The Hour Glass Is Empty!!! Post #69

I returned home to Mobile around July 13, 2015 and began looking at everything in my world as 'in transition'. After all, Shanon would be coming home from seeing her dad and would begin her senior year, the last of my kids to be in school. Valentines Day 2016 held the promise of our secret wedding and then, though married, we would continue our separate lives until the girls graduated and over the summer of 2016 would begin joining two homes in two places and marry in October.

We were both ecstatic! Yet if we had listened to the

foreboding winds that chased us from behind and paid attention to the dark skies looming ahead, we would have realized that the sand in the hour-glass had just started falling. In an ironic sense, it was best that way because we would have lost the last bit of happiness and bliss we had looking forward to a future together. Perhaps our naivety was a gift!

But looking back, I'm not so sure Scott was naive, nor was I, had I listened to the winds howling out their warning. Scott asked me to open up a bank account in Mobile so that he could start putting cash into. I told him we would do that when he gets here. After all, the last thing I wanted him to think was that this was even remotely about 'money' for me. But he grew more impatient and even a little angry each day when he asked if I had done it and I told him 'No'. This was in late August. It was at that time that I began to worry that maybe things were not improving as he had hoped – health-wise. But he insisted that he was fine and then would again ask about the bank account.

He asked continuously what my hesitation was and I assured him we would do it when he came to visit because the money would be strictly for our future anyway. Yet he insisted that he wanted me to use it for whatever I needed. (I wouldn't have anyway! It would have been there when we got married!) I did worry a little about the reason for his insistence. Looking back, it was about that time that many of the things he said indicated more of taking care of things in the event of his departure from this world rather than joining our lives together.

Every couple of days, he would ask if we still had a date in Sedona on Valentines Day and I assured him we did. He would ask how 'we' are doing (something we agreed to do right from the beginning to ask “How are we doing” and discuss on a regular basis) and again, I assured him that 'we' were fine. He wasn't typically an insecure person but under the circumstances I wondered, “Was he afraid I would run?” And ya know what? Perhaps if he was not such a gentle spirit with an old fashioned – and may I say compatible - view on love, relationships and marriage, and if he didn't immediately impart to me his love of life and adventure and the prospect of sharing it with a life-long love, I can promise you I would have passed him by from the start. But as sick as he was, we had more fun, laughter and special times, and more heart-to-heart connection than I ever had with anyone! Every day was special! He gave me, in that year together, what I had been searching a lifetime for! There was no way I was walking. And I never did open that account.

On September 11, 2015, after stopping to grab a meal at Popeyes, Scott called me and told me what

he had eaten and that he was having stomach issues. For some reason, in my spirit, I knew his body could not handle this and that the dark clouds looming in the distance months back were now at hand. I began another prayer vigil as I had the previous spring, engaging others to pray on his behalf. But the clouds would not lift! That weekend, Scott was rushed to the hospital in a coma and never came out of it. The last grain of sand had fallen through the hour glass and Scott was free of his broken body.

Months of fighting, praying, hoping, miracles, engagement and celebrations, (basically living on adrenaline) suddenly came to a screeching halt as though I had just smashed into a brick wall. The silence was deafening and it made me feel as though I were in a surreal scene after a plane crash, wondering aimlessly not knowing what to do next or where to go. His funeral would not be for ten more days so during that time, I, like the rest of his family, had to go about my daily life as normal. I would go to work and conduct business as usual, going to job-sites and dealing with contractors and issues that seemed so minute, yet how could I even describe how unimportant this all was when I not only just lost my fiance, but my whole future that we had planned to spend together. And how could I convey the depth of my pain to anyone when the shell of my body was plowing through my work days as usual – and yet my mind and emotions were retreated somewhere within, as though I were doing a remote viewing of my world, or perhaps controlling the vehicle of my body from some distant location looking through 3-D glasses and using a joy stick to operate the mechanics of my own movements.

My office was on the 7^th floor of a downtown building and so many times I had looked out on the bright sunny days into the sky, and watching people on the street living their lives, with the knowledge that my life was about to expand with the one I love. But suddenly, no matter how bright the sun, all I could see was that suffocating gray cloud that hung like a thick fog over everything. I could not see where the streets led anymore, nor could I even direct a person to a parking spot on the phone from the 7^th floor like I had been so proficient at doing. There were no silhouettes dancing in this sky, only billowy figures that popped in and out of the haze, re-enacting, for me, the clues I should have paid attention to over the previous few months. I questioned everything. 'Did he die because he thought that since I didn't open the account I was going to bail on him?' 'Did he lose his motivation to recover because I was not there and he thought I wouldn't marry him?' 'If I was there, would I have been able to prevent this?' So many questions that did nothing more than bounce off the black clouds and reverberate back off the walls of my office bringing with them yet more questions.

Perhaps I would find the answers in Arizona while there for the funeral. And perhaps when I return home, this thick gray fog of nothingness would be gone, and I could just go skipping back into my life as though this were all nothing more than a wonderful, yet, tragic dream! But as I later found out, grief is that lump of coal in our Christmas stocking, the 'gift' that just keeps on giving, even when we don't want it.

Sweet Summer Solstice 2017 #68

                                                         Hello My Friend, My Sweet Summer Solstice,

Once again, you permeate the air
So soft and gentle
A warm summer breeze

Accompanied by the tropic summer rain
Promises of health and happiness
New lives are formed
Solstice is a reminder of another years' end
And a new one just beginning

My spirit tells me your best is yet to come

Brand new souls and children laughing
Grandparents playing, hearts overflowing
New traditions established, childhood memories created
Legacies left will be footprints followed

So, my Sweet Summer Friend,
The circle of life has once again swung
And as you continue this wonderful journey called life,
Remember, when trouble falls on those who follow,
They will always have your footprints to guide them and walk in when they're not sure that their own feet can carry them through.

Come summer, fall, winter and spring,
Until we meet again, my Sweet Summer Solstice.

Two Silhouettes Dancing! Post #67

             

Having a long-distance relationship, Scott and I often texted, Facebooked or emailed.  What I loved the most about our correspondence was the pureness of them.  I realize that many single people are talking through electronic mediums these days, something that often turns out to be less than respectful, or disillusioning, to say the least.  When Scott first approached me, I was skeptical.  Like an overzealous person carrying a gun, it is safe to say I was trigger happy, only my finger was aimed at the ‘delete’ button.  This was a new experience for me and, to be honest, it kind of freaked me out.   But reflecting over our messages, our last time together and the summer to follow, I realize more and more the gift that was given to both Scott and I.  It was truly magical!

            Our messages were full of enchanting pictures that reflected both our hearts and dreams for our lives together.  Scott started it and I was surprised to find out that he loved silhouettes as much as I do.  They are a blank slate that any of us can step into, often telling a story that we, ourselves write, in which we become the main characters.  There was so much we wanted to do together; travel the world, live in both Mobile and Phoenix, take ball room dancing, explore magical caves, trails, and mysterious places.   

Scott weighted about 128 in this picture!

   After he got out of the rehab center following his month-long coma, I flew back to Phoenix on June 23, 2015 to spend three weeks there to help him get re-acclimated.   Over the previous year, particularly in the last couple of months, his weight dropped from about 189 to 123 lbs.  I was shocked at how thin he had gotten since I had been there in April.  He was using a walker and had chronic dizzy spells.  Within days, he was gaining strength.  We had gotten him acupuncture and immediately the dizziness stopped.  Between naps, we ran errands, went grocery shopping and had our morning coffee on his side porch overlooking the desert.  We cooked healthy lunches and dinners and enjoyed that time together.  The second week, Scott often didn’t need his walker and we began – at his insistence – going out to parks and beautiful settings where we would spend time outdoors planning our future.

To his family’s surprise and shock, we pulled up to their Fourth of July barbecue with Scott behind the wheel.  They were elated at his progress and more so, the fact that he was even alive!  After lunch, Scott and I were sitting on the back patio when he proposed.  Without hesitation, I said ‘yes’.  His mom came out and we told her and she excitedly announced it to the family.  All of us were elated, though I could not help but to feel that we had cheated death and in the back of my mind, I was afraid this would be ripped out from under me.       

  That night on our way home, the moon was so huge and bright over the mountain that it resembled the moon in many of our silhouette pictures.  We pulled over, as Scott often did when he saw something beautiful, to take pictures and sat for nearly an hour mesmerized by its beauty!   

The next day, we went to the Hilton Point Resort, which is the equivalent of our Grand Hotel in Point Clear, Alabama, to stay for three nights.  We relaxed at the pools by day and in the evenings had dinner under the moon.   We talked and dreamed of what would be.

.  

The following week I had to return home.  Scott would be coming to see me in September, when he was strong enough to travel.  We were excited and continued to text, email, and Facebook pictures of our shared dreams and we spent long hours on the phone planning our future.  Scott had wanted to get married that fall.  I wanted to wait a year to get the girls through their senior years and not uproot either of them, but we planned a 'secret' wedding for Valentines day 2016 in Sedona.  In retrospect, I realize that while I was being practical, Scott had a keen sense of urgency because he had already met God once and was allowed to come back.  He knew, more than anyone, that our days are numbered and just because we think we have time, it does not mean that we do.

After The Waiting Place: New Beginnings Post #66

It’s been a while since I have written – particularly about Scott, and our journey through love and loss.  My last post about this was, I believe, “The Waiting Place”.  I hadn’t posted in the few months after because I was preparing for an amazing follow-up story.  And in many ways, it is amazing!

In the months of April and May 2015, Scott fell into a coma while suffering from a blood clot to the lungs, Pneumonia, and Valley Fever, all the result of  the astronomical amounts of various crippling antibiotics he was taking for a foot infection that started six months before.  The medication basically killed his immune systems ability to fight anything off.   In April, here in Mobile, we  had nearly two weeks of constant pouring rain, very dark skies and severe thunderstorms.  We were about 5 days into this when I arrived to work at 8 a.m. on a Monday morning.    Scott had been in the hospital for a week or two but we had been talking every day.  For some reason, I woke up feeling extremely apprehensive that morning.  The dark, stormy ride to work on what should have bright sunny morning just seemed to indicate that I was on the precipice of something unpleasant. 

Less than an hour after arriving to work, I received a call from Scotts mom telling me he took a turn for the worse, lapsed into a coma and may not make it through the day.  I went into a conference room for privacy and made plane reservations in the midst of crying hysterically.  I left work to go home to pack.  Having a few hours before time to leave, I took a short nap as I knew the trip ahead would be long and waiting period to leave home would be agony.  I wanted to sleep it off.  I also had to make fast arrangements for someone to come and stay with Shanon, which my niece, Jennifer, did.

My flight left around 2 p.m. and I arrived in Phoenix at around midnight our time and 10 p.m. Arizona time.  Scott was conscious again and we had hope.  He was thrilled  I was there and wouldn’t let go of my hand.  He kept touching my face as he often did and telling me he loved me.  The family suspected that the sleep medicine given the night before may have caused the crisis of the previous evening.  I opted to stay in the hospital for most of the night with him though I was exhausted.  I had asked the nurse to please not give him that medicine again.  But after a couple of hours, she felt it would help him rest better and insisted it was not what caused the downturn 24 hours before.  So I begged for only a half of the dosage and they agreed.  They gave him the medicine at 3:30 a.m. – which was actually 5:30 a.m. Mobile time – my time.  He seemed to have calmed down so I left and drove the 30 minutes to his sisters’ house to sleep.

I showered and went to bed at 4:45 a.m.   Forty five minutes later, Sheli (Scott’s sister) came in and told me he had gone into cardiac arrest and they were keeping him alive until we arrived.  We got back to the hospital at 6:30 a.m. expecting that he would pass that day, but he didn’t.  Yet he remained in a critical state with one crisis after another for the next week.  Doctor after doctor begged us to turn off support saying his death was imminent.   I stayed again that night until what I deemed ‘the witching hour’, (that time in the middle of the night that patients typically die or take a downturn)  which is 2:30 - 3:30 a.m.  I left and once again, crawled into bed at 4:30.  I was up by 10:30 and back to the hospital at noon.  Looking at his hands and feet, I noticed they were turning grey.  Since this is one of the things that happens just before death, I frantically motioned for the nurse while trying not to panic his daughter. 

The nurse explained that this was the side effect of the blood pressure medicine that cuts off circulation to the arms and legs to push blood flow to the heart.  Upon further questioning her, she confirmed my fears that this would lead to multiple amputations.  I begged her to get the doctors in there and find an alternative.  After all, Scott was a master builder!  He did the flooring in both the Campbell (Campbell soup family) and Wrigley (Wrigley gum) family mansions, among other big jobs.  I explained that he needed his hands to earn a living.  They seemed unmoved and were resigned that amputations were the norm and would ultimately happen if he were to survive, which they didn’t think he would anyway.  Then I pulled out my phone and showed them pics from of us on Valentines day, two months before.  They were shocked to see that this was the same person and were finally showing compassion.  They were now seeing Scott as a person.  A while later, the nurse came in and sat next to me and asked how we met.  I told her our story through a downpour of tears and by the time I finished, she was bawling and hugging me.   She promised she would take care of him.  I begged her to, at the very least, take that medicine to the lowest dosage possible to keep him alive so that his extremities would not be damaged.

I took a late afternoon break and slept, then came back four hours later to find Scott wearing gloves and socks with warmers.  His feet and hands were as pink as mine.  On top of that, they did exactly as I requested,  reducing the BP med dosages  to the lowest possible.

The infectious control doctor who had put Scott on the many strong and crippling antibiotics six months prior (and kept him on them) came to talk to me about convincing Scott's mom to turn off the life support.  Again, she told me he was trying to tell us he wanted to die and that we weren't listening to him.  I knew he didn’t. I told her that this was a decision between Scott and God – they would have a talk on ‘the other side’.  Then I made a deal with her.  “Start taking him off all of this medicine, one-by-one, and let him tell us.”   She agreed and, with Scotts mom’s permission, they began reducing the medicines.  On top of life support, he was on Nitric Oxide and all the staff said they had never seen anyone come off that alive. They agreed to decrease all meds, convinced he would die in the process.

I had the world of Facebook praying daily – many of whom were both our former classmates.  And each day after they began reducing the medication, Scott got a little better.  I was there for eleven days but when I left, I felt confident he would pull through this.  It was two weeks later when I got the call telling me Scott was awake.  Five days after that, they took the trach out and he was able to talk to me on the phone for short intervals.  By the end of May, they moved him to a transitional rehab unit where he would stay until June 22.  I had since resigned from my job and continued working a part time contract job that I had been working on the side.  I was able to work somewhat remotely and the company agreed to allow me work from Arizona for three weeks so the plan was for me to leave on June 23 and return July 15.

During the next three weeks, the sun shined brightly in Mobile and there was a sense of newness.  Life was springing up all around me.  The sound of the cicadas, the birds singing and wind blowing were more pleasant than I remembered.  The color of the sky and the flowers were so vibrant and the white sand on the beaches seemed so majestic.  The scent of sweet olives and ginger (or whatever blossoms in June) were so much sweeter than ever before.  There was hope in the air and I was looking forward to the future.

Lone Ranger Post # 65

The day we never believe will happen finally came.   When the kids are in diapers, or we are going from one activity to the next; with us (the parents) as their chauffeur and maid, it seems unending.   The past few years flew by in a whirlwind of being a band parent and theater mom.  Shan was in so many community plays and there was always a rehearsal, an intermission to cater - which she oversaw - or a show.  The house was full of music - Shanon's music.  Playing her instruments, singing, jazz music, and 1920-1940 era music.  It was a happy home and I had always wondered,    "What am I going to do when the music stops!"

     The music stopped on August 21 when I dropped her off a college in Staten Island.  During the two-day ride back to Alabama I kept checking my phone to see if she called or texted.  The many calls to her went to voice mail.  She had never not answered before!  Many thoughts went through my head.  'Doesn't she miss me?  Does she really not need me?  What if something happened to her?  Is she safe?'  As much as I hate to admit it, I was kind of disappointed that she adjusted so well.

 For the first time in my life, I live alone with the closest family member an hour away, the next one three hours and then 1200+ miles for the rest.  Walking into the house for the first time, knowing that my baby may never live at home again - barring vacations - was eerie.  Each room echoed with happy voices and songs of days from the not-too-distant past, and the imagined sounds ricocheted off the walls, hitting me when I least expected it in moments of loneliness and purposeless. Instruments played, voices sang, a theatrical scream would wake me out of a dead sleep - but only in my mind.

     The first month I was dazed and in shock, wondering aimlessly about and marveling that just one person (me) could be so high maintenance.  There were dishes to do, paperwork to be done, and floors to be swept; all things that for some reason I thought would go away when the kids grew up. There were still meals to be cooked, but only for one.

     But the hardest part, is sitting on my porch, hearing the afternoon band practice coming from the two local high schools, both just blocks from my house, one of which is Shanon's. On home-game nights,  the bands celebrate each touchdown and the halftime shows calibrate through the air and I distinctly remember sitting in the window of my apartment  across from the school - before buying this house - three years ago and wondering what I would do when Shanon was no longer among the kids coming and going to school.  And yet, once again in my life, only a curtain separates that day and now and if I pull it back I'll be there and by closing it, I'm here.

     One day, driving down the street feeling pretty much nothing but despair, I opened the console.  And what to my wondering eyes should appear?  Ten CD's in homemade covers.  Curious, I pulled one out and put it in the player.  The first song was, "The Stars Fell On Alabama", followed by "What a Wonderful World", then "Slow Boat to China", then "Summertime" by Billy Sundae, and so forth, all of which was Shan and my favorite music.  Ah!  Then I remembered her telling me she was going to make me some CD's for when I miss her.  It was at that moment the vale had lifted.  The music was back!  I began to re-engage in life and suddenly it occurred to me that, basically, I can do whatever I want now!  

   

Renovation 2014 - turning half into master closet & moving door to align with kitchen door.  2014

All those years of, "If I didn't have to worry about the kids I would do..." were gone and suddenly I was here!  No more excuses!  It is time to live and love life again.   First on my list was to create a beautiful outdoor space.   After some rearranging the back part of my house shortly after moving in, the back door was moved 6 foot to the right, which meant there were now steps that led to a wall and concrete blocks for steps at the back door, leading to a large patio.  From that back door to the yard, the patio was a barren space and I rarely used it.

Part of my patio before this project

So I decided to have a 12x12 deck built and the patio enclosed with a 4 foot lattice fence, an arbor doorway, and a decorative wall on one side to make it more like a courtyard.   The construction took two weeks to complete.

After - not finished decorating

     I'm in the middle of painting and staining the whole contraption.  Something I found out the hard way, when you see lattice, remember, somebody had to paint that stuff!  The construction was completed two weeks ago.   The man (Cecil) who did the work had approached me about doing it at cost because he knew I was anxious to have a beautiful space but financially it wouldn't have happened until next spring.  He had built a deck on another property for me and we had talked about it then.   As it turned out, he had recently learned he was sick and didn't have long to live and this was something he wanted to do before he died.  He  passed away one week ago (a week after finishing the project) from pancreatic cancer.

Looking out back door after pic

Loving my wall

Outdoor LR - not done yet

Wk in progress for dining area

New outdoor living area

View from back yard

Next is landscaping around fence

    Through the emotional roller coaster of yet, another fall season of loss and change, I have learned something.   Sometimes, when we feel dead inside, a simple gift can kick-start us back to life.  And a labor of love can be the gift that keeps on giving and sometimes the footprints we leave are like passing the torch of life on to someone else when we can no longer continue.  It was as though Cecil handed me his torch and said, "I won't be here much longer but you go and love your life!  Live it to the fullest!"    And that is just what I intend to do.

Little Girl - The Transition from Childhood to College Post # 64

My baby girl just turned 18 and is soon heading off to college 1200 miles away, in Staten Island.  She has been unusually moody, and may I say, a bit sassy.  But one thing I have learned, both professionally and personally, well into early adulthood, 'kids' often have a hard time expressing what is truly going on in their world, in their heads, and in their hearts.  But Shanon wrote this tonight and, for those who are facing the same transition accompanied by a slight change in personality, maybe this will shed some light.  It's a little lengthy but worth the read.

The Little Girl

I am a little girl.  I am a little girl trapped inside the body of an adult, with adult intelligence, adult control, adult responsibilities, and adult crushes. 

I am a little girl who likes rain.  The smell of it.  The way it looks in the sun.  Or in the midnight pitch black.  Lightly sprinkling down on me when I can count each drop as it hits my skin.  Or soaking me during my three second dash from the car to the front door.  I like the way it hits my windows and the way it looks as it travels down my windshield.  The ripples it makes falling into water.  The way it wakes me up gently and rocks me to sleep sixteen hours later.  The way that muddy puddles feel on my bare feet as I’m dancing across hot pavement during monsoon season.  The lazy days when I run through a downpour because I don’t feel like showering.  But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time for rain.  And when you’re an Adult who indulges in rain, your joy is lonely.  Adults know that rain is just that inconvenient thing that gets your hair wet on the way to work and makes your car act up. 

I am a little girl who likes mugs.  I have a collection.  New York City.  Puppy Dog.  Pretty Pink with “I love you” written on the bottom.  Snoopy.  Christmas colored paw prints.  “You asked for half a cuppa coffee” half mug.  “The only Superman I know is my dad.”  Each mug is a representation of something about me.  But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time for mugs. Adults know that mugs are just a frivolous excuse to spend money.  Adults use paper coffee cups.  Grab & Go & Throw it out.   

I am a little girl who likes flowers.  They’re the only thing that is sure to bring happiness into my

room.  I like the dark colors.  Violet daises, scarlet mums.  I like the contrast between them and the light pink roses and white daises in the bouquet set next to them.  I like looking at fields of flowers.  Single roses.  Wild flowers.  Paintings of flowers.  I like to get lost for hours daydreaming about sleeping in a field of flowers and planning my future garden that’ll run on for eternity.  I like to daydream about getting lost in that garden.  But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time for flowers.  Adults know that flowers are expensive.  Adults don’t get lost in gardens because Adults don’t want dirt under their nails and pollen in their nose.  Adults don’t dry dead bouquets, they throw them out with the coffee cups.  

I am a little girl who likes chick flicks.  I have seen The 27 Dresses twenty-seven times.  I know every word.  I’ve even watched it in French.  The leading man is dreamy.  I know now that a girl in love has super powers, such as jumping an incredible distance in heels from the pier to the ship that the love of your life is on, though it defies the laws of everything.  I also know that everyone has a soulmate out there who, of course, is going to coincidentally end up stalking them for a completely unrelated reason, which will lead to their life-long union.  But I’m an adult and adults don’t have time to watch their favorite movie twenty-seven times, maybe not even once.  Adults know that love is rarely magical. Adults know that, even when you do find love, it rarely falls into place as it should.  Adults don’t need a feel-good movie, because Adults have Adult control over their own emotions.  

I am a little girl who likes hands and feet.  I like to hold hands and play footsie.  I like to inspect each finger; each joint, each crease.  I like the soft part of the hand at the base of the thumb.  I like to rub it when I’m stressed out to remind myself that there is still part of me that is still soft even though I’ve had seven cups of coffee and the rest of me seems to be deteriorating from mental burden.  I like when someone’s toes can fold over mine and when someone can fit my fist in their fist.  I like to feel the edge of nails of the fingers entwined in mine and the nails of the toes I am battling.  Feet have never grossed me out.  I like to spend hours with these details.  But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time for footsie.  Adults don’t sit around and giggle because of hand holding.  Adults go on real dates, with real money.  Adults have held too many hands to understand that hands are magical.  Adults keep their shoes on because Adults know that feet are stinky and gross.

I am a little girl who likes exploring.  I go on adventures in my mind to places most only go to

online.  I bike through France to eat through Italy, straight into The Vatican, where I start my pilgrimage to Jerusalem, from where I hitch hike with a caravan of camels to India, so I can wash myself in the Ganges and am thus fit to climb the Alps, which lead me to Constantinople (because that’s more fun to say than Istanbul), but I have to flee suddenly and end up in Russia, where I take the Trans-Siberian railway back to the west, working my way from Scandinavia to Switzerland (where I will ultimately always return to because it’s just so peaceful), and then I head to Belgium

because I want truffles and waffles and Brussel sprouts and fancy lace to match the fancy red salsa dress I’ll buy while enjoying the architecture in Barcelona, but I leave Spain because all the bull fighting is making me nauseous, and I go to Andorra, which was a huge mistake because their national dish is pretty much meat medley and I can hardly stomach one type of meat, so I go to Lichtenstein and Luxembourg, hoping to meet a rich bachelor, but I speak English and I can’t make them fall in love with me in broken French, so I go to the UK and then Ireland to visit the Giant’s Causeway, which I’ve wanted to do since I first saw a picture of it when I was 7, and I take off from there on a canoe to travel through the Bermuda Triangle in hopes of seeing another dimension on my way to Canada, where I spend a year backpacking with my best friend, a mousse.  And that might not make any geographical sense but you don’t need a map when you are traveling via imagination.  But I’m an adult and Adults don’t have time to globetrot.  Adults have careers and bills and commitments.  Adults vacation, Adults don’t wander.  Adults take an itinerary, not a backpack.

I am a little girl who likes music.  I listen to old music and pretend I’m a teenage flapper who

blossoms into a graceful lady who swing dances in cupcake dresses.  I listen to symphonies and operas and dramatically act out the plot (which almost always involves a sword fight with a kitchen spoon).  I listen to Gershwin and pretend I am Mrs. Gershwin, because nobody else sounds as desirable as my George.  I listen to Broadway and I am that character, be it Lord Farquad, Mama Rose, or just a backwoods Barbie.  I listen to rock and I suddenly know the meaning of life – which is peace and protest and self-loathing and self-righteousness all pressed into one epic air-guitar solo on the kitchen counter.  But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time to give in to music.  Adults know that music does not change who you are.  Adults know that music is not an answer.  Adults know that there’s no point in pretending to be the star you aren’t.  

I am a little girl who likes food.  Carbs don’t matter.  Butter fixes everything.  Organic food is preferable so that the government cannot brain wash me from the inside out.  I like the simplicity of chocolate milk, I like dipping my chocolate graham crackers in chocolate, and I like finding new ways to accompany every meal with chocolate.  I like sparkling juice.  I pretend that I am drinking champagne, but I keep a mischievous smile on my face because, though I blend in with the fancy bubbly drinkers, I know my carbonated apple juice tastes much better.  I like the crunch of the burnt outside layer of a marshmallow.  I like that Lays barbeque chips don’t have MSG, allowing me to consume that heavenly flavor without any headache following.  I like that there are a million ways to change up salad and I like that dried fruit tastes like candy and I like that horseradish cheese makes grilled cheese even better than it already was.  I like to open the jar of pesto just to smell it.  I like the way peanut butter slowly runs down the sides of a Presley sandwich.  But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time for comfort food.  Adults know that calories CAN add up.  Adults know that you can’t make a real meal out of appetizers alone.  Adults know that, just because the chocolate is dark, doesn’t mean you can eat three bags a week.  

I am a little girl who likes the way a ball point pen feels in my hand when I write long passages late at

night.  I like my dog’s nose touching mine and her little body breathing next to me all night, making me so aware of how alive the world is when it’s quiet.  I like antiques, they’re always in style.  I like “Starry Night,” especially with Snoopy laying on his dog house edited into it.  I like the sparkle of Marilyn Monroe’s eyes (and the stars Frank Sinatra puts in mine) more than the sparkle in her diamonds.  I like the way my mother feeds off of my weirdness in the same way I feed off hers.  I like my teddy bear, Mr. Purple, who I used to think was sent by Jesus to watch me.  I like that I have sweeter dreams after listening to church choirs.  I like how my best friend never ceases to amaze me with her ability to juggle every responsibility imaginable and still be a nice person.  I like the foam on top of my coffee more than I like the actual coffee.  These are all things that make me very simplistically happy, because little girls can always find a way to be happy.  

But I’m an Adult.  I’m barely an Adult but I already know that time flies.  And now that I’m technically an Adult, I am living in fear.  Fear for the day that the rain is just an annoyance seeping into my new leather business shoes.  Fear for the day that I start to drink my coffee in disposable cups even though I made it at home.  Fear for the day I don’t stop and smell the roses.  Fear for the day that The 27 Dresses starts to skip and I don’t replace it.  Fear for the day that I have finally memorized all the lines and all the veins and all the joints in my loved ones’ hands and the shapes of their toes.  Fear for the day that I move to New York City and the world begins to absorb me rather than me absorbing it.  Fear for the day that Ella Fitzgerald doesn’t bring tears to my eyes and Stevie Wonder doesn’t bring movement to my feet and I wonder if music was the right career choice.  Fear for the day I decide to go on a diet because I’m a freaking size six.  Fear for the day that I am not once stopped by a simple action or object or thought that I suddenly realize is much more amazing than I ever gave it credit for being.  Being an “Adult” is scary.  

But, when I’m a little girl, I am fearless (except for the fact that there are definitely monsters under my bed AND in my closet).  So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay this way a while more.  Or maybe forever. I’ll be the youngest person ever to live for an entire century.  

I know that, when you’re eighteen, you’re expected to shape up.  But the fact is that I can only mature in so many ways in such a small amount of time.  Sometimes my emotions just aren’t there yet.  And sometimes you just have to believe I am trying my best to be my best.  And sometimes you just have to be okay with the fact that that best is still a little girl sometimes.