“Wow, it must be pretty cold outside,” I thought. I had the furnace set to cycle on when the house hit 60 degrees, and it was cranking out heat like nobody’s business. It was light outside, and I was curled up in a toasty ball under my covers. Better yet, I hadn’t slept in any weird position, so nothing was kinked or aching. I was blissfully happy.

Then I realized why I was awake: my alarm was going off.

“Who sets their alarm for weekends?” I wondered. “It’s not right to wake up to an alarm on a Saturday.”

And then it hit me: it’s not Saturday. It’s Wednesday. Hump Day, yes, but still – definitely not a weekend. If it’s really all downhill from here, then I hope the pace picks up so we can slide into Friday’s 5 o’clock hour with whiplash-inducing speed.

Thankfully, my VP allowed for some wiggle room in this morning’s schedule. Landing minutes before midnight at LAX isn’t ideal before an 8am start the next day, so his, “Use your good judgment and just be in by noon” statement was music to my ears when we got off the plane, not that he was singing or anything. I figured I’d split the different and shoot for 10am.

Travel messes me up. Every time. And I don’t even need to switch time zones to feel its wrath. Add in a headache that lasted for three days and a hotel room with a cranky mini-fridge that whirred and vibrated in the corner all night long, and you have the makings of exhaustion – aside from the usual stress of prepping for a client meeting. All I’d need now is to succumb to the disease coming from the germ-spewing guy five rows back on last night’s flight home. Seriously, have people never heard of covering their mouths or noses when coughing, hacking or sneezing? In his defense, maybe he was arm-less, I don’t know. I never really got a good look at him.

I drive by three Starbucks locations on my way to work, plus a hidden one that lurks inside of a grocery store. As I approached each one, I considered stopping. And apparently I should have, because after parking in the adjacent deck, descending four flights of stairs, walking across the courtyard, waiting for an elevator to whisk me up to the office and finally making it to my 14th floor perch, I realized my laptop was still in my car. Back down I went, across the courtyard I traipsed, up four flights of stairs and back to my car. Then repeat, but in the opposite direction once more. I immediately made a beeline for the coffee machine, clearly needing to wake up since my alarm obviously didn’t do the trick.

Not going to lie – I’m a little worn out today, but thankful my headache has departed. I’m grateful to be back from travel, happy the day is half over and cringe to think of how productive I’d be had I gotten here at 8am. The bigger things might wear me out too easily, but the little things help me find my center again in no time.  

You know those clear nights when the stars seem so close it’s almost as though you can reach up and scoop a handful right out of the sky?

Those stars are even more beautiful at 36,000 feet.

Once you get up past the disruption of city lights, the haze or smog or general atmospheric gunk, the inky black abyss gives you a gift: more stars than you really thought were possible to behold.

Sure, there were camping trips in the mountains and nights in the desert spent looking up into the heavens, but nothing like this. It’s almost impossible to pick out any familiar constellations, because they’re no longer familiar — they’re surrounded by thousands of other points of light, and everything blends together. You have to squint in order to make out the brightest stars — the ones that are visible most other nights from the backyards and streets and wide open spaces below.

The cities far beneath me glow under cloud cover. They’re reminiscent of the way a thunderhead looks when it’s illuminated from the inside out by lightning, only there’s no flickering.

And every so often, the clouds give way to reveal highways and urban sprawl. Millions of amber-hued lights band together, revealing shopping centers, neighborhoods, thoroughfares, city blocks and city limits. The occasional airport beacon shows itself, too — blue…then white…then blue again.

Sometimes you’ll pass over the middle of nowhere with not a cloud in sight, and the lights are so few and far between it’s like you’re gazing skyward. Pinpoints of white and yellow on the ground could pass for stars, especially when they twinkle a bit in the air currents.

It’s peaceful up above, and it looks peaceful down below. Much is better in the air — blogging, music, quiet contemplation. People I travel with often ask me what I watched during the flight, and the answer is always the same: “Nothing.” I could stare out the window the entire time, although there’s usually a bit of work to be done while we’re en route to our destination.

Tonight, the only item on my to-do list was blogging, and I’m thankful to be doing it with the most amazing view imaginable just outside my window. It derailed me a few times, since I started this post somewhere over New Jersey and we’re now just south of St. Louis, but it’s one distraction I’ll gladly accept again.

Something about my focused, almost rhythmic pace while I was washing my car yesterday had me deep in thought. They weren’t the healthiest of thoughts, but such is the way my head works sometimes.

Before any sort of travel, I always freak out a bit. Or maybe it’s more than a bit. What if I die? What if my plane crashes? Will my family know that I love them? Will they be able to find my car at the airport? What about my bills? And the cat? Is anyone else going to care about refilling the bird feeder and providing a buffet to my winged friends? Will my parents be upset at the state in which I left the spare room-turned-office (a semi-cluttered catch-all that I’m making slow progress on), or will it sit — untouched — for months before anyone’s able to even think about going in there to make sense of it?

Then I start to come down on myself: I knew I should’ve done that last load of laundry. And weeded the garden a bit more, because it’s turning into a viney wad of mayhem. And thrown out all those silly bags of frozen broccoli and carrots that I’ve managed to accumulate. And vacuumed. And thrown more clutter out. Because, really, what kind of daughter would I be for leaving all that junk to someone else?

And then the insanity starts rolling in: Why can’t they make a pill that you can take in case you know your plane is going to crash, but which — if your plane ends up not crashing — doesn’t actually kill you? Maybe it just knocks you out for a while. Why can’t we have parachutes on an airplane? Or super-duper insulated suits to protect us against the elements (Felix Baumgartner tested and approved, natch) in case we’re able to jump to safety?

See? Insanity.

Compared to cars, air travel is incredibly safe. And even though I know this, my brain still likes to go haywire before each trip. I pray at every take-off, every landing and every night I go to sleep in a hotel room far from my own cozy bed. While any day could be our last, it seems like pushing the envelope — even if it’s just a routine flight somewhere — gets you a little closer to it. But today wasn’t it for me. And I hope tomorrow isn’t, either. And even though I’m back in one of my least favorite places in the country, I’m thankful for making it here in one piece.

I was exhausted, but the day had been productive; there was nothing in particular to wake up for in the morning, except for perhaps more chores, more tasks and more productivity if I felt like opting for such a thing. My body ached, so I promptly befriended two Advil PM and crawled into bed. The heaviness of my extra blanket seemed to push me further into the mattress, even though the night didn’t really require additional warmth.

Within seconds, I realized I forgot to turn on my fan and fill the bedroom with my beloved white noise. I didn’t feel like getting up since I was already cozy and settled in, but I knew I should. I’d cracked the French doors to the patio ever so slightly, and I could hear the sounds of the night outside: a bird up past its bedtime and some background ambience, courtesy of crickets and the rustling of leaves in the trees. Inevitably, however, a siren would pass through the night and mess up some perfectly sound sleep. This is, after all, Anaheim.

And then I realized that the white noise wasn’t necessary — at least not at that moment. I wasn’t sure what I was hearing, but it was definitely something more than the sounds of the night. It was also the sound of the heavens.

The rain fell gently, but steadily. The weather report earlier in the day said that a shower or two would be possible in higher elevations, but here it was, raining in the flatlands.

Drifting closer to sleep, I thought back to the day as best I could. It had been unseasonally warm; moisture in the air gave the evening a distinct smell. It reminded me of summers in Michigan, where balmy storms could be predicted by the nose and where your skin felt like it was being bombarded by millions of tiny water droplets the moment you stepped outside. The sky had been every shade of gray all day long, only it wasn’t an indicator of cool February weather. It was indicative of a system making its way up from Mexico. Looking back, I’m not sure why I was so surprised that it was raining.

The rain grew louder as it increased in intensity; the patio roof was acting as a megaphone of sorts. I don’t know how long I listened to it, but it couldn’t have been for very long. The next thing I knew, it was 4am and I was getting up to shut the patio doors and turn the fan on. A siren in the distance had woken me up.

Sometimes the unexpected, though it can catch you off guard, can be the most beautiful. Often times there are signs along the way that speak of its arrival, but we write them off and assume it will pass us by. But when it doesn’t — when we can see it for what it is, identify the beauty in it and maybe even let it lull us to sleep — it gives us moments to be thankful for.

Do you ever stop and think about the people in your life who aren’t only present, but who have had an effect on you? I do. A number of people in the last year or so have spurred action on some level or another, and they may not even be aware of it. But I am.

The manager who gave me back my voice and my confidence.

The person who inspired less drinking and more healthy living.

My best friend who found love, and held onto it; my best friend who makes me think that it’s possible for me, too.

The guy who brushed away a thick layer of dust on my libido and restored desire to my life.

The woman (my age) at the dry cleaners whose daughter made her a grandmother two years ago, and who works tirelessly day in and day out — including weekends — to provide for everyone. This woman reminds me every few weeks that I have much to be thankful for.

People from writing groups, playwriting classes and those of you who have commented on this blog and made me think that maybe — just maybe — this could be my full-time career someday.

There are so many more who have affected me in so many ways — too many to even get through in one night. No, they may not be aware of their impact on my life, but I am. And for them, I am thankful.

The Keurig machine in our office is definitely the place to be (really, how much fun could gathering around the water cooler ever have been, anyway?). Zen-skewing coworker with her tea and I with my decidedly un-zen coffee had a brief, peaceful conversation yesterday. 

Coworker: “Anything new in your life?” 

Me: “Not really, the usual.” 

Coworker: “Well, same ol’ can be a good thing.”  

Me: “Yeah, sometimes. You?”  

Coworker: “Eh, some stuff going on. A friend of mine is struggling.”  

Me: “Oh…I’m sorry. That can be hard.”  

Coworker: “Yes. You want to help, but sometimes you can’t. It just makes me grateful to be alive — to be standing here, having tea.”  

Me: “Yep. It’s the little things.”  

Coworker: “It is the little things. Because if you wait for the big things to make you happy…”  

Me: “…then good luck.” 

Coworker: “Yep. Good luck.”   

I walked back to my office and identified something new to be thankful for, with practically every step I took: 

I’m in mostly-good health. I have some insanely sore muscles from working out this week, but they’re indicative of my mobility. I’m often hungry, but never because of a food shortage – ever. I’m safe. I’m warm. I’m employed, and by an awesome ad agency that I enjoy coming to each day. I have a bed to sleep in under a roof at night, and not a slab of cold concrete under an overpass. I have transportation. I have people who understand me, who accept me, who love me.  

Sort of puts any ridiculous funk into proper perspective. And the funny thing is that everything above is stuff that most of us probably take for granted daily…stuff which we might consider “the little things,” but things which, if we didn’t have them, would make our lives feel like they’re close to over. We may want more, and more isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But compared to what others have — others who lack so many of the things I mentioned above — we have so much. 

And I am so thankful. 

Yep. Confession time: it’s January 31st, and my Christmas tree is still up.

Not only is it up, it’s still decorated. As in no progress or effort has been made to even remotely consider putting it away. Sure, I brought all my boxes and storage containers in from the garage, but that’s where I stopped. And it’s not the only remnant of the holidays still gracing the house: my red and white snowflake rug in the kitchen is still on display, greeting me each morning and evening. My tiny Nativity scene is still out, Christmas dishes – fortunately washed – sit on the table and haven’t made their way back into the hutch yet, gold garland is still draped across the mantel, shiny red, gold and green ball ornaments fill a large hurricane and I have a wreath of branches with faux ice droplets still hanging on the back door.

The Christmas house flag came down promptly, as did the Christmas lights on the exterior of the house. Everything else, not so much.

What gives?

Energy, or lack of – I think. It’s certainly not a lack of time. Granted, I’ve had busy weekends since the first of the year, but…really? I can’t be bothered to skip Moonshiners for one week and put away the holidays? Of course not. Maybe it’s simply my annual desire to make Christmas last as long as possible, although I thought 2011/2012 was the end of that.

Since I’m fairly ashamed of the fact that the largest Christmas symbol in the casa is still standing tall and proud (though not illuminated by my eight strands of lights – because that would be too much even for me), I’ve arranged the front window shutters in such a way that passersby cannot see the tree lurking just on the other side. Oh, if only they could see the rest of the décor.

During last night’s exercise sesh, I noticed something that I hadn’t bothered to see since the end of December: numerous homes with Christmas still lingering.

At various points during my four-mile journey, I saw shiny red metallic wreaths still hung on doors – and not on hidden, away-from-the-public-eye back doors, on front doors.

White twinkle lights were still wrapped around trees in front yards. And they’re shamelessly still lit up.

Two houses had driveways that were lined with those plastic candy canes that stick into the ground. And they were also twinkling away.

So I guess today I’m thankful that I’m clearly not the only one either a) paralyzed by laziness, or b) wanting to keep the holidays around a little longer. While there’s something nice about making Christmas last 1/6 of the year, I’m vowing to make this weekend the weekend that Christmas makes its way back to the garage. Except for the tree, because I have some excellent Valentine’s Day hearts that I might swap the ornaments out for.

My name is Lauren, and I am a doubter.  

I’ve had this long-standing issue of never giving myself or other things enough credit. I may never change, but I figured I’d talk about it. People talk about the things they know, and in the words of G.I. Joe, knowing is half the battle – which means the other half is up for grabs. So let’s get to it.  

I often doubt that I’ll succeed at something, therefore I don’t put myself out there as often as I should – in many areas of my life. Writing, music, love. Inevitably, when I do, I wonder why I waited so long.  

I tend to think that being rejected is more likely than being accepted, so instead of investigating and dipping my toe in the water, I shut down and figure my doubts and my assumption of rejection are, in fact, truth.  

I sometimes doubt that I’ll be enough for someone. So many seemingly strong marriages crumble; I struggle to identify what works in the ones that stand the test of time, especially when I see so many flaws in myself. Why in the world would someone else want them?  

I consume my fair share of optimistic writings and positive quotes each day, but I find myself sometimes doubting that many others across the country and around the globe do this. It feels like if the number was staggeringly high, the world might be a better place. Then I wonder if I should stop.  

When I buy, I buy most everything on sale. I try to “save money, live better” and am a spreadsheet-user when it comes to tracking my finances, but sometimes I doubt that I’ll ever be in the financial position that I want to be in.  

When I recycle, I wonder if it will make a difference. I crush my yogurt cups to try to “protect wildlife,” as Yoplait’s fine print urges me to do. I rinse out my plastic containers, my aluminum cans, I snip through the six-pack rings which hold my sodas together in a tidy clump and I toss the cardboard tubes from spent paper towel rolls into the recyclables. I picture the recycling people at the local facility coming across my bag of offerings and having a good laugh, amused that there’s someone out there who thinks they’ll make a difference. In this case, I wonder what to doubt more: that they actually laugh, or that my efforts will matter.  

So if knowing is half the battle and the other half needs an identity, perhaps it can be known as hope. Maybe? One might argue that 36 years of getting to a particular way of thinking can’t be undone overnight, but we’re human, and by nature we are often wrong. So here’s to trying, and here’s to letting hope take the lead. It might be a 51/49 split at first, but it’s a start. And of that, I have no doubt.

Wanna get married? You don’t have to buy me a ring. I don’t need a fancy wedding, either.

I was listening to a morning radio duo on my way to work, and they were talking about whether the ring “matters.” I understand that it does for many people, and I understand it without judgment. But the guy was making the point that the woman should love and say yes to the man, not the ring.

The woman was saying that the ring should be something that she’s proud to show off to her friends.

When they opened up the phone lines to take some callers’ opinions, a gal ended up telling them that when her now-husband proposed years ago, he presented her with a “gold band that had a sprinkle” while they were out at a restaurant.

“A sprinkle?” the duo asked. “What’s a sprinkle?”

The caller explained that it was the tiniest chip-of-a-diamond imaginable, then said, “Literally, we got up out of our booth, left the restaurant and went to return it right then and there. I wanted diamonds and platinum!”

Really? Right, because your attitude is clearly deserving of such a thing.

At this point, I am ready to go ring-less and elope. For real.

And for the record, I side with the guy in this case. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a mental picture of my dream wedding, my dream dress, my dream ring, nothing. I’ve never been able to wrap my head around the expectation that if I’m marrying someone, my job is therefore to feed hundreds of guests and shell out cash for others to have a good time.

I’m not saying I don’t appreciate weddings. I get them, I’m all for them and I think it’s a beautiful thing to witness. I’m just saying that, for me, I don’t see a need for one. Courthouse, document, done.

And I’m not saying I don’t appreciate rings, either. I think they’re pretty and sparkly and fun to look at, and I love it when others get the one they’ve always dreamed of. But I don’t know that I need one of those, either.

If anyone is ever so inclined, however, melting down a few beer bottle caps and shaping them into a circle would work for me. I’d wear it. Besides, it’s delightfully artsy-fartsy and uber creative. Plus, I’ve been known to enjoy a beer every now and again, and would be happy to have a few to yield said caps. Two birds, one stone.

Unless my parents win the lottery – or unless I win the lottery – there will be no grand celebration if the day ever comes when I tie the knot. Which is fine with me, because – frankly – an elaborate wedding does not a successful marriage make. I realize the converse is true, as well – a simple, no-frills deal also has the ability to tank. But I guess in the grand scheme of everything, this morning’s radio show had me a little fired up and bent out of shape primarily because love is love is love. Love is not a tangible thing, love is not a production and its depth cannot be measured by a carat or more. And for knowing this, I am thankful.

I drove to the beach to try to shake you, but it didn’t work. So I stood by my car for a while as the fog rolled in, and I watched the sky change colors. I inhaled the cold salt air and was willingly blinded by the setting sun that eventually ducked behind the island 20 miles offshore, providing some rest for my retinas. Catalina was backlit, and rays of fading light streamed over the top of it. It looked heavenly, and I realized its beauty – but when I tried to draw from it, I came up empty.

I stopped at Starbucks afterwards, thinking that some forced interaction with at least a couple of people would jump start something, but that was no use. They were friendly, I was pleasant, my Americano was spot-on and a stranger held the door for me on my way out. 

“Some of us still have it,” said the gentleman. I told him I appreciated the gesture, and I did. But if my soul had the ability to smile, you wouldn’t have seen one. Still, I mustered one on the outside and waved goodbye. Empty again.  

I love overcast days and gray evenings, but this one was wearing on me – maybe because it’s been one in a long line of many. They’ve been plentiful since the start of the year, and what began as an optimistic outlook on 2013 has turned into a journey where my feet feel like they’re wading through mud. Something feels messy; my progress and momentum feel hindered. 

I awoke this morning after another fitful night of sleep, and it was pitch black outside. Mondays are my earlier-than-usual days at work, since I have a meeting right off the bat. By 6am, the light was beginning to reveal a semi-clear sky, something that hasn’t been the case very often these days. Normally, I’d mourn the loss of inclement weather, but today I felt otherwise. The skies told me of something that I’ve known to always be true – something that was true of the funk that clearly has a grasp on me – and I was thankful for their message:

This, too, shall pass.