Facing the "What Ifs'

I looked at my first property before I actually moved the date of my retirement up a year.  It was Labor Day weekend and I was staying with my friends, Tom & Mary, in their old farmhouse that happened to be almost across the street from my brother’s group home. It was kind of a lark. Mary had mentioned that the house next door to them –which really WAS across the street from my brother’s home – was having an open house that Sunday, and suggested that we just walk over and take a look. Why not? I was game so we ambled over cross lots at the appointed hour and saw the house. My fantasies began. Wouldn’t it be cool to live next door to them and across the street from my brother?? Would it be foolish to buy that house even though I wasn’t planning to retire for another year and nine months? The house had some very positive aspects – mostly its location – but several negative ones. It was way overpriced, it needed a lot of work, and it smelled like a litter box.   I ended up going back two more times before I reluctantly moved my attention to other properties.

Meanwhile, Mary was playing devil’s advocate. Although excited at the possibility of my relocation to Batavia, she cautioned against impulsivity and wondered where I saw myself in five or ten years. Could I really see myself leaving New York City? And what about my daughter? How would I feel about moving away from her?

I rarely do anything without thinking about every possible angle and examining what my gut and brain are feeling and thinking. Usually when contemplating any big change, I start by spending a few days living as if I have made up my mind already and see how that feels. Does it “fit” or does it feel “not quite right”? That approach has worked for me again and again. I responded to her queries.

The five and ten year plans were primarily about retirement. I had met with a representative from my retirement plan at work during the previous winter. She had asked me what I wanted out of retirement. As I listed for her the things I wanted  – to dance, write, play my guitar, make jewelry, read, see movies – I realized that it all came down to time. What I wanted from retirement was time to do the things that made me happy.  I had already thought about the possibility of moving away from NYC due to the expense involved in living there.  Although I loved the city and had taken advantage of its cultural opportunities, I knew that if there was something I really wanted to do or see there, I could always visit. Although I had met a great many people over my 30 years there, there were relatively few with whom I was very close. Those people would always be in my life, wherever I ended up. The rest were acquaintances. I am philosophical about the nature of relationships, having long embraced a piece by Jean Dominique Martin which talks about people coming into one’s life for a ‘reason, a season, or a lifetime.’

  

I also don’t believe that any change of lifestyle has to be forever. The best you can do is make decisions based on here and now and the foreseeable future (which isn’t that far ahead)  – and know that down the road, for whatever reason – there might be a different here and now that necessitates further change.

My daughter was (and is) busy leading her own life, working crazy hours, with lots of weekends. Recently married, when she did have free time, which wasn’t often, naturally she wanted to spend it with her new husband. We often go weeks without seeing each other, although we text each other most days. I suspected that having a grandchild was not in my future so there would be no reason to stay close by to help with a baby. 

The plus side to relocating was being closer to my brother and better able to monitor his living situation in addition to already knowing many people in the area.  Wouldn’t it be nice to have a yard and a garden? Wouldn’t it be nice to not worry about making noise that bothered upstairs, downstairs, or sideways neighbors? Wouldn’t it be nice to be free of co-op rules that prohibited grills on balconies, wreaths on doors, or doing anything to attract birds? Wouldn’t it be nice to have a second or third bedroom for house guests? 

Were there negatives? A few. Chief among them were snow and super long winters, filled with gloomy days. I was very aware of how depressed my mom used to get from day after day of cold and gray.  But there were options there too – like leaving town for the worst of it. Florida. Arizona. Or there were lamps that simulate daylight. I could stock up on them. 

What if something happened to my brother? Would I regret having moved under that circumstance? The reality is that someday, something WILL happen to my brother. I just hope that he doesn’t outlive me. If I were unable to reimagine my life here without him, well, there are other places I could relocate. I did not see that eventuality as a deterrent.  Life is fluid.

I also recognized that it was a very real possibility that my own health could suffer as I got older. I determined that were I to get to the point health-wise where my daughter was stressed by having me across the state, I would willingly go wherever it made her life easier. I would not want her to feel tortured by my needs, made worse by a distance of almost 400 miles. 

As Mary and I talked all of these considerations over, the “rightness” of the relocation plan emerged, along with a commitment to make it happen on an accelerated schedule.

Retirement Journey

Life got in my way. I look at my blog and cannot believe that my last entry was in January of 2015. My entries had been sporadic at best for a couple of years. That was because I had landed in a place where the thoughts that were front and center were such that, I knew if I wrote about them -- wrote my truth, that I risked alienating people in ways I sensed I would regret. A writing coach might have egged me on but I wasn't ready to go there.

There was also a lot going on in my life with elderly relatives who needed my time and attention. That's a subject for another entry. 

In May of that year, I turned 62. Although I had not anticipated that this particular birthday would have any impact on my internal state, it did in a very big way. Suddenly, I had options relative to the workplace. 

I. could. retire. 

The recognition of that was riveting.  My job in a university, as director of a department that was integral to the functioning of that school, was very, very stressful. While there were elements of the job that I very much enjoyed and many people with whom I worked that I valued, increasingly I felt just plain worn out.

There were many external factors at play -- the withering of needed resources as a result of the economic climate, increased competition from at least a dozen other schools vying for those limited resources, the constant demand to produce more with less and years of walking on eggshells with someone at the top that had demoralized me in ways were not healing. 

I felt in a constant state of agitation. I had stopped answering my office phone because I desperately needed to insert time and space between myself and those on the other end who were always demanding something from me. I had begun to look at everyone who walked into my office with a battle-ready wariness, expecting to be accosted and dumped on. A particularly horrifying painting from junior high art class kept coming to mind – The Flaying of Marsyas by Titan.  I felt like I was being flayed… that people were picking away at me a little at a time.    

Previous to turning 62, I had planned, kinda, sorta, to retire in the summer of 2017. My second-in-command, who had been by my side for 15 years there, and for 6 years in a previous job, and I dreamed about exiting at the same time -- neither of us wanted to imagine life there without the other. I soldiered on. Two years to go and we would jump ship together.

A series of life-altering events transpired during that summer with the afore-mentioned elderly relatives. And summer is traditionally a very, very busy and stressful time in my workplace. Preparation for the upcoming academic year typically requires very long days and nights (not to mention weekends) and generates significant anxiety and sudden deluges of tears. There is too much to do and too little time in which to do it, even when one is efficient and competent.  The calendar is a relentless task-master. September is coming. Students are returning. We must be ready.  

One particular week, returning from a weekend of attending to my relatives’ needs, feeling like the air was being squeezed out of me by invisible hands circling my throat, I had a realization. It was:

I don’t have it “in me” to do this more than one more time. 

Could I possibly engineer an earlier exit? My mind spun in its characteristic way with a new idea. Money would be the biggest issue. I had quite a bit saved for retirement, but I also had a co-op with 13 more years of a hefty mortgage and monthly maintenance fees that were about to be higher than the mortgage. And like many co-ops, the board was threatening a series of capital improvements that would require extra assessments for owners. On a fixed income, that could be catastrophic.

So for the first time since I had moved there in 1984, I contemplated leaving my beloved NYC.  After considering and rejecting several options, my swirling brain landed on moving back home to the small town where I grew up. Previously, going back had been less likely than, oh – say, my becoming a brain surgeon or rock star. But my perspective about the place had slowly been undergoing a change. “Home” was no longer the stifling prison without possibilities I had fled. Now, I could imagine living there and being content. 

Moving home would also eliminate another huge stressor by rendering unnecessary the twice-monthly trips I was making to care for my brother, David. For ten years, since our mother died, I had been on the road at 2:30 a.m. on alternate Saturdays, arriving in Batavia in time to pick up my brother for breakfast. And then, without skipping a beat (or taking a nap), we would go on about our day -- running errands, going bowling, seeing movies, eating out, doing things for our aunt/uncle. I would collapse late that night, sleep like the dead, and get up on Sunday to take him out for breakfast again and another round of activities, before driving back to New York City late in the afternoon. I was exhausted. I had so many close calls drifting off on the road that I am convinced I am alive today only because my mother in heaven whispered WAKE UP in my ear a dozen times every trip.

I started stalking realtor.com. 

Stay tuned for more of the journey.

To tell the truth

I’m crazy about this dude.  Anyone who knows me would tell you that. However, crazy aside, I also admit to periodically wanting to throttle him, as did our poor mom after another one of my brother’s escapades.  With David, it is not a matter of ‘if’ there will be another escapade, it is a matter of ‘when.’  

In his favor, my brother is sweet, funny, curious, active, talented, and he is remarkably resourceful. Credit the television- double edged sword that it is – for that ability.  On the minus side, he believes reality is what he says it is and that what is ‘right’ is what he wants.   When something is amiss (or goes missing), fair or not, the first thing I think of is what David might have had to do with it.  His reputation is not undeserved.

So when I arrive at his group home to pick him up for dinner on Friday night, and one of the staff says, “I need to talk to you about David,” my insides go flip-flop.  Nothing good ever follows this kind of greeting.  She continues. “David presented a $50 Visa gift card for his lunch at workshop today.” Flip-flop. “We wondered if you knew he had it.” This is an issue because gift cards and cash exceeding a certain amount are supposed to be kept locked in the office for safekeeping.  She goes on to tell me that she had tried to get him to give it to her to lock away. He had gotten agitated and refused. “Is mine,” he told her. 

My mind whirls. My brother and I have a routine. When he gets cash or gift cards, usually to Walmart or Target, for a birthday or Christmas, he immediately hands them over to me. “Here, boss,” he jokes with me, willingly surrendering his loot.  I keep his gifts in a special pocket of my wallet for when we’re out shopping or having fun on vacation.  I purposefully don’t leave them in the care of his group home staff because then we lose our ability to be spontaneous.      

There is no way in hell that I have overlooked his receipt of a $50 gift card.  However, this incoming information has potentially solved a mystery that I’ve been pondering for a few weeks.  I believe that this gift card is the same one that I had seen on the office desk of our elderly aunt and uncle who moved from their farm home to assisted living in October.  I still stay at the farm when I’m in town and I’ve spent quite a bit of time in that office looking for various records.  During one of my searches, I had noted the presence of a $50 Visa gift card on top of a pile of old calendars and sticky notes.  I remember wondering briefly whether they would ever get to spend it and then I forgot about it.  That is, until a few weeks later, when I was in the office looking for something, and noticed that the gift card was missing.  I looked around some more, and when I still didn’t see it, I wondered whether I’d imagined its existence.

I did think about my brother when I noticed it wasn’t there. Experience has taught me that behind many missing items stands David. I had had my brother with me at the house a few times in the fall, so there had been opportunity. He had been in the office with me, too, looking at my uncle’s extensive hat collection that adorns the walls. But no – I decided. David is primarily interested in their DVD and video collection, and most of the time when we are there, he is closely investigating all their movies. On occasion when he has especially coveted one of them, I have let him borrow it to watch at home. He always has these borrowed objects in a small pile, ready to return the next time I come. So I let him off the hook on the gift card. 

I had just about talked myself into believing that I had made up the card’s existence, when the fact that my brother had flashed a Visa gift card to buy his lunch that day was brought to my attention.  This did not make me very happy. I was going to have to deal with this. My brother, when confronted with wrong-doing, can become belligerent.  He also lies when he’s afraid he’s in trouble.  Recall that reality is what he says it is. I really did not want to start my time with him on a negative note.

“OK,” I say, “I’ll get to the bottom of it.” I walk down the short hall to his room. Happy to see each other, we wrap ourselves in a big bear hug. I ask him if he is hungry and whether he is ready for a great dinner out. We make about 30 more seconds of small talk, and I can wait no longer. “What’s this I hear, Dave, about you having a $50 Visa gift card today at workshop?” 

His eyes dart side to side. I brace myself for a lie. “Yes,” he says, setting his jaw in that determined way I know so well. “Is MY Visa card.” 

 “It can’t be yours,” I say.  

“I buy my lunch,” says he. 

“I know you bought your lunch. Where. did. you. get. the. gift. card?”  I lean into him and put my face very close to his. “David,” I say quietly, gazing directly into his little blue eyes. “Tell me the truth, please. Don’t lie.” 

He does a reasonable imitation of a teenager’s tooth suck, and hesitates. Finally, he says, “My aunt’s house.”

I refrain from shouting BINGO. “You took the Visa gift card from Aunt B’s house?”

He scowls, then stammers, “I…  I borrow it.” 

I want to laugh. “David,” I say, “You can’t borrow somebody’s gift card. Once you spend it, it’s gone, there’s nothing to give back. It’s not like borrowing a DVD.”  

“Oh man,” he says, rolling his eyes, looking pained.  “Want the gift card.”  

I look at my watch. We have to leave now to be on time for our dinner reservation. “We’ll talk more later,” I say, “but for now let’s head to the restaurant so we aren’t late for dinner.”  

In the car, my brother is quiet. I am stunned into silence by this unexpected truth-telling.  After a moment, he says, “OK. I give the card to you. Is not mine. Is my aunt’s.” 

This is actually a fairly momentous occasion. My brother has not lied to me. He has given himself up without a standoff. I need to acknowledge this.  I look over at him. “I have to tell you David, how proud and happy I am that you told me the truth about the gift card. That was very brave of you.” 

“You happy?” he asks. I repeat not only how happy I am, but add for good measure, “Mom would be very happy, too.”  

Then I ask him if there was something in particular that he wanted to buy with the gift card. I don’t know whether he’s wanting something he thinks I won’t get him, or if it feels “grown-up” to have a Visa card in his wallet, or what’s going on in that creative brain of his. He takes a stab, “My dvds,” he says. This makes no sense. This guy just got about 20 new dvds for Christmas plus it’s a rare weekend when I’m there that I don’t buy him one. He is in no way deprived.  I remind him all of this. 

Then I say, “You know, you have to pay for gift cards…. it’s not like free money, David.” 

Pause. “I didn’t know that,” he says. 

“Look, if you really want to have a Visa gift card, when we go on vacation, we’ll turn some of your money from the bank into a gift card and you can use it when you buy souvenirs and stuff…. how would that be?”

He smiles at me. “That be fine,” he says.  And pats my arm.  

Year of the Movie Star

My brother starts thinking about Halloween almost as soon as we return from our annual July vacation. For him, it’s the next important activity on the calendar. He manages to wait until Labor Day though before he starts talking about costume shopping.

In recent years, he’s been Uncle Sam, an Indian chief, a policeman, a cowboy (sheriff), Captain America, the Lone Ranger, and King Tut.  It’s very serious business. He gets totally into whatever character he is playing, and is often most interested in the paraphernalia that accompanies the costume. Badges, tomahawks, guns, shields, handcuffs…..and hats…. hats are usually crucial to the look.

After I spent inordinate amounts of time & energy sewing Uncle Sam and the Indian chief, I determined that almost any amount of money was worth avoiding late night sew-a-thons and nation-wide ebay searches for red & white striped fabric.  Now we make an annual trip to the seasonal Halloween store that appears every September in a nearby city.

It’s crucial that we go earlier than later in the season on this shopping trip to avoid running all over creation seeking his costume choice in something smaller than XL. That’s because he’s pint sized. All costumes have to be altered. But when it’s XL to begin with, it has to be practically remade.  

So Saturday is the designated shopping day. As we walk from the car to the store, I remind him of all the [expensive] costumes he has at home and maybe he’d like to consider re-wearing one of them sometime.  He listens patiently as I recite the list of costumes worn one season, then packed away.    “No,” he says decisively, “maybe a new one.”  OK.

Once inside, the first order of business is to make the rounds to all the elaborate scary decorations set up and wired for sound/activity – zombies leaping from tombstones, two-headed babies, beings with bulging eyes gnawing on bloody body parts. We dutifully press all the “press me” buttons and step on the “step on me” wires on the floor that awaken all these creatures. This activity properly puts us in the Halloween mood.

Then we go up and down every aisle to identify costume candidates.  Right away, Dave sees a powder blue “outfit” from a Dumb and Dumber movie. I know this only because it says that on the package. I point out that neither he nor I know this movie OR the character so we shouldn’t even consider it.  He puts it back. I point out Spiderman, Superman, The Incredible Hulk, all costumes I think would please him ….. he ignores me and beelines to a Mad Hatter outfit.  He wants to know what comes with it, so I read the list of contents and point to them on the photo.   He seems mildly interested. Patiently I follow him from display to display. He picks up a haunted scarecrow outfit.  We review the package ingredients. I offer my unsolicited opinion  - “That’s cool Dave. You’d look spooky in that.” He opts to carry it with him.

He spies a black t-shirt with a white tuxedo/skeleton design on it. “I like dat, “ he tells me. “Yes, it’s neat,” I say. “But we’d have to put an outfit together around it.” It did not come in a package filled with other items. I note that the tag says “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and start looking for similarly tagged items.  I don’t know this movie so I’m disadvantaged. There’s a big white pumpkin head with the same label. Some gloves. This might work.  “Nah,” he says, distracted by a hat/mask he’s found on a shelf that looks like an armored knight might wear. “This cool,” he says. “OK,” I agree, “let’s find an outfit that it might work with.”  I go off in search of knight-like outfits. He vetoes the two I find.  

“How about we circle back and look at everything a second time, Dave,” I suggest as we reach the back of the store. He likes this idea a lot.  I remind myself to be patient – or at least to feign patience.  I would not like it if someone were hurrying me when I’m anguishing over which pair of jeans I like best.   I ask him if he remembers any costume that he might like to see again. “The one with the hat,” he says.    I find the mad hatter who joins the phantom scarecrow as a contender.  We pass Spiderman again. Bat Man.  A Power Ranger.  A pirate.  I show him an army ranger, a sailor in a sailor suit. I cannot imagine why Mr. Patriotic isn’t embracing either of these.  

“The other one with the hat,” my brother says suddenly. Which other one with the hat, I think? The knight hat?  He says it with such vehemence that I know he has something particular in mind. I usually lose at guessing games, so I steer him back to the beginning of the store . “Let’s start over and find what you’re thinking about,” I say.

Two aisles into the second round, he darts forward and grabs a package. “Dis one,” he says. It’s the powder blue Dumb and Dumber outfit. “Really?” I ask. I’m still stuck on we’ve never seen this movie and we don’t know this dude in powder blue.  My brother quietly says, “I be a movie star.”  A movie star.  OK. We examine the contents list. “The hat?” he asks. “Yes,” I assure him, “it comes with the hat.”

We look a little longer but he has obviously made his decision. We put back the Mad Hatter and the scarecrow and go to pay for the powder blue get-up.  “You’re sure?” I prod before we approach the counter.  David is smiling widely. He’s sure. The young man behind the counter says, “Oh, I can’t wait for the new one to come out.”  I admit that I didn’t know one was coming out, don’t know anything about the first one and “neither does he,” I say, pointing to my brother.  “He thinks he’s going to be a movie star.”

We stop at my aunt’s to try on the costume so I can pin the pants and the sleeves of the jacket in order to alter them – and so she can see it.   He wants to try on the whole thing so I help him with the frilly tuxedo shirt, the cummerbund. “The hat?” he says worriedly. “Yes, there’s a hat here. Don’t worry.”  I take it out of the package, pop it back to life, and place it ceremoniously on his head.  I look at my aunt. “He looks like a pimp,” I say.  But my brother is beaming.  I think he’s actually blushing. “Me a movie star,” he proclaims, striking a pose. My heart, understanding his fantasy, starts to smile.  He says it again, a little more sure of himself   – “I am a movie star.”  He wiggles his eyebrows and makes an exaggerated motion with an invisible cigar that would do Groucho Marx proud.

I make a mental note to find him a fake cigar.  A star may be born. 

Love Comes Full Circle

In a few short hours, my beautiful daughter Julie will marry the love of her life in St Lucia. I wish I could be by her side, to help her into her dress, fasten her necklace, tell her how stunning she looks, hold her close, and then walk proudly with her to Frank, the man she’s always wanted to call her husband. Instead, I will gather with two of my closest friends around an ipad at 2 p.m. where we will join her via FaceTime to witness the ceremony. And for that, I am grateful.

Their story began 25 years ago on a residential street in Queens and as with many love stories that come full circle, it is a sweet one to tell even though there were parts along the way that were definitely not ‘sweet.’ The protective mother in me was more than relieved when Frank graduated high school at the end of her sophomore year and their often stormy courtship came to an end. Seemingly, the only residue from that time was on her wooden bed frame, where she had practiced writing her first name combined with his last name over and over again. Julie Wagner. 

Julie always wanted to be in a relationship. It was of primary importance to her. I used to marvel, silently of course, how she was able to pick herself up when a relationship didn’t work out, tend to her wounds and move on – her psyche seemingly undamaged. This was an area where she and I were very different – I, who fled, terrified, from intimate relationships, was astounded by the relationship resiliency of my little girl. 

Over the years, many young men (and I guess some older ones too) fell in love with my Jule. Of course they did. She is smart and funny, pretty and motivated, kind and generous. She could have married some of them, in fact, almost did marry one of them. I have the cancelled deposit checks to prove it. But something was never quite right. She just couldn’t bring herself to say, “I do.” She knew in her heart that it would be a mistake. And I admire her for having the courage to walk away from some of the guys who were crazy about her. (A couple might actually have been really crazy.) 

Jule and I would joke with each other about the fact that she wished she could take elements of the various guys in her life and put them together to make the perfect one. Elements like this one’s sense of style, that one’s self-confidence, another one’s work ethic, still another’s kind acceptance of her…… Frank’s name would come up during these conversations too. She would say, wistfully, “Of course, I’ll always love Frank.” He hovered around the edge. Always. They were in touch. Occasionally. She’d tell me it was his birthday, or that she’d gotten a text from him on her birthday. Or if they were still together it would be their 7th or 12th or 15th anniversary of their first date. He may not have been officially in the picture, but he was always in her peripheral vision. I did not really take it seriously – their relationship had been quintessential adolescent drama as far as I was concerned.

I knew he was married. Knew he had a child. As I said – he did surface now and again. But then one day, Jule mentioned to me he had called her – something he wanted her opinion about related to a job offer. He was divorced. I was suspicious. Alarmed, even. I told myself, calm down – it’s just a phone call. He had a way of disappearing, and surely he’d disappear again. She called me again. He’d invited her to spend the weekend at his family’s summer place upstate. She was going. My heart stopped. This was serious. Twenty-five years ago, she had longed for such an invitation, and now it was being extended. I kept my tone light, “Have fun, love.” Inside I was fuming, “WHAT is she DOING??” 

The weekend at the summer place was from all reports, magical. I could hear it in her voice – see it in her face. I wanted to shake her. “Jule,” I remember saying, trying to keep my voice even -- “When we had all those talks about the elements of the guys that would go into the perfect man, WHICH PART WAS FRANK??? Where was he in that equation?” I was desperate to protect her. She is my best friend. My munchkin. My Jewel. I love her fiercely. 

She didn’t answer me right away. But a day or so later, she came to me and said she had an answer to my question –“It’s the way he makes me feel, mom. It’s how I feel when I am with him.” 

I couldn’t argue with that. In that moment I understood what had kept her from falling in love with any of the others. Frank was the one she wanted all along. In her heart she knew that. Nobody could compete with him. All those elements that had gone into our collective fantasy of the perfect man -- that self-confident left arm of someone, the sense of style on the right leg of another… they didn’t matter at all. The fantasy man (or lack thereof) had kept her safe and single, waiting for Frank to come to his senses. 

I was in the car with her – the place where we have some of our best conversations – when she told me that she was done – done with her search for Mr. Right. Done with the “find your right partner” handbook. Done with the memberships to ‘eharmony’ - done with speed dating. 

It’s been not quite three years since that fate changing weekend upstate. There was a lot of work to be done. Adolescent air to be cleared. Years of on-again, off-again contact to be sorted through. One cynical mother to be convinced. 

At a recent family dinner celebrating this soon-to-be union, I told him that he’d won me over, that I support her choice in marrying him. I’ve never seen her happier, or more content. I love how she looks at him and how he gazes back at her. He truly puts the sparkle in my Jule. Julie Wagner, that is. The circle completed.

Resolved: Just Keep Moving in 2014

I’ve slid once again, along with everyone else, into another new year. It is one in which I will turn 61 (Gasp! How did this happen?). I will return to Barcelona (and Gaudi!!), explore the northeast quadrant of Arizona, and shuttle happily from city to city around the Baltic Sea during 2014. I will also begin the arduous (and hopefully fulfilling) work on my dissertation.

As I always do at the end of one year – as many others – I take an internal survey. What was positive, what was negative? What did I accomplish that I wanted to and what did I not do? What am I thinking about as I move my life into another calendar? Here’s what it looks like:

Positive:
* No longer have to walk on eggshells every day. Some readers will “get” that.
* Passed the rest of my comprehensive exams
* Spain with my sister
* Grand Canyon with my brother
* Maine with my daughter
* A class of (mostly) terrific students who stayed awake Thursday nights long enough to learn research
* My wonderful – repeat, wonderful – staff who have my back and are my friends

Negative:
* I’ll get back to that

What did I accomplish that I wanted to do?
* Passed into the dissertation phase
* Consumed less sugar
* Practiced my guitar most days
* Eliminated some of my clutter (go Ebay!)
* Entertained friends at my home - I’ve been talking about that for years

What did I not do that I wanted to do?
* Dance
* Write regularly
* Take another surfing lesson (I’ve GOT to get up!)
* Visit certain older friends
* Exercise more -- or just exercise. Forget the 'more' part. Who am I kidding? I can’t figure out how to exercise and not sweat so much. It’s bad for my hair.

What did I learn?
* Facebook friends can be a real source of support during trying times.
* I really do not have to answer the phone. So if you want me, email me. 
* People have the same personalities as adults that they had as children. If they irritated you then, they will probably still irritate you now.
* I am not ‘stuck’. There are ways out of impossible situations.

What do I want to do in 2014?
* Start working on a dissertation. I gave myself off the holiday season so I could enjoy it for once.
* Figure out a way to include dance in my life
* Write more regularly. The barrier I encounter is not wanting to p** off the living.
* Go take that 2nd surfing lesson. I finally have feeling back in my left knee from my first attempt.
* Visit those older friends.
* Tighten the sugar ban. Eat less gluten.
* Sleep more.
* Spend less (read: Stay OFF Amazon)

I was supposed to get back to the negative but I have nothing to say. Sure, there were days that didn’t go well – even weeks. But I have nothing to complain about. Nobody close to me has died or gotten seriously ill or been in any accidents. Nobody has lost a job or suffered financial ruin. Everyone is speaking to one another. There is a lot to which I look forward. Dare I say I am content?

What are you thinking about as you enter 2014?