Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Forty

Okay. Forty .

Forty. That is approximately 14,624 days on this earth.

Forty things I love. My Monkeys. My Mom. The Pug. The Senile One. The Grumpy Lumpy Lucky Humperdink. Writing. The New York Times (especially the inky real edition). Pottery. The smell of a freshly printed book. Kale. Coffee with a shit ton of real cream. Lavender plants. Succulents potted in funky containers.  Letters from my dad. Scrapbooks. Peppery Cabernets. Tree pose. Pigeon Pose. Airplanes descending. My Mema. Cinnamon Girl. Feather Pillows. Mountains. Saltwater.  Sand between my toes. Scrunchy faced kisses. Real cotton. Ballet flats. Cowboy boots. Mirrored sunglasses. Nests. My pink piece o'shit bike. Forgiveness. Old campers. Sleeping bags. Hammocks. Flip flops. Six ounce running shoes. Figs.

Forty things I want to do. Be the light. Run a half marathon. Then, run a marathon. Travel 25K this year. Start a list of fourteeners. Take a cooking class from a chef friend. Get Lasik. Volunteer with a favorite charity. Make bread from scratch. Learn another language. Pay off debts. Take my monkeys to Europe. Teach my girl to drive a standard. Master chess. Plant my own garden. Buy more flowers. Get a nose ring. Get a tattoo. Beat the monkey up the incline. Watch the sun rise from Red Rocks. Put my toes in the sand. Be my own boss. Write the book that has been percolating on the back burner. Publish the book that has been percolating on the back burner. Forgive. Write more thank-you notes. Visit my Mema. Sleep more. Be authentic. Eat more sushi. Replace coffee with green tea. Be the last one to let go in a hug. Love harder. Laugh louder. Experience discomfort more. Speak my truth. Design a new blog/website. Sleep under the stars. Build a little free library. Learn something 'homey' like laying tile or running a snowblower or a lawnmower.

There. Forty. Forty things that I love and forty things for a bucket list. Let us never speak of this forty nonsense again.

XOXO, Peace and love and figs and 14,625 sunrises.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Marking Shoplifting Off of the Bucket List

Alright, Miss Karina.

I read your 'turning forty' blog, and I have written and re-written about forty responses about turning forty in three days.

None of them ring true. Some have little resemblances to the truth, or echoes of the truth, but they aren't authentic.

Truth. I am tired. I am forty years of exhausted. I have this sammich generation of heavy worries on my back. I fall asleep worrying, the weight of my world sitting firmly on my chest. I wake up with an incredible lightness, until all of the realities come crashing and crowding back down onto my chest, and I have to think about actually just breathing in and breathing out.  I am forty fucking years of exhausted. That bone-tired exhaustion where sleeping for days, waking up and not knowing what day of the week it is- that sounds aaah-mazing.

So forty years- forty years. Karina, I thought I would have it all together. If forty years has taught me anything, it has taught me that I can control my responses to the world, but I can control nothing in the world around me. If someone is sick, I cannot fix it or fix them. If someone is hurting, I cannot heal them or their hurts. If someone wants to heap all of their blames or hate onto me, I cannot stop them. All I can do is control my response, tuck in so that I am not hurt, and recognize the "serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

Forty years as of Thursday, and my big takeaway is recognizing the waves crashing around me, and that I can just dive into them and let them wash over me.

That being said, I am still thinking about my bucket list. I am always late, so I figure it is apropos if I just start working on my bucket list for forty. Early bird gets the worm? Who wants a fucking worm? I start my bucket list now.

First thing to mark off my bucket list?

Shoplifting. Besides that unfortunate and accidental time in 1983 when I took Industrial Sized Razor Blades from the Strike-It-Rich Grocery Store, I have never shoplifted. I have an outsize sense of right and wrong, and taking something that is not mine would never be an option. Until this....


Kinda hard to see, but see that adorable black flower headband perched on my noggin? Yep, that one. Totes shoplifted it. I was enjoying lunch with my bestie, when she started staring slightly above my eyes. She said in a stage whisper, "Don't Panic."

Anytime anyone says "Don't panic", I panic.

She is staring across our plate of olives and papitas bravas, slightly above my line of sight and to the right. I hear "Don't panic" and think one of two things. Either there is a huge frikking spider crawling across my head or there is a wild-eyed knife-wielding man standing over my shoulder. Either way, I have enough pent-up rage to take them both out. As I am preparing to ninja chop something, she again stage whispers.

"Did you pay for that?"

My hand goes up to where the spider was supposed to be crawling. Nope. No spider, just a cute handmade fair-trade rose. Which I totally yanked from the boutique next door, as we were birthday shopping.

Damnations.

We finish our birthday lunch, go back, and I say that I would like to pay for my headband. The (new) woman is confused. I am wearing it. Already. I have to explain, and rather than explain that I was so FRIKKING mentally exhausted that I accidentally stole said fair-trade headband, I just tell her that I have now successfully marked shoplifting off my Forty-Year-Old bucket list, and I need this headband.



Voila. Now, I work on my grownup bucket list, which hopefully includes a really long nap. I look forward to being friends when we pass the eighty year mark, Karina. And you can totally borrow my headband.

XOXOXO, Peace and love and naps and fair-trade headbands.