I felt completely honored, terrified and intimidated when my 14 year old niece recently told me that her and her friends read my blog.

I guess I am no longer supposed to care what 14 year olds think of me.

In fact, I know I am not.

But I cared when I was 14- and I care at 39.

14 year olds are brutal.

14 year old girls are especially brutal (not that 39 year old girls are easy….)

But once I started thinking about my precious niece Taylor (Taylor, I realize that calling you that is probably totally uncool (as is my use of the word “uncool” which you have already told me before)), I started thinking about what life looks like through her eyes and those of her friends.

Over the Christmas holiday, I had two shopping experiences that gave me a little perspective into the lives of girls today. For those of you with children- and particularly girls- I need only say the names of the stores I visited for you to understand- Justice and Hollister. Wow. Talk about having a moment where you have to accept that you are an adult and no longer cool (I know, I know, Taylor… poor word choice).

SO much sparkle. SO “skinny.” SO dark. SO loud. SO sexy. So…. just SO.

“Why is this so expensive? You can get the same thing at Marshall’s without the label for half as much.”

“Those shorts could not even cover their butts.”

“That is heinous.” (repeated several, several times)

If my niece had witnessed me in Hollister yelling these old person edicts to my mother over the booming music and straining to see the sizes on the clothes in the dark, she would have run in the other direction. Run. And I would not have blamed her a bit.

But- I have to add this part just to get some slight bit of “coolness redemption”- rest assured that they got their pink/sparkly/tight/short/ overpriced items as requested. (Now it is their mothers’ jobs to be the tyrants and prepare for the “I hate you”/ “You don’t understand ANYTHING”/”People wear stuff like this ALL the time” battles.)

This shopping reminded me not only to be thankful that I did not grow up in a time when the jean choices were skinny versus super skinny but also that while I have no idea what it is like to be a teenager in some ways, I still know exactly what it’s like in other ways.

I remember wanting so badly to fit in and to stand out, wanting to be smart but not too smart, wanting to be nice but not too nice. Wanting ultimately the freedom to be who I was and have everyone (including myself) be okay with (and perhaps even a little excited about) it.

Truth be told, that could describe me at 14 or 39.

The difference is that at 39 I have had a lot more time and life experience to figure out who I am and to work on being okay with it.

And while Robert Fulghum may have learned everything he needed to know about life in Kindergarten, I think my version of that book would need to be titled “All I Know I Learned From Lots of Mistakes, Bad Break-Ups and Great Friends” because I am definitely still a work in progress.

Even so, there are certain themes that have jumped out at me so many times that even I cannot ignore them (in spite of many attempts to try).

And, Taylor, when you told me that you and some of your friends read my blog, I realized that maybe this was the place to share a few of those “truths” with you. If nothing else, I think these counterintuitive truths are proof positive that God has a sense of humor….

1. You are unique and amazing, but we are also all the same.

I really do believe that God made only one you and there is no one else on earth exactly like you. (Remember your amazing light? If not, see http://www.andguest.com/let-it-shine-by-lori-r-keeton/ ) You should celebrate that and feel special every single day because of it (and I strongly recommend wearing a tiara from time to time to drive the point home). However, you also have to realize that in spite of our each being different, we are also the same.

This concept really hit home with me when I was listening to a counselor who spoke on alcoholism. She said that the way you can tell if someone is truly improving is to figure out if they go to their AA/recovery meetings and see what they have in common with everyone around them or what they believe makes them different. Until they can not only accept but embrace their sameness, they will not be able to truly get better.

Anyone who has experienced the joy of hearing “me too” when you tell someone something about yourself that you find embarrassing or shameful can appreciate what she is saying. We are healed by our commonalities- not our differences.

But (one of) the crazy things about adults is that we punish ourselves with our sameness and our uniqueness. We look at other people and say “God- she is so much thinner/richer/smarter/better than I am” but then when we go through a bad break-up, we cry to our friends about how quickly he or she will move on to someone new (with the unspoken assumption being that we are easily replaceable because we are nothing special). In essence, what makes someone else different from us makes them better-and what makes us the same as others makes us worse. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

When you find yourself doing this, stop. The more you do it, the easier it becomes.

Learn to see and to celebrate both your uniqueness and your sameness– and do the same for others.

2. The incredibly “popular” people that you feel so insecure around are the most insecure and unhappy of all.

“Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.” Love that quote by Margaret Thatcher. It is so true.

You know those people who constantly tell you- either directly or indirectly- how smart and accomplished and happy and rich and generally amazing they are? (Those people you compare yourself to and always believe you fall short? See Number 1 above.)

When you are younger, these are the queen/king bees who terrorize the smart kids and dominate the social scene. They set the trends and dictate who matters and who doesn’t.

When you grow up, these are the people who cannot wait to tell you about their new beach house or their one of a kind ___________________ (piece of art, car, statue, whatever) or their latest victory at work.

They are the people whose lives you covet because they seem to have it all (at least that is what they tell you).

Guess what? Are you ready for this one?

They are the most miserable, insecure people of all.

Their green grass that you are so convinced is greener than yours? It’s astroturf.

I know, I know. It looks really green. (And man yours is looking so brown in comparison.)

But it’s not.

Think about how many times you have turned on the news or opened the paper and there is a story about some seemingly perfect family and about how the husband murdered the wife or their child has been arrested or overdosed or a million other things.

And everyone they interview says “I had no idea. They just seemed like the perfect family.”

Guess what? There’s your first clue.

There is no perfect.

And the more someone tries to convince you that they are, the more they aren’t.

And the more they need to sell you on their happiness, the less you should buy into it.

When you find yourself envying these people and getting sucked into the fairy tales they tell you, stop. Why? Because the more you do it, the easier it becomes.

Take all that energy you put into envying their lives and water your brown grass instead. You’d be surprised at how much they wish their grass looked more like yours.

3. Forgiving the people who hurt you is the best revenge.

I really hate this one. I hate it in the same way I hate overly cheerful people (especially in the morning). It is the God’s honest truth and so I feel compelled to say it, but I also know how maddening it is when you are so angry at someone and ready to plot the world’s greatest revenge against them and one of your goody two shoes, always composed friends chirps in with this forgiveness crap. Trust me- I get it. And I am SO not “that friend.”

I guess my version of this one would be “After you rage and vent and curse and cry and get all that toxicity out of you, then forgive the person who is to blame for it.” That’s a little less offensive, don’t you think?

I don’t recommend you forgive them because it is the “right” thing to do or because it is what it best for them. I recommend it for one reason only- because it’s what is best for you.

Anger is a really powerful emotion. It uses up a lot of you. It radiates from you. And it keeps you stuck.

I am sure you have met people who carry anger and bitterness around with them like it’s a designer handbag. They might as well also carry a sign that says “Stay away from me. I am going to dump my toxicity all over you if you even get near me.”

No thanks.

Staying angry at someone is more or less inviting them to retain a huge role in your life. They are in your thoughts. They impact your actions. They bleed over into your new relationships. They keep you from feeling fully present and fulfilled in any given moment.

That’s a whole lot of space to give someone who has already made it clear that they don’t value you the way they should, don’t you think?

So stop…. Why? (Surely you know the answer I am about to give. Say it with me….) Because the more you do it, the easier it becomes.

And when you consciously decide to forgive them- to release all the could have beens, should have beens, and “I can’t believe they’s- you are taking your life back from them. (And no, you don’t need to send them an ugly text to tell them that. I promise.)

You are also making room in your life for people that will value you. People who actually deserve space in your head and your heart.

And I know the nagging thought in the back of your head that is keeping you from letting it go. I do. I know because it nags me too.

And here’s the answer to it…. You can stop worrying about them getting what they deserve.

I promise.

They are getting what they deserve- they have already gotten it and will continue to get it. It is their life. It is waking up every day and being who they are- and who they aren’t. It is being someone who is too stupid or scared or insecure to do what they need to in order to keep people like you- people who love and value them- in their lives. Do you know how sad that really is? It is far sadder and a far worse fate than anything they could ever do to you. That, my friend, is their karma. And they will do it all by themselves so you can just let that go.

I read a quote the other day that said “They can’t realize how amazing you are until they realize how amazing they are.” It’s the truth.

Forgive them. Dump that useless anger and make room for the people who love themselves enough to truly love you. Let that be YOUR karma.

4. You cannot be happy with someone until you can be happy alone.

Yep. I know– I am not crazy about this one either. But as a 39 year old single person, I gotta say it might just be the one on this list that I know best of all.

Being alone is hard. It gets old.

I get tired of doing everything for myself.

I get tired of being a plus one, a third wheel.

I really do want someone who is “on my team.” (And yes, I am convinced that is what a good relationship is supposed to feel like.)

But, I am not sure that I would have been a really good teammate at 25 or even 30. I still had a lot of “chameleon” in me. And some doubts about who I was and what I could and could not do. I still had a healthy dose of the “rescue fantasy” a la Richard Gere coming to rescue Debra Winger in the factory in “An Officer and a Gentleman.” (I get a little teary every time I watch it…. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfnqDdpp9cs ) (Taylor- I know you have no idea who these people are, and they seem old and out of style. But just imagine it being Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez and you get the idea.)

Who am I kidding? I still want Richard Gere to show up and rescue me….

But, had it happened that way, what would we talk about once I was safely away from the “factory”? What would I have to feel proud about? When someone asked me about ME, what would I say? If he treated me like I was average, would I know that I wasn’t? And if one day he was dumb enough to leave me to go and rescue some other damsel in distress, what would I do?

Bottom line- there is nothing sexy, interesting or rewarding about being a supporting actor or actress in someone else’s story.

And the people you will attract if that is what you are looking for are not going to be lead actor or actress material- trust me on that one.

So…. (do I even need to say it? ) Stop it. Because the more you do it, the easier it becomes.

5. Endings are beginnings.

“The last chapter has not been written.” I cannot tell you how many times my mother has said that to me over the course of my life. Disappointments, break-ups, failures. Times when I would swear my broken heart was going to kill me.

She said this to remind me- over and over again- that the state of sadness and loss I was immersed in was temporary. The storm was going to pass. The sun would shine again.
And every single time she has been right.

I would be a liar if I said that the pain of all endings eventually goes away. There are just some endings that will always hurt. Always. But as I get older, I realize that the pain is so great because the person or the experience was so amazing. And you can’t forget that gift in all your grief.

When I say the Lord’s Prayer, I often find myself stumbling a little over the part that says “Thy will be done….” I try to just sort of gloss over that part, hoping God is too busy to notice that I am a little hesitant to let His will take precedence over mine. Let’s face it, giving up your plan for your life is tough- especially when you cannot see what God has in mind for you.

Of all the truths, this one is probably the hardest for me because I still don’t see what God’s plan is for my life. And I am not sure any of us ever do. But, I do know that is where our faith comes into play. You have to believe that God knows best and will lead you where you are meant to go. You have to try and approach all of life’s uncertainty with excitement over what could be and will be rather than disappointment over what isn’t and won’t be.

So Taylor, I may not understand the allure of shopping in the darkness (not to mention loudness) or what terms are currently popular. I definitely don’t have an appreciation for how much harder it is to be a teenager today with Facebook and Snapchat (I can’t lie to you, Tay. I just had to google “new app where you send pictures to each other fast” to remember the name of that one) and all the other advancements that will cause you grow up so much faster and more exposed to the world than I was at your age.

However, I do understand how overwhelming the world can seem and how hard it can be to find “you” in the midst of it all (but I can also promise you that the journey to finding the true you is worth it).

You will forget a lot of the things I have told you, and you will have to learn many of them for yourself (Just ask Mimi how many times I ignored her advice and had to go and “learn” it on my own….). That is okay.

No matter what, I always want you to hear me cheering for you when you try and applauding for you when you succeed. Even more importantly, I want you to hear me yelling “Me too, me too” whenever you feel like you are alone- in your doubts or your fears or your mistakes.

I cannot wait to watch your story unfold as I know you were made to be an amazing leading actress.

And just remember- the more you do it, the easier it becomes.

I love you, Taylor Rebecca.

Around this time a year ago, I was at brunch with a friend of mine enjoying bottomless mimosas and anticipating just how amazing 2012 was gong to be.

Maybe it was the mimosas-and specifically their “bottomlessness”- but let me tell you, we believed it.

Suffice to say, we agreed last week that we need to pick a new spot for our 2013 New Year’s brunch because 2012 fell quite short of amazing.

I hesitate to admit that because I have a job, am healthy and have a place to live and food to eat. And I know that those things alone make me incredibly blessed. I think there is this part of me that fears complaining under these circumstances because I don’t want God to pull a “You want me to give you something to cry about?” a la my parents in the 1970s when we were causing a scene in public. (For those parents looking for an effective remedy to shut down their children’s meltdowns, note that this one sentence is HIGHLY effective.)

Nonetheless, I have talked to enough people who seem to identify with how I am feeling so I am going to talk about it and take my chances on the wrath part….

I think what scares me most about this past year is how totally unprepared I was for it. If someone had held a gun to my head and asked me to predict what was going to happen, I literally would not have predicted a single one of the major events of my year.

And this is my life. So it is sort of implied- I think- that I should not be continually surprised by what is happening in it.

But the truth is, I have been.

And because I have spent so much of the year in more or less a state of surprise, I have not had much time to think beyond the “Wow. Really? What the f*ck?!” phase of it all.

But, as we reach the end of the year and I have had a little time to breath and process it all, I realize that much of my disappointment over 2012 lies not in what happened per se but in comparing “what I wanted” versus “what I got.”

And as I work on letting go of what I wanted and think more about what I got, I find myself feeling grateful for all the good that the bad unwittingly brought with it.

The moment I knew that Cathy Riley would be my best friend for life happened at a Chick-Fil-A in the mall in Gainesville, Florida in about 1996. I had been dumped by my first “true love.” My heart was broken– so we went to Chick-Fil-A of course.

As all good Southerners know, the best cure for grief is food. (For the record, I just don’t understand these girls who cannot eat when they are sad. I have no room in my life for these people. They are annoying (probably because they are hungry) and should limit their friends to those equally annoying girls who “forget to eat.”)

Cathy and I were standing in line as I did my best to keep my tears at bay until we could get our food and return to the safety of our car where I could start my blubbering all over again.

A random stranger cut in line in front of us.

Not a big deal on a regular day.

But it wasn’t a regular day. And Cathy was having none of it.

All of the sudden sweet, beautiful Cathy became a different person- a person I had never seen. Her voice was loud and authoritative. Her expression serious. “Do you have any idea what she is going through? And you are just going to cut in line in front of us as though it doesn’t matter? I don’t think so.”

As that poor man skulked away (after apologizing profusely), I knew that Cathy was a keeper.

And the great thing is that whenever I think about that break-up, I don’t think about that (stupid (now bald)) guy that I dated or about what he said or did. Instead, I think about Cathy and about that poor stranger at Chick-Fil-A– and I laugh.

When I suffered another broken heart years later (are you seeing a pattern here?), my dear friend Jami showed up at my door with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and a spoon (are you seeing a pattern here too?) within 30 minutes of my frantic “we broke up” phone call. She didn’t say anything- she didn’t have to say anything. She just handed me the ice cream and hugged me- really tightly.

I can still feel that hug when I think back on it.

When my stepfather died and my entire family was numb with grief and totally unprepared to even think about putting together a meal, we came home from his funeral to find a huge box of food at the doorstep that was a complete meal for my entire family compliments of my best friends from Charlotte.

I am not sure there has ever been a moment in my life where I felt more grateful for my sweet, thoughtful friends.

And the trying events of 2012 brought the same sort of unwavering support with them.

It is pretty incredible that these people’s acts of love and friendship were able not only to bring comfort to me in painful times but also to alter my entire perception of these events so that the memories are less of the losses and more of the amazing support that followed.

My favorite scene of all time from Grey’s Anatomy is when Cristina Yang is explaining her friendship with Meredith Grey to Preston Burke- “She’s my person. If I murdered someone, she’s the person I’d call to help me drag the corpse across the living room floor. She’s my person.”

And Cathy and Jami- and Nancy and Debbie and Julie and Jessica and my mom and my sisters and…. well, they are my people.

They may think I am acting like the biggest idiot in the world. And rest assured, they will tell me that when the time is right. I would expect no less from them. But no matter what, they have my back- and I have theirs. Period. End of story.

And while I certainly don’t welcome bad times, it is those times that remind me of my amazing support system.

It is those people whose friendships remind me that whether I stay single or get married, I will never be alone.

And that knowledge doesn’t just make me feel safe- it makes me feel brave.

It makes me feel like I can write a book, have a fulfilling relationship, be respected, be loved, be… incredible.

It makes it easier to walk away from things that hurt me.

It makes it easier to get up and try again when all I want to do is quit.

It makes everything easier- and so, so much sweeter.

And as far as my “what I wanted” versus “what I got” list, there was not a single thing on the “what I wanted” list that is more valuable to me than the love and support of my “people.”

The other thing I am realizing is that the only thing sadder than scars is the absence of scars.

As a child, I remember going to play with a friend whose room was filled with beautiful Barbies. In fact, she had many of the same Barbies that I had. But mine looked like they had been through a war…. My Barbies had worn more outfits, been to more weddings and gone on more trips, swims, and outings than I ever will. Her Barbies, on the other hand, resided on a shelf and had never even been taken out of their boxes.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I always felt sorry for her Barbies. Sure they had their long blonde hair still in tact-ditto their earrings and shoes. But for what? My Barbies may have been banged up, but at least they were enjoying their dream house, pink corvette and swimming pool.

I realize now that it wasn’t her Barbies that I felt sorry for- it was her.

Though I have lost contact with her over the years, I cannot help but wonder if she lives her life as her Barbies did- safely tucked away on a shelf in an effort to avoid any possible damage.

And we all know people like that. They see life as an endurance contest more or less. They have a hundred excuses for why they can’t have the life- the job, the relationship, the future- that they truly want- but none of them are all that convincing- not even to them. They consume a steady diet of “enoughs” and accept mediocrity in exchange for safety.

One of my favorite quotes of all times is from Hunter Thompson. He said that “life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a Ride!'”

And he is SO right.

My scars of 2012 (and 2011, 2010, 2009, etc.) hurt. A lot.

But they are also reminders that I tried.

I put myself out there.

I did not choose safety.

I did not give up.

I did not settle.

I gave it all I had.

And that’s a hell of a lot better than sitting on a shelf somewhere collecting dust.

I had drinks with a girlfriend of mine a few weeks ago. I had not seen her in quite some time, but I knew that her “mountain” over the past few years has been a tall one…. Three small children. An unfaithful spouse. A younger girlfriend(s)- now wife. Financial challenges. You get the idea.

And when it all came tumbling down, she was justifiably angry. Really, really angry.

So when we met for drinks, I expected to hear about her ex and what a jerk he was and about all he had done and not done to make her life miserable. It would have been totally justified. Instead, however, she brought me up to date on her life, her career and her children. Her focus was not on what she had lost but on all that she gained as a result of what she lost.

When the night was coming to an end, she summed it up by saying “It couldn’t have happened any other way, you know?”

That is a pretty strong statement when you think about it.

And I think the best any of us can hope for is to look back on our lives and be able to make that exact proclamation.

And when we are in the “in between times” like I am now, we just have to have faith that we are heading in the right direction.

Faith that what we think we want will prove far inferior to what we get.

Faith that what we lose is a painful but necessary step on the way to our amazing.

Faith that we can survive the scars with a little (or a lot) of help from our friends.

Faith that one day we will sit with our people and reminisce about our scars and laugh at all the time we wasted mourning the loss of what we wanted because what we got turned out to be so much better.

Faith that there is an “amazing” out there with our names on it.

It just couldn’t happen any other way, you know?

“Why aren’t you married yet?”

I heard that question for about the millionth time at a party last night.

It is amazing to me how many people (so many of whom are totally miserable in their marriages by the way) have the… nerve?…lack of manners? to ask me that question. And it is usually people who do not know me very well which makes it even weirder.

Of course, they always add a jellyfish compliment to the end of their inquiry to somehow “soften” the question (i.e. “I mean you’re such a catch- why hasn’t someone snatched you up?” or some other similar b.s.)

(If you are wondering, it doesn’t really soften the question.)

And each time I am asked, I shrug and look away- unsure of what to say.

But rather than shy away from it, I decided that maybe I needed to answer the question once and for all for anyone and everyone who wants to know….

I am not married because of Dairy Queen, lipstick, puke and post-it notes.

Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?

But it is the truth.

Perhaps I should explain.

I am a child of divorce. I have parents that you look at and wonder how on earth they ever ended up together. It isn’t a matter of one being good and the other bad- but just of the two being terrible together.

And there is no doubt in my mind that growing up that way impacts you. It shapes you. It confuses you. It hurts you.

I think somewhere deep inside, all children of divorce wonder if the two people who made them cannot love each other, then who can?

But ironically, that isn’t the chapter of my life that has stopped me from getting married. That would be the obvious choice I know. But I hate the obvious choice.

It is the next chapter that got me- it is the next chapter that I keep going back to and rereading.

You see, it wasn’t seeing two people who didn’t love each other fall apart but rather watching two people who adored each other fall together that left a permanent impact on my soul….

I think the first time I realized that something odd was going on with my mother was when I was around 12, and she got so excited (downright giggly in fact) because she was meeting a “friend” for coffee at Dairy Queen.

Not a steak dinner at Sullivan’s or an exotic trip to the Caribbean– coffee at Dairy Queen.

My mom and Dean (which is what I always called my stepdad because he was dean of a law school when he met my mom) would meet at the Dairy Queen near the school where she taught whenever they had time in their busy schedules.

I am pretty sure the coffee sucked.

I am equally sure that neither of them ever noticed.

My mother was 38 and was (and is) gorgeous and charming and generally amazing. Dean was 53 with silver hair and was handsome and powerful and brilliant.

But they could not have been more different. My mother drove an ancient Mercedes that had red nail polish stains on the gear shift where she had spilled it while trying to touch up her nails on the way to work (now do you people see why I text, apply make-up and read in the car??).

Dean would not have a wrapper from a straw in his car on his worst day.

Was he horrified by the nail polish? Of course not. Because it was hers- and thus it was charming and funny.

When they went on one of their first dates, my mother was an hour late as she was primping (to go out on a boat…).

I learned later from my stepsister that Dean- a former high ranking military officer- freaked if anyone was five minutes late. But, of course, that rule did not apply to my mother because she was worth the wait (According to my stepsister, that was the day she KNEW he was in love.)

And yes, they fell in love.

And yes, they got married.

And we became a non-traditional family of five with me being the baby, my sister the middle and my stepsister the oldest.

Rest assured, it wasn’t always easy. My stepsister would be the first to tell you that she got the shorter end of the stick as she was an only child who “inherited” two younger sisters (and while I am amazing, my sister can be a real pain when she wants to be (HA!)).

But by and large, we made it work and grew to love each other.

There are so many funny and wonderful and memorable things that happened during our journey together, but there are three events that I think about the most (If this were a movie, this is the moment where my sisters would chime in about how absurd it is that I think of everything so logically and in numbered order whereas Dean would applaud my organizational way of thinking)….

1. Whenever my mom and I would go to run errands, she would always reapply her lipstick on our way home. For years I thought it was the oddest thing. Who puts on lipstick to go home rather than to go out? I am not sure how long it took me to understand that she did it because she wanted to be beautiful for Dean. The person that mattered most to her wasn’t outside our home but inside our home.

2. When I was in the 7th or 8th grade, I got sick one day at summer school and called Dean to pick me up from school. He had a brand new Cadillac that he kept immaculately clean (i.e. no nail polish stains in that car). Once he picked me up, I think I started puking before we even left the school parking lot…. and continued to puke the whole way home. Did he yell at me? Did he get annoyed? Nope. He rubbed my back and reassured me and got me home as quickly as possible so he could take care of me. I never heard a word of complaint about how I more or less destroyed his car that day. Never.

3. Throughout their courtship and marriage, Dean left my mother sweet notes all over the house. Sometimes they were the mushy gushy Hallmark cards with flowers on the front, but more often than not they were plain yellow post-it notes written in his distinctive block handwriting. “I love you.” “Have a great day.” “You are the love of my life.” “Thanks for all you do.”

They were affixed to the coffee pot, the mirrors, the car- everywhere.

When he died, I found a huge stack of those love notes that my mother had saved. I pull them out from time to time- not to read them because they are not mine to read- but just to remind myself of what true love actually looks like.

And there were so many other things….

He always took her car and filled it up with gas as he would not dream of her pumping her own gas- especially if it were cold outside.

He bought her a Rolex one Christmas because she had always wanted one even though he thought watches should be purchased from the drugstore and cost no more than $10.

He made her coffee every morning.

When my grandmother got older and her health was failing, he went to her condominium every single day to have coffee with her and visit. He became her best friend.

And I do not mean to suggest that it was a one way street- she loved him every bit as much.

She made him his favorite meals.

She supported his career and helped his law school obtain accreditation.

She went fishing with him regularly and stayed in horrible, gross motels during these trips (If you ever met my mother, you would understand how big of a deal this is. If you know me, then you in essence know my mother and understand how big of a deal this is….).

She moved to Florida because it was his dream.

She scratched his back every night.

In April 2005 when we all gathered at Shand’s Hospital in Gainesville for him to undergo surgery, I walked in the cafeteria to find the two of them drinking coffee with him draped in a blanket that my mother had gone and bought at the gift shop because she could not bear for him to be cold while they ate lunch.

And when that surgery was over and the surgeons broke the news that he would not likely wake up and even if he did, he would be more or less a vegetable, my mother did what was probably the hardest- and the greatest- act of love that any of us can ever be called upon to do- she let him go.

And in the days that we waited for him to actually pass once the machines were turned off, she laid in the hospital bed curled up next to him and held his hand and combed his hair- refusing to leave his side for even a moment.

For better or for worse…. In sickness and in health….

So, you see, this amazing love story has proven to be both the greatest gift and the biggest curse that my parents could have ever given to me because–

I want Dairy Queen and post-it notes.

I want blankets when I am cold.

I want someone who loves my friends and my family as much as I do- in spite of puke or whatever else may arise.

I want someone who will cook my favorite foods.

I want someone who will keep vigil at my bedside when I am sick- and who will love me enough to let me go when that time comes.

I want amazing, big, important, unconditional, sweet, brave, forgiving, unbreakable love.

And I won’t settle for less.

Each time my heart is broken, I go through a period of mourning where I swear I will never love someone so much again– I tell myself that I will never again give someone my blankets and Dairy Queen and “puke forgiveness” kind of love.

But, after a while, I think about those damn post-it notes- and I soften. And before you know it, I am willing to try again because I am absolutely convinced that it is worth it.

So, for anyone who is wondering, I am not married because of Dairy Queen, lipstick, puke and post-it notes…. And I am actually really proud of that.

Thank you Mom and Dean.

You can’t go back on your word.

You can’t.

No matter how much you want to- you can’t.

Maybe it will be closed.

Maybe she will change her mind.

Doubtful. (After all, she is MY niece.)

This is the conversation I had with myself on Black Friday, as I lay in bed bloated from the carb overload of the day before.

The idea of ice skating did not appeal to me on my best day- much less on a day when I felt even clumsier and bigger than usual.

One lesson I don’t think you fully understand until you have kids (i.e. a lesson I still have not learned) is that you cannot tell a child “You can have whatever you want” or “We will do whatever you want.” You are opening yourself up to paying obscene amounts of money to procure the most coveted Harry Potter Legos from some Ebay extortionist when all the stores are sold out in the days leading up to Christmas. You will find yourself trying not to curse as you cut fondant for a Williams-Sonoma “Build-a-Bear” project that would have Martha Stewart sweating. You will incur the wrath of your friends when you buy their children the loudest, most obnoxious toys you can find (Just for future reference- my personal favorite is Melissa & Doug’s “Band-in-a-Box”).

And, after promising your 12-year-old nephew and 14-year-old niece that you would do whatever they wanted while home for Thanksgiving, you may even find yourself driving through a bad part of town in your mother’s car to go ice skating while praying that 1. you don’t wreck the car; 2. you don’t get car jacked; and 3. you don’t break any bones (and not necessarily in that order).

And of course, there is the whole “adult thing” that goes along with it. It is so difficult being an adult- and it is so much harder when you are with kids. It is like everyone is pretending you know what you are doing and you have to pretend too because otherwise the kids will realize that there really is no captain of the ship.

I vividly recall my close friend Jami’s baby shower when she was pregnant with her first child. She opened up one of her gifts and it was this “emergency kit” of sorts that contained like 9,000 pumps and suckers (for snot apparently) and gauges. Being the supportive friend that I am, I leaned over and whispered “You are so screwed.” (Fortunately, both of her children have survived quite well, but I would still bet $100 that she does not know how to use at least half of the items in that ridiculous, fear-inducing kit.)

When you are the grown up, you have to carry everything- the coats, drinks, bags, etc. (And for some reason, children always hand you their trash?) You are supposed to know where you are going. You are supposed to be able to say “no” and mean it. You are the cruise director, the doctor, the peacemaker, the judge.

It is hard work.

And it involves a lot of things I am not very good at it.

Several years ago, I was traveling with my friend Cathy and her two children. She needed to run an errand so she told her kids that I was in charge while she was gone. Her son looked at her so seriously and pointed to me and said “Mom- is she a grown up??”

Totally valid question. I was not at all offended. In fact, I took it as a compliment. I am a “cupcakes with blue icing, late bedtimes, make-up and nail polish, sparkly shoes, ‘5 more minutes of television won’t hurt'” kind of girl. And I know if they were my own children it would be different. But they aren’t. And making them happy makes me happy.

And in this particular instance, what made them happy was ice skating.

To say I was anxious about the prospect of trying to maneuver myself around a circle of slippery ice on two blades would be quite an understatement.

I knew the easy way out- the responsible “adult” thing to do- would be to sit in the bleachers (holding everything of course) while my niece and nephew skated. I would be warm. And safe. And a lot of the parents were doing just that.

But I didn’t want to be the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

Once we were all laced up in our skates (with my niece being the one to do the lacing as she was the expert), we entered the arena.

Booming music.

Flashing lights.

And lots and lots of children.

I tried to appear calm and confident, but the whole “grown up act” was weighing me down almost as much as the ridiculously heavy skates.

I gave the children a reassuring smile and said “Aunt Lori is fine- go skate” as I hugged the railing while trying to also hold onto my “walker” (a device to help “beginning skaters” get comfortable on the ice). I did not dare wave them off to drive my point home though as I was terrified that any sudden movement would cause me to fall.

In my head, I was ten years old again roller skating at Funtime Skateland in Jackson, Mississippi while all the cool kids whizzed past me.

After a couple of minutes, I finally let go of the railing and clung to the walker as if my life depended on it. Slowly but surely, I was able to progress a few ugly paces. The children had probably circled ten times by the time I made it around once.

They would periodically stop by my area next to the edge to make sure I was doing okay and to offer me encouragement.

After a little while, my nephew decided he would skate with me. As we were skating together, I looked at him- 12 years old and moving forward with no walker- and realized that I too had to try it without the walker. As much as I hated the idea of it, I hated the idea of being the aunt who used the walker almost as much as I hated being the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

I announced to Austin “I am going to try it without the walker.”

He looked over at me and said “Are you sure?”

“Yes” I said, in spite of the fact that every fiber of my being was screaming “NO, NO, NO.”

He held the walker for me as I took my first tentative steps unassisted. I was awkward and slow. But I was doing it. We skated several laps like that- me going slowly while he skated next to me with the walker in tow in case I needed it.

After a little while, he looked at me so seriously and sweetly and said “Aunt Lori- You don’t need this anymore. It’s time we put it up.”

I initially protested because just knowing it was close made me feel safe.

But he was right.

I told him I needed one more lap with my security blanket (the walker) in tow. He acquiesced.

Once that lap was over, he skated the walker over to the edge of the rink. “It’s time we leave it-okay?” He waited for my final approval- not because I was the adult but because he loved me and was struggling with wanting me to feel safe but also wanting me to realize I could do it without the walker.

“Leave it!” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt so he would not feel guilty about taking it away from me if/when I fell and broke my arm, leg, hip, whatever.

And we began again- with him slowing his pace to accommodate mine and me pushing myself to go faster and meet his.

Eventually, my niece came over to check on my progress (and probably to relieve her brother of being responsible for me for a little while…). As I skated with her, I started looking around at all the other skaters- these kids who were flying past me, skating backwards, doing tricks. It was amazing. But while doing that, I lost my balance and almost fell.

“Aunt Lori- You have to focus on yourself. If you watch what other people are doing, you are going to fall.”

Out of the mouth of babes….

After our skating adventure was over, it was impossible for me not to see that I ice skated exactly how I live- cautiously, carefully… so afraid of falling and getting hurt… watching other people- convinced they are doing it so much better than I am.

But, just as in life, I realized that even if I wasn’t that great at it, I did not want to be one of those people who sat on the sidelines- so afraid of failing or getting hurt that I settled for mediocrity and safety instead of pursuing the life that would make me happy.

It was also important to me that my niece and nephew look back on that night and remember me as their aunt who tried her best (even if that came with a ton of embarrassment due to being related to me)- not their aunt who sat in the bleachers because she was too scared to try. It was important that I remember myself that way too.

In skating and in life, it is ironic that we have to suffer to find contentment. Think about the times when you have felt the happiest, the most proud, the most alive. Didn’t the vast majority of those experiences arise out of situations where you put yourself out there in a way that scared you as opposed to choosing the comfortable, easy route?

I will never forget when my mom and stepdad dropped me off for college at Stetson University in 1991. I did not know a soul. I was going to be living in a strange place surrounded by strangers. And all of my friends that I had grown up with were together at Ole Miss, safe and secure and having a wonderful time together I was sure.

As soon as my parents left, I went back into my dorm room and locked the door and cried my eyes out. And the entire time all I could think about was how stupid I was to choose this unknown strange place over the known comfortable place. Who chooses to enter through a second story window when there is a door standing wide open waiting for you? That’s how it felt.

Within a week, I was having the time of my life. I had made friends, fallen in love with the campus, professors and town and felt an incredible sense of pride that I was making a life for myself on my own. I grew more in those four years than any other time in my life.

Fast forward seven years to my third year of law school…. I decided after a Christmas trip to Charlotte, North Carolina that I would move there and get a job rather than take the job that I had already been offered in Florida (where I would be surrounded by my family and friends). Again, the choice was between the known and the unknown, the certain and the uncertain, the painless and the painful.

And, thanks to the confidence I had gained while at Stetson, I once again chose the unknown. And it has proven to me one of the best decisions of my life.

The strange thing is that looking at it in retrospect, I cannot imagine my life having gone any other way.

I cannot imagine not having met the friends I cherish from Stetson and from Charlotte.

I cannot imagine not having fallen madly in love with the people that I have loved over the last 20 years.

I cannot imagine living my life without knowing that there was a strong, independent woman inside of me who could make it on her own.

And God knows that doesn’t mean I haven’t made a ton of mistakes along the way. But I wouldn’t trade a minute of it for an easier life of checking off the boxes.

And when I think about the people I respect the most, I realize that the common trait amongst all of them is their decision- in one way or another- to get out on the ice and skate rather than opting for the safety of the bleachers. My friends who have started their own businesses. My friends who have gotten divorced. My friends who have gone back to school. My friends who fight cancer. My friends who run marathons. My friends who refuse to give up on finding true love. My friends who write books. My friends who admit that they need help and get it. My friends who fall down- and get back up.

It is their courage- not just their successes- that I admire.

I doubt I will ever ice skate again. But I am grateful for the reminders that the evening gave me– that the best things in life can only be obtained when we push ourselves in spite of feeling vulnerable and scared, that we have to let go of the security blankets that we cling to if we want to move forward, that we must focus on ourselves rather than others or we will surely fall– and that the only thing scarier than putting yourself out there is choosing to sit in the bleachers instead.

You can’t go back on your word.

You can’t.

No matter how much you want to- you can’t.

Maybe it will be closed.

Maybe she will change her mind.

Doubtful. (After all, she is MY niece.)

This is the conversation I had with myself on Black Friday, as I lay in bed bloated from the carb overload of the day before.

The idea of ice skating did not appeal to me on my best day- much less on a day when I felt even clumsier and bigger than usual.

One lesson I don’t think you fully understand until you have kids (i.e. a lesson I still have not learned) is that you cannot tell a child “You can have whatever you want” or “We will do whatever you want.” You are opening yourself up to paying obscene amounts of money to procure the most coveted Harry Potter Legos from some Ebay extortionist when all the stores are sold out in the days leading up to Christmas. You will find yourself trying not to curse as you cut fondant for a Williams-Sonoma “Build-a-Bear” project that would have Martha Stewart sweating. You will incur the wrath of your friends when you buy their children the loudest, most obnoxious toys you can find (Just for future reference- my personal favorite is Melissa & Doug’s “Band-in-a-Box”).

And, after promising your 12-year-old nephew and 14-year-old niece that you would do whatever they wanted while home for Thanksgiving, you may even find yourself driving through a bad part of town in your mother’s car to go ice skating while praying that 1. you don’t wreck the car; 2. you don’t get car jacked; and 3. you don’t break any bones (and not necessarily in that order).

And of course, there is the whole “adult thing” that goes along with it. It is so difficult being an adult- and it is so much harder when you are with kids. It is like everyone is pretending you know what you are doing and you have to pretend too because otherwise the kids will realize that there really is no captain of the ship.

I vividly recall my close friend Jami’s baby shower when she was pregnant with her first child. She opened up one of her gifts and it was this “emergency kit” of sorts that contained like 9,000 pumps and suckers (for snot apparently) and gauges. Being the supportive friend that I am, I leaned over and whispered “You are so screwed.” (Fortunately, both of her children have survived quite well, but I would still bet $100 that she does not know how to use at least half of the items in that ridiculous, fear-inducing kit.)

When you are the grown up, you have to carry everything- the coats, drinks, bags, etc. (And for some reason, children always hand you their trash?) You are supposed to know where you are going. You are supposed to be able to say “no” and mean it. You are the cruise director, the doctor, the peacemaker, the judge.

It is hard work.

And it involves a lot of things I am not very good at it.

Several years ago, I was traveling with my friend Cathy and her two children. She needed to run an errand so she told her kids that I was in charge while she was gone. Her son looked at her so seriously and pointed to me and said “Mom- is she a grown up??”

Totally valid question. I was not at all offended. In fact, I took it as a compliment. I am a “cupcakes with blue icing, late bedtimes, make-up and nail polish, sparkly shoes, ‘5 more minutes of television won’t hurt'” kind of girl. And I know if they were my own children it would be different. But they aren’t. And making them happy makes me happy.

And in this particular instance, what made them happy was ice skating.

To say I was anxious about the prospect of trying to maneuver myself around a circle of slippery ice on two blades would be quite an understatement.

I knew the easy way out- the responsible “adult” thing to do- would be to sit in the bleachers (holding everything of course) while my niece and nephew skated. I would be warm. And safe. And a lot of the parents were doing just that.

But I didn’t want to be the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

Once we were all laced up in our skates (with my niece being the one to do the lacing as she was the expert), we entered the arena.

Booming music.

Flashing lights.

And lots and lots of children.

I tried to appear calm and confident, but the whole “grown up act” was weighing me down almost as much as the ridiculously heavy skates.

I gave the children a reassuring smile and said “Aunt Lori is fine- go skate” as I hugged the railing while trying to also hold onto my “walker” (a device to help “beginning skaters” get comfortable on the ice). I did not dare wave them off to drive my point home though as I was terrified that any sudden movement would cause me to fall.

In my head, I was ten years old again roller skating at Funtime Skateland in Jackson, Mississippi while all the cool kids whizzed past me.

After a couple of minutes, I finally let go of the railing and clung to the walker as if my life depended on it. Slowly but surely, I was able to progress a few ugly paces. The children had probably circled ten times by the time I made it around once.

They would periodically stop by my area next to the edge to make sure I was doing okay and to offer me encouragement.

After a little while, my nephew decided he would skate with me. As we were skating together, I looked at him- 12 years old and moving forward with no walker- and realized that I too had to try it without the walker. As much as I hated the idea of it, I hated the idea of being the aunt who used the walker almost as much as I hated being the aunt who sat in the bleachers.

I announced to Austin “I am going to try it without the walker.”

He looked over at me and said “Are you sure?”

“Yes” I said, in spite of the fact that every fiber of my being was screaming “NO, NO, NO.”

He held the walker for me as I took my first tentative steps unassisted. I was awkward and slow. But I was doing it. We skated several laps like that- me going slowly while he skated next to me with the walker in tow in case I needed it.

After a little while, he looked at me so seriously and sweetly and said “Aunt Lori- You don’t need this anymore. It’s time we put it up.”

I initially protested because just knowing it was close made me feel safe.

But he was right.

I told him I needed one more lap with my security blanket (the walker) in tow. He acquiesced.

Once that lap was over, he skated the walker over to the edge of the rink. “It’s time we leave it-okay?” He waited for my final approval- not because I was the adult but because he loved me and was struggling with wanting me to feel safe but also wanting me to realize I could do it without the walker.

“Leave it!” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt so he would not feel guilty about taking it away from me if/when I fell and broke my arm, leg, hip, whatever.

And we began again- with him slowing his pace to accommodate mine and me pushing myself to go faster and meet his.

Eventually, my niece came over to check on my progress (and probably to relieve her brother of being responsible for me for a little while…). As I skated with her, I started looking around at all the other skaters- these kids who were flying past me, skating backwards, doing tricks. It was amazing. But while doing that, I lost my balance and almost fell.

“Aunt Lori- You have to focus on yourself. If you watch what other people are doing, you are going to fall.”

Out of the mouth of babes….

After our skating adventure was over, it was impossible for me not to see that I ice skated exactly how I live- cautiously, carefully… so afraid of falling and getting hurt… watching other people- convinced they are doing it so much better than I am.

But, just as in life, I realized that even if I wasn’t that great at it, I did not want to be one of those people who sat on the sidelines- so afraid of failing or getting hurt that I settled for mediocrity and safety instead of pursuing the life that would make me happy.

It was also important to me that my niece and nephew look back on that night and remember me as their aunt who tried her best (even if that came with a ton of embarrassment due to being related to me)- not their aunt who sat in the bleachers because she was too scared to try. It was important that I remember myself that way too.

In skating and in life, it is ironic that we have to suffer to find contentment. Think about the times when you have felt the happiest, the most proud, the most alive. Didn’t the vast majority of those experiences arise out of situations where you put yourself out there in a way that scared you as opposed to choosing the comfortable, easy route?

I will never forget when my mom and stepdad dropped me off for college at Stetson University in 1991. I did not know a soul. I was going to be living in a strange place surrounded by strangers. And all of my friends that I had grown up with were together at Ole Miss, safe and secure and having a wonderful time together I was sure.

As soon as my parents left, I went back into my dorm room and locked the door and cried my eyes out. And the entire time all I could think about was how stupid I was to choose this unknown strange place over the known comfortable place. Who chooses to enter through a second story window when there is a door standing wide open waiting for you? That’s how it felt.

Within a week, I was having the time of my life. I had made friends, fallen in love with the campus, professors and town and felt an incredible sense of pride that I was making a life for myself on my own. I grew more in those four years than any other time in my life.

Fast forward seven years to my third year of law school…. I decided after a Christmas trip to Charlotte, North Carolina that I would move there and get a job rather than take the job that I had already been offered in Florida (where I would be surrounded by my family and friends). Again, the choice was between the known and the unknown, the certain and the uncertain, the painless and the painful.

And, thanks to the confidence I had gained while at Stetson, I once again chose the unknown. And it has proven to me one of the best decisions of my life.

The strange thing is that looking at it in retrospect, I cannot imagine my life having gone any other way.

I cannot imagine not having met the friends I cherish from Stetson and from Charlotte.

I cannot imagine not having fallen madly in love with the people that I have loved over the last 20 years.

I cannot imagine living my life without knowing that there was a strong, independent woman inside of me who could make it on her own.

And God knows that doesn’t mean I haven’t made a ton of mistakes along the way. But I wouldn’t trade a minute of it for an easier life of checking off the boxes.

And when I think about the people I respect the most, I realize that the common trait amongst all of them is their decision- in one way or another- to get out on the ice and skate rather than opting for the safety of the bleachers. My friends who have started their own businesses. My friends who have gotten divorced. My friends who have gone back to school. My friends who fight cancer. My friends who run marathons. My friends who refuse to give up on finding true love. My friends who write books. My friends who admit that they need help and get it. My friends who fall down- and get back up.

It is their courage- not just their successes- that I admire.

I doubt I will ever ice skate again. But I am grateful for the reminders that the evening gave me– that the best things in life can only be obtained when we push ourselves in spite of feeling vulnerable and scared, that we have to let go of the security blankets that we cling to if we want to move forward, that we must focus on ourselves rather than others or we will surely fall– and that the only thing scarier than putting yourself out there is choosing to sit in the bleachers instead.

Many Halloweens ago, as I hid in the bathroom suffering from the last minute jitters of realizing how much there was of me versus how little costume there was to cover it, a good friend summed up the situation in one sentence: “Either you wear the costume or it wears you.” With that, she turned and walked out, head held high in her Dallas Cowboys’ cheerleading uniform and drugstore tan pantyhose, leaving me to decide who was going to own my night.

Fast forward fifteen years to Halloween 2012, and there I sat with a honey bun wig on my head, suffering the same insecurities even though there was a little less of me and a lot more costume to cover it. With the help of Spanx and a few glasses of wine, however, I decided I looked pretty good. The wig was a little cheap and itchy. Ditto the polyester gown and cheap pleather belt. But I was dressed as one of my childhood idols, and I was wearing white go go boots. How bad could the night be?

“Honey- look- there’s another Princess Leia!”

I turned my head at the sound of my “name” only to find the thinnest, most beautiful Princess Leia I could imagine (second only to Carrie Fisher of course).

As I got closer to her, I realized that she even had long dark hair and thus her honey buns were real.

My wig instantly felt even cheaper and itchier.

“We must get a picture of the two Princess Leia’s together!” said her Luke Skywalker husband.

I hated him. So damn much.

But my perma grin stayed absolutely still.

“Of course.”

As I stood next to Ms. Thin Perfect Real Honey Bun Hair who truly seemed very nice and totally oblivious to her superiority (of course- because that just made her even MORE superior), I had a strong suspicion that my costume was going to be owning me that night….

While the Princess Leia encounter is a silly (but true) example, it did get me thinking about this subconscious scorekeeping I do. And I am pretty sure that I am not alone in this exercise.

I am confident I am not the only one who immediately googled “Petraues wife” when his scandal broke so I could see how she compared to Paula Broadwell.

And I know I am not the only girl who has ever uttered “Am I prettier than her?” in a whispered drunken voice to my close girlfriends after being dumped for another.

But, after I recovered from the initial sting of “Princess Leiagate,” I started thinking about how much better off I would be if I could find a way to turn that scorekeeper off. To get to a place where I define myself without reference to the other Princess Leias, the other attorneys, the other 39 year olds, the other authors, the other anythings.

And though I am still working through it, here is what I have pieced together so far:

1. “Let’s Make a Deal”

I believe that so much of this scorekeeping stems from failed relationships. There is nothing like a bad break up to make you look around to try and figure out how you measure up to those around you (i.e. “He is going to date HER instead of me?” and “Why is she married and I’m not?” etc.).

Remember the game show “Let’s Make a Deal”? Monty Hall would tempt contestants with the unknown. They would see what was behind curtain number one and then have to decide if they would keep it or if they wanted to give it up to see what was behind curtain number two. And sometimes the risk paid off- they traded a green polyester living room set for a new car. Other times, they ended up passing on a new car for a box of Rice-a-Roni.

It is a perfect analogy for dating. You go out with someone a few times and they stop calling or you get dumped or whatever. Result? You feel like crap about yourself. And you secretly hold your breath to see what will turn up behind their curtain number two (a/k/a the next boyfriend or girlfriend) so you can decide how you measure up.

Here is the thing though- no matter how incredible (amazing, spectacular, fantastic) the prize is behind curtain number one, there are just some people who are going to risk it to see what is behind curtain number two. Maybe they are scared. Or stupid. Or hold an unrealistic view of themselves (i.e. stupid). But the fact that they need to see what is behind curtain number two has absolutely nothing to do with you or how wonderful you are. In other words, as with so many things in life, it is their issue- not yours.

2. The Grass is Not Greener

For some reason, I have the hardest time being single around the holidays. There is just something so “couplish” about the holidays. You go and get a tree together. You cook a turkey together. You drink egg nog together. You go to Christmas Eve service together. You hang your stockings together.

Are you getting the key word here? Together.

And there is no Normal Rockwell painting that I recall that features a lovely single 39 year old girl hanging her stocking? Maybe I just missed it.

I notice it most for some reason when I am on the plane en route to Florida to visit my family for the holidays. I look around my flight and (in my mind) everyone is with their spouses and kids. And I am alone. I look at their big engagement rings (in my mind) and their perfect kids (in my mind) and their cute husbands (in my mind) and think “Why didn’t I get THAT life?”

I recently shared this feeling with a girlfriend of mine who is married to a doctor and who has one of those seemingly ideal lives that I envy. She literally laughed out loud. “Are you kidding me? If you saw us getting on your flight, the chances are we would be trying to cover up the fight we just had over whose fault it was we were late and the kids would be behaving only because we promised them something if they were quiet and I would be totally stressed out and would see you and envy your life- the single girl whose life must be so glamorous and exciting.”

Glamorous and exciting? I would hate for her to see me curled up in my flannel pajamas watching Lifetime most Saturday nights….

I felt slightly guilty that knowing her life wasn’t so perfect made me feel better. But I am pretty sure knowing mine wasn’t so perfect made her feel better too.

And our conversation made me realize that these comparisons I (we) make with strangers are bogus. None of us have any idea what other people’s lives are really like- nor do they know what ours are like. And all that envy is just wasted energy that each of us could be spending to make our own grass a little greener.

3. That Damn Lens

One of my friends who is a life coach and generally extraordinary person (I am talking about you Leslie Palmer!) taught me about the lenses through which we see our lives. She had me look at some of the most significant events of my life and the explanation I came up with to understand them. She even had me draw it out on a timelime so I could see how over time, that explanation became the lens through which I saw and processed everything that happened in my life.

I think we all tend to use these lenses when we are engaging in the comparison game. I know I do.

I thought of Leslie and my lens a few months ago when a friend’s seven year old daughter came over to my condominium to play. As she tried on all my jewelry and purses and shoes, she asked me “Do you have a husband? Do you have kids?” I told her I had neither. She thought about it for a minute and then just looked at me and said “I have never met anyone like you.”

And there I sat, completely embarrassed and mortified that this seven year old thought I was a loser.

A few days later she sent me a thank you note. After reading it, I once again felt totally embarrassed. But this time, I felt that way because I had allowed my lens to so misconstrue how this precious seven year old perceived me and my life….

4. Wonderfully Made

At the end of the day, I am beginning to realize that the biggest problem with all this scorekeeping isn’t how much we overvalue others- it’s how much we undervalue ourselves.

To help me remember my value, my best friend recently told me to print up Psalms 139 and read it every day. She will be happy to know that I obeyed her directive, and I keep it in my desk drawer and read it at least once a day.

“I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

I had not thought about that passage in a long time.

And the truth is, I have not thought of myself as all that “wonderfully made” in a long time either.

I think we all tend to forget that about ourselves as we age. When you see a baby, you remember it instantly. But grown ups aren’t so cute or pure or perfect.

Nonetheless, we were, are and will always be “wonderfully made.” And there isn’t a Princess Leia on the planet who can change that.

So this week, when I get on my flight to travel home for Thanksgiving, I am going to do my best to just skip the whole comparison game. Instead, I am going to take my seat and smile at my seatmate and think about how lucky they are to be sitting next to a wonderfully made Princess.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

I have entered what I like to call my season of surrender. For those of you who know me, stop laughing…. Now.

To say I have a hard time relinquishing control would be a bit of an understatement.

I hated group projects in school. (Hate them as a grown up too.)

I despise roller coasters, the dark and “maybes.”

I hate ride along car washes because you can’t see where you are going.

The term “surprise party” is an oxymoron to me.

I try to hit the brakes even when I am a passenger in a car.

I love routines, lists and organization.

I hate messy… rooms, relationships, children- anything.

You get the idea. Relinquishing control is not one of my strong points.

As a child, I loved the “Choose Your Own Adventure” books where you picked what choices the main characters made and there were different endings based on those choices. Though I did not understand it at 12, I guess I loved them because it made sense to me. If you make the right choices, you get the happy ending. If you make the wrong choices… well, you know the rest.

Ditto for the “Goofus” and “Gallant” cartoons from Highlights. Remember those? “Goofus hogs his seat – Gallant makes space for someone else to sit down.” (I still don’t know if anyone actually subscribed to those magazines. We just read ours in doctors’ offices.)

And we are bombarded with this message– that being “good” and working hard lead to good things and vice versa– as we grow up.

If you study hard, then you get good grades.

If you get good grades, then you get into a good college.

If you get into a good college, then you get a good job.

And for most of us, these “if/then” equations prove true. And we are lulled into believing that we are able to control what happens to us.

But the problem comes when things start to fall apart. When your happy ending decides you aren’t his, when you or someone you love gets sick, when you lose that great job, when a friendship is destroyed, when marriage, having kids, being an adult, _________________ (you fill in the blank) turns out to be so different than what you expected.

Then what?

When faced with these “then what?” situations, I think many of us are determined to find a way to attribute whatever the particular disappointment is to ourselves. Because if it is our fault, then we can fix it. And while failure is terrible, the other option– realizing that it is not our fault– is even worse because it carries with it the obligation of accepting that we are not in control of everything that happens to us or those we love. And that idea is contrary to everything we are taught growing up.

During the past year, I have found myself trying again and again to “fix” all kinds of situations- both personally and professionally- and failing miserably on all fronts. Over time, it began to feel like I was trying to repair a dam with holes in it. And every time I got one hole plugged up, another leak sprung. But I could not stop because the mantra that played so loudly in my head– “I can fix this. I just need to try harder. I just need to be a little better.”– would not let me. It was exhausting. And it was futile.

Anna Quindlen gave an amazing speech to the graduating class at Mount Holyoke College in 1999. In the speech, she encouraged the students to “give up the backpack, give up the nonsensical and punishing quest for perfection that dogs too many of us through too much of our lives. “

I have thought a lot about that backpack through the years. And I believe a part of its load- at least a part of my load- is filled with these false notions that I can control what happens to me and to those I love. I have tried to carry that backpack for my entire life. And though I have enjoyed brief moments where I put it down, I have always picked it back up because the alternative- feeling out of control- was just too scary.

But I cannot carry it any longer. It is too heavy. And more importantly, it does not belong to me.

I cannot make someone well.

I cannot make someone love me.

I cannot make someone stay or leave.

I cannot fix someone.

I cannot love someone so much that their lack of love for me or for themselves disappears.

I cannot make someone brave.

I cannot sacrifice myself to save another.

Not by being smart or kind or good or forgiving. Not by being thin or pretty or interesting or thoughtful. Not by bargaining with God or shrinking myself to give them room to expand. Not even by being “perfect.”

And it is these unhealthy, false notions that I am choosing to surrender.

These things have always been God’s to carry- never mine.

I know there will be times I am tempted to pick the backpack up again because its weight has become so familiar to me. And because the false logic of “if/then” life is comforting to me. But when I find myself carrying it again, I will force myself to put it down, opting instead for an imperfect but authentic life where I will try to accept the dark, embrace the “messy,” and cherish the happy.

Green gingham dress made just for me by my grandmother.
Crisp white pinafore tied in the back with a big bow.
Kremlin slip with bells sewed in the lining so I could jingle when I walked.

“This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine….”

I can close my eyes and see myself singing that song at children’s church while wearing my favorite dress.

I had no idea how terrible my voice was back then. I wasn’t self-conscious about my voice- or my body or anything else for that matter. I was just me.

Now, I listen more than I talk. Claim “it doesn’t matter to me” even if it does. Hate going to parties where I don’t know anyone. Say “I’m sorry” when it’s not my fault. Avoid the shared armrest on airplanes so as not to bother my seatmate. And I surely don’t wear bells in my slips.

I had forgotten about those bells until a girlfriend recently told me about her five-year old son bringing home his class photo. When he showed her the picture of all the smiling kindergarteners, she asked “Who is your favorite person in the class?” Without a moment’s hesitation, he pointed to himself.

That response.

How my friend Debbie’s little girl devoured her first birthday cake… chocolate from head to toe.

My bells.

The way my best friend Cathy’s seven-year old daughter woke me up at sunrise while we were on vacation this past summer and said “Aunt Lori- The sun is up- we can have a dance party now!” (And we did.)

What do they all have in common? It’s our lights. That “umpph” that each of us is born with that is ours and ours alone. It’s as though God turned on our special light and whispered to us just before releasing us to the world “You are so amazing and unique- don’t ever forget it.”

But we do forget it. Sometimes our lights go out suddenly- due to a traumatic illness, a sudden loss, a tragedy. But for most of us, it is a gradual dimming. The reasons are big and small, countless and cumulative- a broken heart, a broken promise, a job we hate, the Jones’ and our endless attempts to keep up with them, that damn greener grass on the other side.

Before you know it, we are a shadow of who we started out as- a supporting actor/actress in our own lives. Quieter, meeker, less excited, and generally afraid to take up our space in this world.

Two weeks ago, I went to a wedding. At 39, I have been to a lot of weddings. Big and small. Open bar and lemonade only. Destination weddings and church weddings. Barbeques and seven course meals. “And guest” and solo.

At a certain point, I must admit to growing a little numb to it all. I could mouth the vows along with the bride and groom and direct the bridal party’s poses for the photographs. I could predict the Bible verse (1 Corinthians 13:4) and the songs (Ava Maria, On Eagles Wings). The routine, the rented tuxes and unflattering bridesmaids’ dresses (“You can wear it again!”- biggest lie told by brides)- not to mention the people who seem happier after their divorces than their weddings- all contribute to my cynicism.

But this wedding was different.

The bride, Kimberly, was getting married for the first time at 50. As someone who is 39, I cannot tell you how novel it was to sit in that chapel and get to add years to my age instead of having to subtract to calculate “where I was in life” versus the bride (gotta keep up with those Jones’ you know!). But it was more than that.

On that Saturday morning in Gold Hill, North Carolina in a tiny church that reminded me of my grandmother’s church in Forest, Mississippi complete with the hand-lettered sign documenting Attendance (49) and Offerings ($224) from the prior week, my friend Jami and I sat perched in a pew waiting for Kimberly to walk down the aisle.

“50 minus 39? Think, think…. God, I suck at math. 11 years.”

“My God. I have at least 11 years left to do this. What a relief.”

Scanning the room….

“I like that dress.”

“Hate that updo.”

“Is that woman seriously wearing a hat with feathers on it?”

“How long will this take?”

“Did I leave my flat-iron on?”

“Are they going to just let that baby keep crying?”

“11 whole years. Damn. Forget Plan B. Plan A all the way.”

Then, the organ sounded.

And there she was.

I looked over at Jami and both of us had tears in our eyes.

I whispered to her without thinking “What the hell is wrong with us?” (We don’t cry at weddings. Jaded, cynical, professional guests- see above if you have forgotten- don’t cry at weddings.)

“My God,” Jami said “she’s so… her.”

And while that may sound like the worst description ever, it was the only description that fit. Jami nailed it. All I could do was nod my head in agreement and wipe away my tears.

After the fact, I realized that what overwhelmed us in that moment was her light. She was in fact so– her. And the fact that she was doing something at 50 that most women do well before then did not dim her light at all- it illuminated it. She was that person who only moments before heard God say “You are so amazing and unique- don’t ever forget it.”

And the thing that has stuck with me about that day is the realization that, even though circumstances may dim our lights, our lights can shine again.

At any moment, we can decide that we are our own favorite person.

We can lick our dessert plate clean.

We can have a dance party at sunrise.

We can love without fear.

We can write.

We can try.

We can try again.

We can change careers.

We can take up the whole armrest.

We can get married at 50 (or not.)

We can insist on better.

We can sew bells in our slips.

We can shine.

“You are so amazing and unique– don’t ever forget it.”

2012 has been a year of challenges for me. Through all the beginnings, endings, uncertainties and challenges, however, there is one thing that has remained consistent- the voice inside my head telling me to write. And that voice has been echoed by my friends, my family and God. It’s a powerful chorus. Trust me on that one.

After trying a variety of strategies- avoidance, procrastination, letting their calls go to voice mail, etc.- I have finally decided to surrender. I will write. It is my passion. It is what makes me happy. It is the gift that God gave me. I have no idea where it will take me (if anywhere) or what it will teach me, but I am learning that there is something to be said for not knowing what the next chapter holds– in writing and in life.

I must admit that a great deal of my hesitation arises out of fear– fear that no one will read what I write, fear that everyone will read what I write, fear that people won’t like what I write, fear that people will judge me, fear that people will think I am acting as though I have things all figured out when the reality is just the opposite.

But fear is stupid when it stops you from pursuing what you know in your heart is meant for you- whether that be a blog, a person or a career. Definitely a lesson of 2012 for me.

And when I think about those fears, I also think about why I love to write. And I realize that it is because of those fears- not in spite of them- that I must pursue my dream to write with everything I have. When I read something and it describes a feeling or experience I have had but never shared with anyone for fear that no one else would “get it,” I can literally feel a weight lifted from my soul. Good writing is incredibly powerful in that sense. It is the first person that talks to you at a party where you don’t know anyone. It is the friend that holds your hand when you are sad or scared. It is a fear banisher. It is the magic phrase “me too” that makes your heart smile.

I was (and am) absolutely in love with the books of Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. I realize that many great books have been written since theirs. But I will always believe that these two women have done more to shape the lives of girls than anyone else short of their parents. I bonded with Ramona in our both having bossy older sisters (sorry Paige!). From Margaret of Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret I learned that I was not the only preteen who worried about having small boobs (but, unfortunately, I also learned that her “we must, we must, we must increase our busts” exercises were not the solution). From Blubber I learned that I wasn’t the only overweight kid to get bullied by her classmates. From Deenie I discovered that first kisses are not always magical like on television. And from Forever I learned… well, nothing, because my mother successfully confiscated every single copy of that book we ever got our hands on despite our creative and ever-changing hiding places. (No wonder I am such a disaster when it comes to matters of the heart.)

If I can write something and make someone have THAT feeling, then I have succeeded. So I will write. And I hope that you will read what I write and that there will be a sentence or a passage that will jump into your soul and shine light somewhere that has been dark for too long.