June 2013 archive

Hair and Compromise

Today I had to say goodbye to my hair dresser.

You laugh, but this is incredibly traumatic for any woman. Finding someone you trust with your hair is not an easy feat. When that someone decides to up and move, it can really throw a wrench in your life as a whole. It’s certainly making me question everything.

She and I were chatting today about how women, one in particular she knows, tend to go and do the things they want and need  only after they’ve gotten separated or divorced. “Now that I’m free, I can go visit my friends in Ohio. He never wanted to do that with me.” They lose the weight, get the hair cut, care about their clothes, go back to school, take that big trip, watch that chick flick. They go and do all the things they “couldn’t” do when they were married.
How much of this, together we posed the question, is actually just self-imposed? Was the ex-husband abusive, or did you feel like you couldn’t do the things you wanted/needed because you were in a relationship and that meant giving some things up? If you’d asked your husband, “Would you mind if I went back to school?” would he have said, “Yes, I mind?” I tend to think that most of the time, this sudden urge to go and do things for yourself after a break-up was there all along, but you were denying it because somewhere along the lines you got the message that being in a relationship meant that you stopped doing things for yourself.

Then I heard this quote:
“In a relationship with TRUE compromise, you NEVER feel as though you have betrayed yourself.” – Caroline Myss 

Bert-and-ErnieWe have this whole two-become-one thing when it comes to marriage. You know, like marriage means that you automatically give up your autonomy and individuality in order to become one person. One person with one set of interests, one set of standards, one set of expectations. But in all the relationships I’ve watched that really work, both people are completely separate. They have their own lives, goals, dreams. Sometimes they fight for different causes, sometimes they eat different dinners. Being a couple doesn’t hinge on always doing the same thing or agreeing with each other. It hinges on friendship, mutual respect, and above all else, being honest with who you are. Even Burt and Ernie had their own interests, though Ernie’s mostly revolved around baths.

I’m not sure where we decided that if we weren’t living the same dreams, enjoying the same extra-curricular activities, or even sleeping in the same bed that we weren’t a couple. I would never think to abandon a friendship if we disagreed on whether or not to potty-train our kids without underwear or who to vote for for president. Compromise means liking some parts of people, but realistically not all of them, and willingly giving up something that you know is more important to the other. But compromise doesn’t mean betraying your own needs. And if you partner is truly your partner, he or she wouldn’t want you to do that anyway.

Anyway, those were my final hairdresser deep thoughts today. With a final curl of my hair, we hugged goodbye. She gave me a recommendation, but truth be told I can’t even think about finding a new hairdresser right now. I’m too distraught about trying to explain to someone else that I want purple hair without first justifying my intelligence by bringing up all my fancy degrees. I didn’t even have to tell her how much to cut off today. She just knew.
(Sigh.)
After finding her, I’ll never compromise on my hair. I can promise you that.

 

Wild

c1f1290a83a203ac631868bccc90140dI’m finishing Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild. It’s her own tale of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, carrying everything she needed on her back, after losing her mother to cancer and her husband to divorce. It covers the days she pushed through, the days she gave up, the days she knew she needed to ask for help, the grooves permanently set in her shoulders from her backpack and her feet, never once healing completely while she hiked for three months. The way she writes makes me narrate my entire life in my head after I read a chapter. “It had been a long and arduous day with my two-year-old, trying to concentrate on choosing the appropriate light bulb for the lamp in the living room over his incessant whining. I laid my head down on the feathery pillow and let the sleep take over, starting at my toes…” It makes my daily trip to Target seem way more interesting.

I’m reading about the days that Cheryl literally had no other choice but to continue carrying her 50lb. pack through 100 degree heat because, if she didn’t keep moving, she wouldn’t make it to the next water spot. You know, water she would need to survive. It makes my daily struggles seem pretty lame. Like getting upset that I forgot to grab a water bottle from the fridge instead of the one off the counter so my water is lukewarm instead of cold for the drive to work. (What a life-changer.) She makes me want to hike the PCT. She makes me want to go on adventures in order to prove to myself what kind of woman I am. So, I decided to do it.

I walk almost everyday, and this past weekend I decided I would walk with a weight vest. Twenty pounds. (I know. Really “wild.”) I put it on over my white tank top and stuck my ear buds in my ears. I started walking my usual route, feeling incredibly strong, and after a short time I decided this was a bad idea. Sweating and uncomfortable, I plotted where I might leave the weight vest so it wouldn’t be stolen. I could just pick it up later. In my car.

And then I realized it was only 90 degrees, my weight vest was only 20 pounds, and I’d been doing this about 15 minutes. Erin. Seriously?? Come on.

So, I walked. I walked through the neigborhood and when I got back to my house, I kept walking. I even ran a little. I walked up and over the bridge and then back again. In all, I walked for over an hour. The straps from the weight vest dug into my shoulders, just like Cheryl, and my chest hurt from the weights. I was sweaty and dusty and disgusting, and I felt really proud. Just a quick little hour proving I could do something harder than what I usually do and I was filled with worth.

I’ve been trying to come up with things I don’t think I can do everyday since then, and then trying to do them. Even spending the entire today accomplishing next to nothing without making myself feel badly about it instead of trying to be superwoman. I gave some thought to the things I might do if I had a whole heap of self-worth all the time. What would you do if you were 100% worthy all of the time?

Would you take the vacation you really want to take?
Would you spend the day just reading a book?
Would you go after your dream job?
Would you tell that one person you love them (even though they have no idea)?
Would you finally make the choice to stop doing what makes you unhappy?
Would you share your most secretest secret with someone who deserves to know?
Would you write the book, save up for the car, or just buy the damned ring yourself?

What would you do or ask for if you already felt like you were worthy of the result?
Because I’m here to tell you, inherently, you are worth the result. Wildly worth it. Just the way you are right now.

 

Small Talk

I genuinely love people. Just in general, I love going places and talking to people and learning their stories. The part of this that is great is that I do very well in crowds or hoity-toity social functions. I can make small talk with just about anyone, and sometimes it turns into fascinating conversation. The part of this that is bad is that I can make small talk with just about anyone, and, once I do, I have a very difficult time finding an end-point without faking a seizure. I’m kidding, I’ve never faked a seizure. But an authentic compliment of someone’s pink ring in the shape of a flower can quickly and aimlessly turn into a conversation about gardening, which soil she uses, and how long it’s taken her tomatoes to ripen this year. Without warning I’m listening to a rundown of tomato varietals by region of the country, all the while digging my nails into the palm of my hand praying that I can draw enough blood to give me an excuse to seek medical attention…

Recently I’ve had pleasant conversations go wildly in the wrong direction that lead to me learning a young gentleman’s entire list of food allergies and intolerances (category: unnecessary information), another one’s experience with getting punched in the face by an abusive ex-girlfriend (category: massive over-sharing), and last but not least, the length of time a woman nursed as a child according to her mother’s memory (category: zero boundaries).
“Hey, Dave, I’d like you to meet Salina. She’s a teacher.”
“Hey, Salina.”
“Salina nursed until she was 4-years-old.”
“Oh. Wow. Good on ya, Salina.”

small-talk-ayres

The trick is as soon as the conversation changes from the original topic, the conversation must END. A friend must interrupt or a drink should be spilled. You must take a few steps in the opposite direction of the offending talker, or smile at an imaginary friend over the shoulder of the talker in an effort to begin the, “Oh, I’ll let you go,” ending. If neither of those work, try, “Hey, I need a drink really quick, can I get you one?” Usually you can find a way out if you get away from the conversation for long enough. Or, you could always go with, “Have you met my friend…” and then introduce the talker to someone you don’t like.

If you miss that key exit point, you are stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck for so long that someone’s voice easily turns into Charlie Brown’s mom, and by the time any part of the words come back in to focus, it’s always in the form of a vague question like, “Have you ever tried that?”
Now your choices are:
“You  know, I can’t remember if I have tried that…” Here, you pray that whatever the other person is talking about could be something you might not remember having tried.
“Wait, which one…like…which one have I tried?” This is pretty much a dead giveaway that you weren’t listening, but at least you’re trying to answer.
“Yes! Yes! Wait, what?” Sometimes this is just confusing enough to lead the other person to think that you’ve been listening but you just missed the last part.

I think small talk is an art, and while I don’t necessarily invite long and uncomfortable conversations, I do tend to prolong them by feigning interest for far too long. I do hope that this public service announcement of sorts prevents an uncomfortable bout of over-sharing or zero boundaries. And if it doesn’t, you can always go with faking a seizure.

My Real Person

Today, my son decided he was old enough to have conversations with me that were insightful and made sense. This, in turn, made me feel like I live with a person today instead of a clumsy tasmanian devil hopped up on sugar who repeats everything I say. While I know that come tomorrow he will likely revert back to a wrecking ball, I basked in everything about this day we spent together.

Here are a few of the things he said today that made me bite my hands with joy:

  • “Mommy. I needa use da potty and I needa get some privacies.”
  • “No, I don’t want cheese on my pasta, mom. I want cheese in my mouth.”
  • “Pee pee comes out of my penis and poo poo comes out of my bottom. Where does your poo poo come from, mom?”
  • “I’m gonna hold your shoulders, mom.” (This is when he grabbed my breasts…)

We had an entire conversation in the car about seat belts. I listened to him explain to Bella why she shouldn’t lick the potty. He told me an entire story about the book he was “reading.” Oh, and then he read me a book. And I died.

Then he took a beautiful series of pictures. Of his forehead.

IMG_4494 IMG_4493 IMG_4492 IMG_4491 IMG_4490

 

 

 

 

 

It was amazing. I saw a glimpse of who he really is as a person and what days might be like in this forth year of his life coming up. It gives me hope that, eventually, I’m going to really like him more often than simply tolerating him.

Packing up the car at the grocery store, I watched a woman load up her infant in an infant carrier and then attach it to the shopping cart. She looked tired but happy, smiling at her little bundle. I watched her push her baby all the way into the store while Abe chattered to me about an airplane flying by and how big it was. I felt a huge rush of gratitude wash over me for having survived infancy and almost all of toddlerhood with Abe, and for now having an almost-three-year-old who says funny stuff and tries everything at least once. Could I survive another infant? Sure, I can survive anything. But I am so much better at experiencing joyful moments with a near-person than an amoeba.

What I’m saying is, I’m pretty sure my kid is gifted and it has nothing to do with me.

 

A Minor Hypocrite

logo-faker-209x130I watched Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday on Sunday. I usually watch it every Sunday because they say stuff on that show that I think and am too afraid to say out loud. Just like on The Bachelor…

I’ve been doing a massive amount of work in the area of discovering what I actually want in recent months, and as it turns out, most of what I’ve done so far in my life has been for other people and not because I actually want to do it…doing things I thought would make other people comfortable, feel ok. Sure, I’d skirt the line by getting a tattoo on my wrist, but what I really wanted was a half sleeve on my lower arm.

So I watched Oprah interview India.Arie on Sunday. You know, the chick who sings about the fact that she isn’t her hair or her skin or your expectations… I wrote a blog about that song a long time ago, agreeing that I’m not defined by any one part of me, but that I sure do miss my boobs. And of course, Oprah asked her the same question I was thinking: When you wrote that song, or any of your songs about being ok with who you are at 25-years-old, did you really feel that? Did you really know what you were saying at that age?
I often feel like a faker. I write introspective blogs, blogs that comment (in roundabout ways) about becoming conscious of who you are, what you want, where your peace lies… And I often feel like a minor hypocrite for not living up to many of the ideals I write about. Unconditional love, that’s a challenge. Being honest with myself, a daily struggle. Just doing what I really want to do instead of what I think I should do everyday is really effing hard. And I know for certain that at 25 (which was almost 7 years ago, gulp) I was not content with my hair or my skin or my body. (Though I damn well should have been…)
But India.Arie’s answer surprised me. “I’m reaching for the affirmations that I write [about in my songs]. I might not be there in that moment that I write it, but I’m reaching.”

This is a “Holyshitballs, Ma” moment.

Just because I haven’t reached the level of clarity Eckhart Tolle has, or the level of vulnerability Brene Brown has, or the level of peace Marianne Williamson has, doesn’t mean I’ll stop studying these people and writing what I learn as an affirmation to myself (and to you). It doesn’t make me a big faker for not immediately remembering these people and their messages when I stress out over my two-year-old peeing in a bush or me somehow managing to lay my red lacy underwear out on my yoga mat in the middle of class. I stress out, I panic, I get anxiety and snap at people. I get mad and I throw tantrums on occasion (though not as many as Abe, most days). And, lately, I even cry sometimes…

What a relief.

I don’t have to be the poster-child for enlightenment just because I write about it. My blogs, like India’s songs, are my affirmations. They are what I strive for, what I’ve learned and what I share. And thankfully I can keep doing it, so long as I know that I’m authentically reaching for the purpose of the lessons I blog while simultaneously drinking a lovely bottle of 2010 Tempranillo.

You see, I think wine loosens me up and helps me really understand the purpose of my experiences. Just like on The Bachelor…

It Learns

Over the years, I’ve edited together my fair share of little home movies. Abe’s birthdays, family vacations, even moving from one apartment to another can be an incredibly meaningful experience when set to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I’m no professional, but I do get a great deal of joy out of it.

My job requires a never-ending string of new and interesting tasks (which is a big reason why I love it so much) so when my team asked me if I might be interested in editing together some short videos for internal use based on my home movie hobby, I had a panic attack and drank a beer.
The next morning, I started googling editing classes at our local community colleges. I’ve got professional editing software on my computer, but I assumed that I actually only understood how to use about 10% of it correctly. And when I was reminded how freaking expensive even a single community college course was, I took to Facebook. I asked around to see if anyone knew of any tutorials or Youtube videos with reputable teachers who could demonstrate the basics.

Screen shot 2013-06-19 at 7.25.27 PMIt was the first time in a long time that someone asked me if I could do something, and when I couldn’t, I set out to figure out how to do it (no matter what). I was directed by a friend to a website (lynda.com) with an endless supply of free tutorials and I stumbled upon an essentials course in Final Cut Pro X. I set up my “classroom” in our home office, complete with lined paper and a highlighter, and…I learned. Within an hour, I was reminded of something that I’d forgotten, and that is so, so important: I’m teachable.

I’ve completely relinquished what it feels like to learn and apply new knowledge in this way. It’s been almost 5 years since I completed my graduate degree, almost 6 years since I took an actual class. And, honestly, I was overwhelmingly intimidated by the idea of diving in and trying to learn this new skill. All my Perfection Gremlins and What-If Monsters threw a rave in my head:

What if I don’t understand anything the teacher is saying?
What if I try to learn something but then I never actually get it right?
What if it takes me like, seven months to edit together a simple 2-minute video because I’m such a slow learner?

What if I can’t do it perfectly? Or even well?
What if I die?
(This one might be only partially related.)

So once I started the class and the learning (and found out I actually could learn), it made me realize that it’s so very easy the older you get to rely on the knowledge you already have to navigate your way through life without ever actually trying to learn something new. It’s scary to learn something new; you might fail. As children and young adults, we’re allowed to make mistakes. People expect it. Heck, Abe’s English is so bad that I don’t even try to correct it (and anyone who knows me knows I silently correct everyone’s grammar all day). But do I judge him for trying and practicing all day long?! Heck no. When I forgot to clean up the dressing rooms and shut down the spotlight after the first show I directed out of college, did I get fired? No! I was sternly reminded, sure, but everyone expected that I’d make a few mistakes during my first go.

What happens when we grow up that we’re no longer allowed to make mistakes, learn, and grow?! Why can’t we continue trying new things and screwing up before we master something new? Unless it’s a pottery class at the Y or some benign new skill like hedging, we think embarking on a new path of learning just “isn’t done” past 30 or 40. Of course, when someone of a certain age goes back to school or switches careers, we trumpet to the heavens their courage and achievements. Though, I wonder if anyone was trumpeting while that same person was failing while trying to learn, mostly just that Sad Trombone sound.

Now that I’m back on the learning wagon, I’m going to learn all kinds of things. Don’t be surprised if you get a knit sweater or a set of potholders for the holidays this year. (Or a short but professionally edited video of me trying to knit you a sweater or make potholders…)

A “One-Time Thing”

Potty-training is starting to turn a corner in the Cohen house. Today was the first day that I left Abraham in Big Boy Undies all day long without a single accident. It was the first time he went out in public with Big Boy Undies (a huge risk, in case you don’t have kids, because it is assumed that the second you walk out in public with your “potty-trained” child, he will suddenly experience unstoppable diarrhea and you won’t have wipes, a change of clothes, or a place to clean him up). It was also the first time he used a public potty. Frankly, I was completely amazed by the fact that simply trusting Abe with the task of wearing Big Boy Undies would work.

So, after I took him to the potty post-dinner in a restaurant, we walked out to the car (well, Abe jumped) and I felt confident we could make it home without another potty pit-stop. I lifted my now way-too-big-to-lift-into-a-carseat child into his seat, buckled him in, and got his snack and his water and an iPad. A warm summer night on Jax Beach, we were a good 45 minutes away from home. I closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side door. Upon opening, I heard, “Mommy? I have to peepee again.”

This is when, as a mother, you begin to negotiate with yourself how important it is for your child to ever actually be potty-trained. Because unloading him and dragging him all the way back into the restaurant bathroom, getting him set up to peepee, re-dressing him, and re-washing his entire body in the sink (because he has to touch EVERY SINGLE PART of the toilet when he pees) sounds a lot less fun than just washing some underwear.

“Mommy? I said I have to peepee.”

Crap.

imagesI looked around. We were in a dirt parking lot, full of cars, and surrounded by woods. You know what? I thought. He’s a boy. Boys pee in the woods all the time.

“You know what, Abe? Let’s peepee in the bush.”
“In the bush?!”
“Yes. This is a one-time thing. Let’s peepee in the bush.”

I pulled him out of his buckled car seat and walked him to the front of the car. I didn’t close the car door in order to give him a shield of some privacy (or, “private seats” as he calls them). This will take 30 seconds, I thought. No one is going to see.

Ain’t life grand?

Not one second after I pulled Abe’s pants down, his sweet little darriere out in the hot Florida wind, a patron of the restaurant and his wife decided it was the perfect time to go home. I stood behind Abe, helping him aim, and I could hear them walking up behind the cars, chatting. I knew they were about to see my son, pants-down, peeing into the bushes, and me, the mom whose IDEA IT WAS. What’s worse? I heard them close my car door in order to get into their car. You know, for a front-row seat.

I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and look the people who were now undoubtedly staring at the mother who is so lazy she can’t even walk her son back inside to use a proper restroom. The mother who has bared her son’s little behind to the world, robbing him of his 2-year-old dignity, in order to save a few minutes of time and hassle. All I could think was they were probably sitting there in their front seat, 10 feet from us, shaking their heads and exchanging little comments like, “You never would have done that with our children,” and, “Generation Y always takes the easy way out.”

Finally, when I heard their car start, I pulled Abe’s drawers up and turned round just in time to watch them drive away. The woman peered back over her shoulder at me, though I can’t be sure whether she was smiling with understanding or grimacing with disapproval. I loaded Abe back up and we got on the road.

About halfway home, I got over it. You know what? I’m a single mom when Dave travels during weeks like this. And with a partner or not, I’m the mother of a two-year-old who I’m potty-training. If you don’t “get” that, if you don’t understand how difficult it is to eat dinner with a little boy cutting a molar and trying to remember not to poop in his pants, if you can’t see that the two silent bites of fish I ate were completely worth bringing out the iPad and showing Abe a movie, then maybe you’re a better parent than I am. But you know what? My kid is going to jump on the booth seat, he’s going to watch movies during dinner, and he’s going to pee in bushes. And I will not apologize to the folks in the front row for the Peepee Show. If it ever happens again, I will turn around and wave, and possibly give a thumbs up, when someone walks up on my instructing my son to pee in a bush.

Thumbs. Up.

Dad

I lost my dad when I was 7, so I honestly don’t remember ever celebrating Father’s Day. I don’t remember making Father’s Day cards or picking out ties. Nothing. When we got married and subsequently had Abe, Father’s Day was suddenly something I had to think about. I had a father-in-law and now my husband was a father. Fathers, fathers everywhere. And never enough ties.

1010313_10151980236874829_1932904846_nI framed a picture of my dad and me years ago, my favorite one ever, and I posted it as my profile picture on Facebook yesterday. Everyone who saw my little 3-year-old self in the picture remarked on how much Abe looks like me.  Which is weird, because I don’t look like anyone in my family. My mom and her entire clan are all blue-eyed, blonde-haired, possible-royalty from Ireland. I mean straight off the boat, bottle-up-your-feelings, drink a shot of Tullamore for breakfast while wearing an itchy sweater kind of Irish. I look like a little adopted girl they accepted into the family because it would be “cute to have a brown one.” I never realized how abnormal it is for me to look like no one in my mom’s family, and being raised by them, I never, ever heard growing up, “Oh, you look just like your mom.” People always just paused and waited for one of us to confirm we were related.

Then today, my half-sister posted a picture of me and my mom circa 1985 in my grandmother’s back yard. She noted that “Erin looks like 1010169_10151708493396031_46068358_nDad and Abe looks like Erin.”
Holy crap. Wow.
It hit me. Hard.
I do look like someone. I look just like someone.
My dad.

I have forgotten entirely what it feels like to look like someone, and when I read my sister’s words, my eyes got teary in the parking lot of Abe’s school waiting for camp to let out. I choked back an actual cry, partly afraid that Abe would see me, but also because I couldn’t quite place the feeling I was having. Sad that I don’t have him? Overjoyed that someone said I look like him? Mad that up until that moment I had forgotten what it felt like to look like someone?

Maybe frustrated that I never really even knew him and now have to deal with the loss all over as Father’s Day becomes relevant again?

Surely there’s a little bit of all of that mixed in together. I am a spitting image of my father and, without him here, I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to celebrate Father’s Day when I really want him here. And as it turns out, Father’s Day without a father gets weirder as you get older. But somehow seeing that picture of me from my half-sister was such a strengthening reminder that I do have a dad, and I look just like him. And that feels so awesome.

Because

I had a phone call with my therapist last night. She still lives in LA, and because she’s my favorite, she agreed to continue working with me from a distance almost 5 years ago.
She asked me last night, “Do you know that you’re allowed to make decisions based on what you want and your only justification can be ‘Because’?”
Because?!
“What do you mean?” I asked. Totally foreign concept to me. Did you know this?!
“You just get to decide what you want, and you get to decide because. If you’re making decisions based on your authentic wants and needs, then you’re allowed to,” she responded plainly. “And then, on top of that, you’re allowed to change your mind tomorrow.”
“Ha!”
I paused.
She wasn’t kidding.
“So you just make decisions based on what you want without worrying if someone else doesn’t like it?!” I asked.
She laughed. “Of course, I do! I can’t make choices based on how others feel about it! That wouldn’t be doing what I want!”

She went on to tell me that doing what’s truly right for me, what I know in my heart to be true, is actually a favor to the universe. She then told me about this guy, a German philosopher named Immanuel Kant, who basically did research to back up the fact that when you make an honest choice to do something, even if it hurts someone else, it is intrinsically good for the “whole,” or for everyone involved. While it may not seem good to the person who is upset about your decision, it is good for them. And they may choose to later learn that you making a choice that was best for you was, in fact, best for them. Or they may not.
Have you ever heard a story like, “Then I got fired,” or, “And then he broke up with me”? At the end of it, the person telling the story says, “In hindsight, it was the best thing that could have happened. I hated that job,” or, “…I knew he wasn’t right for me anyway, and now I’m with someone who truly appreciates me.” It’s that. And it happens all the time.

I slept on it, thinking there was no way that this could be right. I can’t just make choices because I want to make them! Can I? If someone challenges me with the whys, then I just say, “Because?” And that’s enough?

I decided to start pracitcing the Because Method today.

I skipped my reading and writing this morning and I slept in. Just because.
I left in the middle of the day to deliver my friend some groceries, just because.
I took an extra long shower and I did a short music video in my bathroom mirror to Kanye West. Just. Because.
Knowing that we already had plans to go to dinner tonight, my friend texted me to see if I wanted to get lunch, too.
Just because!?

Why not?!?!

So I met her for lunch and on my way in to the restaurant I had a craving for a bloody mary. But it was 12:30. Responsible women, moms, good people, don’t do that. They don’t just drink for no reason. Real test.
“I kinda want a bloody mary.”
“Me too!” she shrieked.
“Should we do it?!”
“Yeah. Maybe!” she said.
We paused. I told her about the Because Method. And when our Bloody Mary’s arrived, we cheersed. “To just because!”

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I basically did things all day just because. And no one died. No one even cared! Granted, there are plenty of choices I could make that really might hurt someone, and I have to be ready to take the hits as they come (or just duck). But I can do it now knowing that if I’m actually making the right choice for myself, it’s inherently going to be best for everyone involved. And what’s right for myself tonight is to go get my nails done and drink wine and eat out for the second time today.

Because.

 

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