hearing about the dress mishap.

I have them, and I love them for the smoothing effect under tighter clothing. But, sadly, this isn’t a smoothing situation. This is a “I need to drink less wine and eat fewer comfort foods” situation.

On my drive home, I got to thinking that the next 31 days might be far more pleasant if, in fact, the Spanx solved everything. Maybe a glass of wine here, perhaps a burrito there. Why not try?

Somewhat excitedly, I rummaged through a dresser drawer and found my decidedly un-sexy contraption that was sure to do the trick.

As I tried to weasel my way into it, the only thing I was sure of was that my manicure was getting ruined by my slow, determined pulling at the slippery, high-waisted cincher. I was starting to sweat, but that had to be a good sign, right? How could it possibly not do the trick?

Well, it didn’t.

I put the dress on, and any amount of torso reduction was canceled out by the thickness of the Spanx. What’s more, my back was killing me. I can only assume the extreme tugging had been more of a workout than I’d [clearly] had in months. I texted the bride-to-be and told her what I’d done.

“Uh-oh, are you OK?” she asked. “Are you in pain?”

Pain, yes — but mostly just bruised self-esteem.

What can I say? I’d been looking after matters of the heart in recent months. And when that happens, my mouth wants to fix it. Thus, I feast. And apparently I’d consumed a buffet of consolation.

Years ago when I lived at the beach, I decided one day to be my best self. I ate a lot of protein (protein that wasn’t in the form of a bean burrito), walked about 40 miles a week, learned to love disproportionate amounts of chicken breast, grilled veggies, fruit, tuna, low-fat cottage cheese, salad with a little salsa for dressing, and my cans – cans of no-salt-added vegetables that I took to work (and for which I was ridiculed mercilessly). I also didn’t go out a whole lot, so drinking not much more than water was easy-peasy. Forty-five days and 30 pounds later, I was bikini-ready. For the first time in my life.

But something about knowing that I did it once and can therefore do it again keeps me in park; I’m idling. “I’ll start tomorrow,” I tell myself, “because surely it will work again.”

Except that I haven’t tried again.

Until this week. A bit has changed since those beach days, though. I’ve had knee surgery, so 40 miles a week isn’t in the cards. And I can’t stomach the thought of no-salt-added veggies. Some of the other things, however, I’ll keep. It’s about time I got back to them anyway.

The thing about my Spanx is that if they had worked, there’d be no change. I wanted it to do the trick, but it would’ve been the equivalent of a magic trick – something that isn’t real. It would be false advertising and, having worked in advertising for years, you’d think I’d be OK with that…but I’m not. Instead of saying yes to merely hiding the unhealthy parts of me that I know need to go in the first place, I’ll instead say yes to something that simply smooths once I get down to my goal weight.

Pulled back muscle and all, I left the house and walked. For four miles.

For last night’s reality check, and – in a way – for my pain and flailing, I am thankful. Let’s feel the burn, people.