Don't let the costumes fool you. They're very scary children.
True story: After L put on his Joker costume I had to chastise him for misbehaving. Defiantly and straight-faced he peeped at me through his mask and replied, "Why sooo serioussss?"
Yep.
Happy Halloween, tricks. ;)
Clearly I'm not one to be motivating anyone else to take this trek if I'm in need of taking it myself, but Mark Twain is. I think. I don't actually know if he's inspiring to you but this quote was like oh-so-fitting so let's just roll with it, ok? Ok! *brisk hand clap*
A lot of people had questions about how the "Do one thing every day that scares you for 30 days" challenge [which we will call Operation Eleanor and hashtag #OpEleanor] works so I thought I'd elaborate.
Here's the thing: there are no rules, no wrong or right ways of doing it so, basically, it's up to you to take the idea and run with it in your own big way.
The things that 'scare' you don't have to be huge things. They can be small moments like saying something to someone you when you would have normally held your tongue. It could be trying a new food you've always crinkled your nose at. It could be having a conversation or introducing yourself to that person you always see at Starbucks every morning. But you can conquer your bigger fears if you're so inclined. Flying? Skydiving? Snowboarding? Whatever.
These 30 things can be moments you consider very much random and blog-worthy or extremely personal and private. They can be serious, gut-wrenching moments or completely silly and irreverent or even better: a mix of the two. Most importantly, they don't need to be planned out. I have no idea what 30 things I will attempt to face in the month of November. Some will require some thought, yes. Others will find me by chance.
I know the mere idea of a whopping *30* things has got a few people shying away from the challenge. Here's the thing: this is YOUR thing. So, while 30 things is the challenge, even if you only overcome one fear, you've made progress. That's one thing you wouldn't have done before so you win.
Whether you decide to blog about it is completely up to you. Maybe it will be too personal, maybe you don't blog, maybe you will want every one of those 30 things accounted for on this here internet… Your call. You can blog as you go or when the month ends. If you do decide to tweet, Instagram, whatever, hashtag your accomplishments with #OpEleanor. Someone asked me about one of those linky-dinky-doo widgets on this blog so I can link everyone who is doing the challenge together. Yeah, let me figure that out. I'd love that.
I'm going to keep a composition notebook for daily notes and I hope to take photos whenever relevant and possible. I plan on coming back to you in the beginning of December and telling you as much I can — what I learned, what I did, what the experience taught me, whether I fell short of my goal, etc. and I'd love to hear what you're willing to share too.
For the next 30 days, "…throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor" as Twain said. Or if Twain isn't your style, this one may suite you better:
For me, this is so very true.
Let's take life by the balls, shall we? Look out, November.
Some anniversaries aren't meant to be celebrated yet you remember that day so vividly you see it returning in rapid speed and spend it in slow motion, unable to escape the emotion of it.
Veterans of broken marriages promised me it would be a year – a full year – until my life regained any semblance of normalcy again but I shook off the idea, pledging to myself that I wouldn't allow it to take another year from me. No, I would be the exception to this rule. I would find a new normal quicker than that.
Yet here I am. Already and just now. Exactly one year later from that fog of a day I remember so clearly. And there is nothing normal about my life. Everything is new with a touch of old, bittersweet and unexpected. The highs are euphoric and the lows are devastating. It's an uncomfortable mix of trying to learn from my past and give hope to my future and the whiplash from looking back and going forward is exhausting. It's unsettling mix of lonely and liberating, facing fears I always hid from and finding courage I didn't know I had.
I can't tell you how I got here; from that day to this one. I don't know how I survived a year of spinning circles without falling over. Because the truth is, I've fallen down a lot more than I've stood on my own two feet.
Thank god for good friends who continue to help me back on my feet.
There is no futuristic road map or emotional GPS for this sort of journey – that much I've learned. And for someone who always needs to know who, how, what and when, this has been quite a trip. Who knows where this road will take me. All I know is I just have to keep going.
As best as I can describe it, the day we found that rock on the beach came straight out of a chick-flick: a barefooted walk on the beach in the late afternoon, flip-flops in hand, flirtatiously threatening to throw each other into the waves. It was equal parts cheesy and perfection, this-can't-be-real and please-let-this-be-happening.
A wave retreated just long enough to reveal a lustrous speckled rock that looked nothing like the other smooth colorless stones we had tried to skip just moments earlier, laughing at our feeble attempts at childhood talents. It was shiny and translucent and glimmered more than the others. I couldn't help but pick it up and take in its charm. A rock was a rock but this clearly wasn't just any rock, this was a gem.
"I'm going to keep it," I said matter-of-factly.
Because when you find something that rare, well, that's what you do. You keep it. He laughed and shrugged, helping me rinse off the remaining sand that marred its beauty.
Whisked away in the silly grins of the afternoon, the rock went forgotten until later in the evening when we circled the kitchen counter, still beaming, sunkissed and wind-chapped. The rock! I laughed as I got it out and showed him. We both took a second look. The beautiful rock that shone like granite in the wet sand at the beach now looked dull and like, well, just any other ho-hum rock.
I frowned. How was that even possible? We joked about taking the rock out of its element and it being sad the way Orcas' fins fold over when they're removed from the wild. He quickly rescued the rock via a Solo cup, tap water and table salt as I giggled, suddenly 12 years old and starry-eyed again, watching the rock magically transform back into a gem.
The rock sat in its red Solo cup ocean for several weeks, peacefully, while we weathered our own tumultuous waves and storms. I had stumbled upon him a lot of the same ways I had the rock – unexpectedly and very much taken aback. I had been caught off-guard and found myself marveling over this lustrous gem amongst a sea of seemingly dull rocks. I had grabbed on immediately with the intent to keep him only to find he didn't look the same when removed from his element. I tried to find ways to make him glimmer and shine again only to discover that sometimes a rock is, in fact, just a rock.
In the end he was no gem and he certainly wasn't the guy in the chick-flick movie that ends Happily Ever After. He was just another rock amongst many rocks that I would eventually tip-toe, stumble or trip over. It was a lesson that you can't simply polish something so tarnished back into perfection that wasn't meant to shine the way you hoped it would. Who I thought he was had eroded quickly into a smattering of pebbles and disappointment. All I could do was let him go for someone else to find.
Aside from a splash of simulated salt water and a few specks of sand, the red Solo cup sat empty on the kitchen counter for a day or two, a memorial of heartbreak and lost promises; its emptiness loud with metaphor. I didn't want to let it go. I didn't want to let him go. But I couldn't hang on to just a few remaining grains of sand when what I needed was a rock.
If it's the thought that counts then I owe quite a few people apologies and others owe me restraining orders. I'm also in great shape on account of how often I 'think' about going back to yoga, will have a book published any day now based on the words swimming in my head and should have millions – if not billions – in my bank account with all my brilliant ideas come-to-fruition. (I should check my balances.)
The difficulty is in the discipline; going from thinking about the things I know I can do to actually doing them. There's certainly plenty of motivation: Yoga = amazing body? Yes, please. Published memoir = bucket list item complete? Huge sense of accomplishment. And so on. But when comes to focusing my efforts on making these things happen? Well, I'm the queen of imagining the happy ending without even beginning with Once Upon A Time…
So I'm challenging myself. Actually, Eleanor Roosevelt is challenging me to "Do one thing every day that scares you." For 30 days I'm going to see what happens when I bully myself into bravery and document the details to see what happens when I stop being imaginative and start making life happen.
Since 30 days has November, there is no better timing to take life by the balls. I'm pretty sure that's what Eleanor meant.
And you? What are you waiting for? I'm challenging you to do the same.
Ready. Set. Go.
Sometimes, when life hands you problems you just can't solve on your own, it's best you lean on your friends (where friends = Facebook and Twitter) to help you out.
This is a true story. Names have been censored to protect the innocent.
[click to enlarge image]
In the end, we all realized it doesn't matter whether the X = hug or kiss as long as Avitable is happy.
But really, what do you think? Which is the X and which the O? Yahoo, Wikipedia and Urban Dictionary couldn't agree. Bring it, Internet.
And there I sat, car still running, air conditioning blowing furiously, in the middle of the Trader Joe's parking lot, finally letting go of an idea that was apparently only destined to be that.
It was an awkward place to be sobbing the full-body, shoulder shaking cry but the tears relented, not caring who was second-glancing into my driver's side window as they push their rambling carts past.
The truth is, I couldn't be her. That girl. The one who waited. And he, well, I was foolish to trust he would ever be him – the one who did what none of the others ever have. Through trembling lips and a shaky voice I cursed myself for believing in the Hollywood ending when god knows experience has warned me about the dangers of having hope.
I shook my head, wiping away tears with a rogue Starbucks napkin lying on my dashboard. God, what I'd give to get those hundreds of footsteps back, emotionally embedded in the carpet as I paced on the phone telling inquiring minds how he was different. He was better. He was smarter. He was kinder. He was good for me. We were good for each other. It just… it just worked.
This would work, right?
But really, I was the idiot. I was the fool. I was just an option, not a priority for him. In the end, I wasn't enough.
It was the hardest thing I never wanted to do – to walk away when all I wanted was to grab on and make him love me the way I thought he could. The way I thought he would. The way I thought he might. But had he loved me the way I needed he would have never let me go.
Right? Isn't that what I'm supposed to tell myself? Right.
Yet here I sit, unable to get over my feelings of inadequacy and burn-out, my eyes tired, my heart wrung out, angry for being me – the girl who loves too hard, too fast, too blindly when I should know better by now.
Knowing when to say 'when' even when you don't want to… This used to be solid advice at the bar. You know: knowing when you've had enough – too much – stopping yourself before you went from happy to stupid to -worse- sad.
Funny thing: that same logic applies to other areas in life, none more relevant than relationships. Crazy how you can take that first initial sip and god! it tastes so. damn. good. and while you promised yourself the last time you would only sip 'the next time' suddenly you find yourself chugging, bellied up to the bar; a thirst for happiness that you know – in that small, logical part of your brain – cannot be quenched by this particular drink.
But by now, you're no longer logical. Logic was lost long ago. You're flat out drunk on the idea of This Time and god, the idea of What If tastes so. damn. good. and before you know it that happy little blissful buzz gets out of hand and you can no longer say 'when' even when the signs of Nothing Good are rapidly approaching.
No, there you sit, continuing to order more glasses of Trouble, watching in slow motion, fully aware in your love sick drunken haze that this is going to end horribly and yet you continue to go with it. Why love, lust, drunken optimism and foolish romanticism impairs our ability to stop ourselves from repeating the same mistakes, who knows. Perhaps the What If's are just too tempting.
Unfortunately the bar tab eventually arrives and it isn't cheap. You pay dearly for your indiscretions and overindulgences. And as if that weren't enough, the hangover that follows is an asshole of a reminder of You Knew Better.
You would think we would learn to say 'when' the next time we start to relinquish that control; the moment we see trouble coming our way. But damn, there's just something about having another shot that is so intoxicating.
I met her within a few days of her family moving into the house four doors down and across the street. It was socked-in foggy, typical for October in our town, the day I put one sneaker in front of the other and shyly introduced myself with a piqued curiosity at the idea of another girl my age on the street with no other children. We instantly adhered to each other – at first based on the childhood friendship rules of geography – and quickly thereafter because it was obvious we were meant to be friends.
Of all the things we had in common – and there were an uncanny number of them – our physical appearances were the most prevalent to strangers wherever we ventured. "Are you twins?" No. "Yeah right!" And we laughed. This was always funny to us in a way that it would never be funny to actual sisters. We even dabbled in dressing alike, dying our hair the same colors – every color – and driving our parents crazy as partners-in-crime, acting as each other's alibi, wingman, excuse and beggar when necessary.
Before the freedom of four wheels and the trouble of boys, we were inseparable and passed the time in this boring town with nothing to do by lying on the warm sidewalk singing Mariah Carey songs carelessly and out of tune, prank calling our classmates incessantly, trading in all our change and maybe even some of our parents' for candy at the Grocery Connection, scouring the neighborhood for trouble, ordering 12 CDs for 1 cent via mail and attending sleepovers arm-in-arm; never sleeping a wink. Over time, our friendship eroding the sidewalk between our houses with our constant back-and-forth.
High school wedged between us; she went her way and I went mine though never on bad terms, just different crowds – drill team versus newspaper staff, curly highlights versus pixie cuts – our lives never failing to intersect both in small hallways and at major crossroads.
It would be many years after school ended that we would find each other again and pick up where we left off, somewhat more grown up and yet still so similar: divorced, with sons, in the same town, the same neighborhood even, taking to the town at night only to have people ask if we were sisters. We'd laugh. No. They still didn't believe us.
Two weeks ago she got married, myself as the Maid of Honor. As I stood beside my oldest friend I couldn't help but think about how perfect it all was. It wasn't about the the venue, the outfits, the details… it was the moment. It was her. And it was him. Of course. But it was also me… getting to stand beside her, right where I was supposed to be 17 years – almost to the day – since we first met. Funny how things in life come back around.
Oh boys. Silly, silly boys. You and your scoring system when it comes to "the ladies."
Check her out – with that ass? She's a solid 9.
-or-
Daaaamn. With those teeth? A 3. Ouch.
You're so funny. Not because your little scoring system lacks class and substance but because you dumbasses fail to notice that us 'ladies' have a little scoring system of our own and you would probably be surprised to see where you (don't) rank.
Sure, we like a nice set of teeth. A muscular body. Gorgeous eyes? Yes please. These will all give you a point or two.
But…
Turn on the sense of humor,
show us your… intelligence,
prove you have a plan for yourself,
call "just because,"
let go of your pride,
be willing to make a fool of yourself on the dance floor,
resurrect chivalry,
surprise us with flowers when we're not the buy-me-flowers-kind-of-girl,
grab ahold of our hand in public,
show up unexpectedly,
give us our space,
keep our beer in your fridge,
know what you want,
ask when you aren't sure what we want,
make us a mixed CD,
compliment us when you don't think we can hear you,
pull us into the nook in the middle of the night without asking for more,
take us into the bedroom without saying a word,
make us feel like the only girl in the room when there are a hundred others,
let us catch you staring at us,
be cool with our friends and include us with yours,
give us a nickname that makes you blush,
make us feel sexy when we feel frumpy
…and you'll never be anything less than an 11 on our scale of 1-10.
