Category: 2020 And Stories From Life

If you haven’t binged on the series Schitt’s Creek, might I suggest you start now. Like right now. Don’t let the title put you off; just dive in. It’s incredibly human on many levels. Catherine O’Hara (Moira) describes the show “It’s like we’re aliens learning how to be humans.” Yes Moira; aliens learning how to be human. I get that. I live that T-shirt everyday.

It’s not only human, it’s razor sharp wit and brilliant social commentary. I have a love affair for every character. It eloquently epitomizes the messiness of life and being loved despite “of“. Oh yes, an absolute feel good comedy that resonates as “real“.

The show itself is a success story that serves to inspire. The creators had this concept that they hustled in hopes of funding. Dismissed time and again but they persevere and find their voice on the Canadian Broadcasting Channel (CBC) and are given free reign on comedic commentary. Flash forward six seasons and the show is now being internationally acclaimed. It’s not just the show itself but the stories of the people.

Annie Murphy plays the Alexis Rose. Even if you haven’t watched the show, you might have caught wind of the viral song / performance “A Little Bit Alexis“. Night clubs light up and people break out in song and dance. Just Google it. But I digress….this is the story I want to tell. Annie is a Canadian actress. She hadn’t worked for two years. She had $300 in the bank and two days before she was asked to audition, her house burned down. Going to the edge and not falling off.

Jennifer Robertson is another Canadian actress who found a home with Schitt’s Creek. The day before she landed the role of Jocelyn Schitt, she had applied at Petco as a forklift driver. She was perilously close to her financial edge. She didn’t fall off either.

These are just two characters, I kind of think the whole cast has their own story. Coming up the middle and breaking through the surface. Real people keeping the hope alive and owning authenticity that resonates with soul and purpose.

It makes me think, if you hold your breath long enough, we all might come up for air and burst into a world where dreams come true.

Schitt’s Creek has become a pandemic comfort. I feel absolutely no guilt about the binge. In fact, I think I’m going to start the series again with new contemplation.

I need some contemplation. A few weeks ago, I hit a speed bump that threw me for a curve and flung me into a pity party that started at 3am and wouldn’t stop until I did “something“. What does one do at a pity party when the music sucks? I took to scrolling and somewhere between 4 am and 5am, I found myself subscribing to NOOM. I know…..just when you think it doesn’t get darker, someone always trips, falls and bumps their head on the coffee table.

In my case, I fell into this weird world of NOOM (Moon spelled backwards) that is supposed to be purposeful in helping me make small shifts to achieve my health goals. To simplify the definition of what I have just done would be to say, I signed up for a different version of Weight Watchers. Does anyone have a flashlight? It’s very dark in here.

I’ve been looking for a new framework for my life. Truth be told, I have a total rebuild that is required. My expertise in recreating my life is zero so I figured I needed outside assistance. The jury is still out on whether decisions made in the middle of the night are worthy or just crazy. All I know is that where I wanted to be is nowhere near where I am and that’s after a year of “trying“. If something isn’t working, it seems reasonable to rethink the process.

So here I am. A new NOOM member. The first week was a bit rough. I found myself lying to the NOOM Bot. This would be the Artificial Intelligence (AI) part of the program. Who lies to an algorithm? I do. It’s Easter and I found myself asking “are Hersey Eggies sugar or an actual egg“? I needed the points for the category so in my mind, they are now a protein. I am embarrassed. Lying to NOOM. Can it get much lower? It appears it can because I also restart the quizzes to ensure a perfect scrore. WHO DOES THIS? I need to be super clear on this point. I cheated in a program that I am PAYING for that is only assessed by an algorithm. I suck.

At this point, I should back the bus up. You may or may not be interested in how I fell down this rabbit hole. I took a “test”. The NOOM “ad” asked me if I would like to fit into a pair of skinny jeans and I said “yes”. They then directed me to a quiz that asked me how much weight I would like to lose. I answered the questions and they advised me that I could do this by May 15th. May 15th? After a year of “trying”, I could achieve my goal by May 15th? That is less than two months! Entering my credit card…….

This is why one should not make decisions in the dark. I completed a survey, got the results that I “wanted” and hit “pay now“. I am an idiot. This isn’t new shoes from Amazon. NOOM is not going to “deliver” my new weight. I actually have to “do” the work. May 15th is dependent on my following the program and not LYING about how many Hersey Eggies I am sneaking in for breakfast.

Week two. Even if I lie, the scale doesn’t. OMG, it was so much easier when I could say “I’ve tried everything!” and throw up my hands in despair. I could win an Academy Award for victim.

Real change comes from admitting what isn’t working. According to the colour coding system of NOOM, I find great joy in the “red” reporting. This is where I have to be accountable for how many Hersey Eggies I am actually enjoying with the real number of glasses of red wine which are accompanied by toasted sour dough bread that tastes divine with avacado. I was under the impression that I was very “healthy“. Avacado has healthy fats and wine is essentially grapes in a glass. Entering my stats showed a different reality.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall….who’s the biggest liar of them all…?“

Dammit.

Looking in the mirror takes some courage. Things weren’t working and it’s because I kept a blind eye. I have to be accountable. I feel somewhat pathetic that what keeps me accountable is an “app”.

For change to take place, I have to be honest and accept that choices have consequences. I hide the Hersey Eggies in the trunk of the car. Sometimes I hear them late at night. They are mournful as they call my name. Sometimes I ignore them, most times I have to check and see if they are ok. I will only know if they are ok if I taste them. And then I have to record them in the app. Choices have consequences.

Over the past year, I have made choices that haven’t supported my end game. Being a victim is super easy, I don’t even have to dress up. I just show up. If I want to stop NOOM from charging my credit card for the rest of my life, I have to change my ways and lean into the process. Leaning in means looking over the edge. I have a fear of heights. No wonder I take shelter with sugar.

Since my “reckoning“, I feel more accountable and I’m learning what needs to be tweaked. I now have an “actual” coach with NOOM. I don’t know if “Bobbi” is male or female but I guess it doesn’t matter. I actually participate with my “group” and tell them what’s challenging for me. These people are complete strangers and yet, I am going to tell them who I am and what I struggle with. I am hoping my “group” becomes a new sense of “community” where I can practice admitting being flawed as a human. So far, so good. They understand the struggle of feeling compelled to answer the call of an Eggie…..

I wish I could say that my look in the mirror was only about skinny jeans. Choices are often related to feelings. I heard a line the other day. “Ghosts in the walls that hold you back”.

That rings true. If I have had the illusion of being completely “healthy”, I wonder what other illusions there are. Am I really the best wife I could be? How about mother? Does my impression of myself match a reality or am I am lying to myself there too? It’s not just the scale I need to look at, I think I need to look closer into the eyes of those I love and find out if I am really present. Do I give them joy or do I just go through the motions. I can’t be one dimensional in my curiosity. Skinny jeans are not the goal, living a full and happy life is.

The actors from Schitt’s Creek all had ambitions that they almost gave up on and yet found one last breath to break through the surface and soar upwards. If you are breaking free and bursting with an inner brilliance, the ghosts in the walls don’t have any hold.

If you have been following this blog, you know that there is a bit of a theme…… I built a travel business, it was actually successful and then COVID arrived and blew everything up. I’ve been trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces and find a new start. In finding my new start, I am completely intrigued with how others are managing and what I can learn.

On a local level, there is a cute little restaurant that is owned by a most incredible human. He is smart, intuitive, creative, hard working and was held hostage by his own ghosts. This past year, he broke free and by doing so, all of his best qualities have become “more”. This new depth resulted in a complete transformation of the restaurant that now speaks to who “he is”. He can sign his signature with pride. I sit on the sidelines and am humbled and inspired by his growth and honesty.

The week of the new grand opening, I had to go by. OK. Since I am being honest, I have done a million “drive by’s” to see the steps of transformation. Of course I had to see the final outcome and wasn’t disappointed. It was beautiful.

While the owner is a gorgeous soul, so is his partner and I am completely enthralled and totally captivated. He is wise, kind and spiritual. I’m not sure how he does it but when he talks to me, there is no choice but to answer from the bottom of the heart. That night, we spent three hours talking. He held my hand and with every topic, the conversation went deeper. We talked about the journey of change, of being honest and living a true life. I told him things that I had never admitted to anyone, not even myself. Mirror, mirror on the wall…..

In the presence of someone who is soulful and sincere, there is no hiding or ducking. You have to tell the truth. We talked about the journey and he said, “Shelley, coming out is not about being gay. It’s about coming out as yourself”.

Everything stood still and in that moment, I walked away from the wall and the ghosts lost their hold.

If I am going to be my self, I need to BE MY SELF. For years, I have been wearing a t-shirt with “should” on the front. As a wife, mother, daughter and professional, I have felt that I “should” behave a certain way. What “way” remains a tad bit fuzzy but somehow I have translated that to mean that now I am of a certain vintage, my skirts should now be knee length and table dancing with a shot of tequila while singing Sweet Home Alabama might not be considered “suitable” or “appropriate“. No wonder I feel as though I can’t breath. I have been following some odd code of conduct in hopes of being considered “respectable“. Living as a “should” has likely kept me separate; likely kept me from being truly present in not only my life but the life of others.

Who the heck am I trying to impress and why do I want to be their friend if they frown at a fun night of table dancing? Furthermore, if they aren’t a fan of “Sweet Home Alabama“, what on earth could we have in common?

What does it mean to fully show up as myself? The “should” label has been a form of safe armor. As he held my hand, I had a moment of realization. I want to be a part of a community that is fulling accepting. I want to live in Schitt’s Creek. I want to live in my own skin and live my truth.

“Coming out” is burning the “should” shirt and wearing the I AM version. I am flawed, I am scared and I wear scarves in hopes that no one will notice that even in my 50’s, I have no idea what it is to successfully “adult”. I don’t want to be judged for my shortcomings and in return, I have no judgement for anyone else. It’s exhausting. I want to be happy and I want you to be happy. I want to keep digging through the layers that have buried my creativity and find MY SELF so I can live MY SELF. Just writing it feels very freeing.

I see why people hold onto their deepest dreams and don’t give up. They are the courageous people that inspire me. I also see that giving up isn’t about giving up the dream, it’s when we give up on ourselves. I did that. I can raise my hand. I did that. I gave up and pretended that I wasn’t. Just ask NOOM. You don’t have to lie if you are telling the truth.

To be human is to be kind. It’s hard. Being human is hard. The judgements and expectations rob us of the fun. It’s hard work pretending and conforming. No wonder my clothes didn’t fit. I am excited to unbuckle. As David Rose says, “I like the wine, not the label”. Good one David. I’m a bit tired of pretending and wearing labels that don’t honestly reflect the true contents.

And as for Schitt’s Creek, I know it’s a place of pretend but what if it’s not? What if this is the example that we could all achieve. I like that vision. I like what it might feel like to feel accepted and I’m talking about me.

What a journey and how exciting the destinations that are yet to come. I can’t wait to start living a technicolor life! There will still be curves and bumps but when it gets dark, I won’t scroll. I will think of Schitt’s Creek and Johnny Rose “We’re all going to be ok“. Yes we are Johnny, yes we are.

To you my friends, thank you for being kind. Thank you for a place and space where it’s ok to cling to small lies and then grow to be more no matter the age or stage.

With love,

Shelley

The Christmas season is almost here. Actually, according to Costco, it’s been here since August which is a bit annoying. To me, the Christmas season starts December 1st. Sometimes December 24th; it depends on how things are going.

I love Christmas and I only wish that each year it could be all that I want it to be. I wish I could win the lottery so that I could buy everyone, everything! I am so guilty of feeling a materialistic joy over toys! I’m actually embarrassed. I am like a kid in a candy store and would take one of everything and then some. From there, I would head out into the streets and just start passing out the treats. I love it all.

And it’s not just the gift giving I love, it’s the preparation for Christmas. It’s the lights, the parties, the arrival of eggnog, oranges and the baking. I am a super keener except that I also suffer from Christmas SUCK. How I want “it” to be, is nothing like “it” actually is.

“Hope keeps the agony alive” rings true for me at Christmas.

I am terrible at almost everything Christmas. I am awful at giving gifts. I am someone who should not be allowed to shop by themselves. In fact, just this year I learned that no really loves facial cleanser in their stocking. Really? Is that the same for the new tooth brush too?

It’s not from lack of effort. I spend hours thinking about the season. I agonize over spreadsheets and making lists while I scour through cookbooks seeking the perfect Christmas cookie combination and ideal interior decore.

This hurts but it has to be said out loud, despite all my effort, I am a Christmas Fail. All the beautiful ideas that sit in my head are somehow misunderstood by the time the thoughts reach my hands. Nothing works the way it was supposed to. My baking burns, my fudge fails, my decorating is a disaster and my sense of holiday optimism and joy is replaced by frustration, stress and dare I say, a small bit of Christmas rage. I’m like a bad self help book. For over twenty years, I approach the holidays with a mind set of “this year will be different!” and then something catches fire. Think Monty Python while wearing an apron.

I try. I really do but I can’t bring myself to follow through to the state of perfection. The perfect Christmas would have the perfect tree which would be tall and bushy. I am drawn to trees who clearly suffer from anorexia. My trees are skinny and spindly but I choose them because I don’t want them to feel like they are “less than”. I want them to feel loved so I smother them with bright lights and use the remote control to create a Christmas disco. My family just stares. I am easily the winner of the worst Christmas sweater. I yearn for perfection but I sure excel at gaudy and awful.

I have a snow globe collection which is getting a bit out of control. The same can be said for my Christmas Village. This year the village has grown so big that I have to make a subdivision out on the porch. I like tinsel. I love hiding gifts and finding them in the spring. And while I forget where I hide presents, I never forget where I put the chocolate; I just forget to tell my family where it might be. Whatever. We all have our own special traditions.

I want Christmas to be perfect, except that it’s not. Christmas is messy and complicated and I don’t think that’s just me. Christmas is many things and not all of it good. Christmas is hard. It’s a mirage that leads us to believe that the season is shiny and joyous, except when its not.

For many people, it’s a season to pretend. They pretend to be happy, to have more than they do, to give more than they have. There is stress and heart ache and a pit of emptiness and a sense of loneliness. While many gather around tables surrounded by family and friends, there are just as many tables with a setting for one.

When did the Christmas season become an extension of Black Friday deals to Boxing Day sales? And the notion of Santa needs to be exposed. How can Santa bring ipads to some and tooth brushes to others? How is that fair and what does that say about a sense of self and worth? Nothing like a season of giving to make you feel less.

I’m guilty. I am so, so guilty. I loved giving gifts but I think I had it all wrong. My love of material giving grew unhealthy. I was sending a message that Christmas was something you found in a box and love was large when wrapped with a bow.

Three years ago, I took a look in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw. Why was I buying gifts for people who had more than enough? Every day is Christmas in our house. We have enough of everything and more! We are abundantly blessed right down to our one bathroom home, the gift of patience is truly year round.

The look in the mirror caused me to shift. The call of the Christmas spirit could not be bought on-line or replicated from a magazine. The call was to stretch just a little bit more.

I called a family meeting and announced that Christmas was changing. The Sim family would host a Christmas Eve dinner for anyone in the community. I couldn’t bear another holiday season knowing that some were eating by themselves and feeling alone. I felt that we, as a family, could turn our attention to breaking open the box and finding a way to share.

I would be a liar if I said that everyone loved my idea. Owen, who was 11 at the time was most unimpressed. “Why bother with Christmas if there aren’t any gifts?” Oh dear Owen, and that is the point. If we only find joy in the receiving, we are missing the reason for the season and that had to change.

We fed 170 people that year. We borrowed the community ski lodge and opened the doors to welcome people from all up and down the valley. We weren’t alone in our quest to connect; we had ample volunteers and an abundance of cheer! We offered a free turkey dinner for anyone who wanted to share in the spirit of a community Christmas. Donations were welcome but not expected. Fishes and loaves somehow fed the masses. We sang and we laughed and we wove a magic that lightened hearts and gave a warm glow.

It was hard work and my family was exhausted by the end. However, my dear little Owen was the angel of the day. He served the punch and gave out the gift bags. He met the people and saw the need. While he was giving, he felt what it was to receive and at the end of the night he said, “Mom, that was good.”

Yes Owen, it was. In fact, it was perfect and given with love.

Christmas 2020 is going to be tough. COVID has been cruel. There have been varying losses and I don’t know very many who haven’t felt changed. For months we have kept apart and with Christmas looming, the divide feels like it is growing.

The loss of social connection over the holiday season seems like the last straw. COVID fatigue feels heavy and grey. To fight the fatigue, we are moving forward with the 4th Annual Community Christmas Eve dinner. We had our concerns but have opted to pivot and the dinner will now be delivered. It won’t be the same but it will be done and shared as an expression of love. We have many new elves and several kind donations. My experience is that people are seeking ways to give, to be a part the sum that makes the greater whole.

I share this because I’ve been struggling for a few months. Nothing has gone according to plan. While I wish I could settle into a pose of perfection, I continue to learn that the real living comes from leaning into the hurt.

“Shelley, my dad is in hospice and my mom isn’t doing well. Could we please order Christmas Eve dinner?” “Is there a way I can help? My husband passed away on the 14th and I don’t want to be alone” “I’m a senior and I don’t cook very much, could I ask for a meal?” Real stories, honest needs.

My Christmas wish is that we all stand back from the easy giving and look for the gaps.

Let’s shake up the workplace $10 Secret Santa concept. What would happen if we exchanged cards instead? Notes of kindness that gave the soul a lift. And the $10 component? Create impact through collective giving and sharing that creates ripples of change.

Find a family or person that has lost their income and struggling to make ends meet. Search out a senior who needs a helping hand or maybe play the Anonymous Angel and leave a basket of treats for someone who seems all alone. I think if we listen, there is a silence that actually echoes with calls for help.

And while we can try to heal the hurts and bandage some pain, this Christmas, there still will be feelings of loss and regret. There will still be wishes that just can’t be met.

I wish I could return to life pre-COVID. I would trade almost anything to once again hug all those that I love. I want to pop and puncture bubbles so we can all be as one. I want to hug my mom, connect with my sister, sit with my dad and embrace extended family and friends and never, ever let anyone go.

This Christmas will be hard. I hope that the giving will help heal that hole.

As for my quest for Christmas perfection; it will likely still rear its head. I will still burn the cookies, take pity on the tree with less limbs but I will do my best to reach out to break down the walls of holiday pretend. I will ask more questions, “How are you? What can I do?”

I wish I was perfect but then again, maybe it is my flaws that help me feel akin to others that feel broken. Maybe imperfection is the safe space for deeper connection. Maybe it’s more fun to dance with the lights than stand on a pedestal.

So what would you give? What is your gift? If you have a minute, write a comment and share your thoughts.

Here’s to being brave and being part of the change!

With love,

Shelley

I love my memories of being young and staying out all night and dancing with friends. Those were the days when I could just pick up anything off the floor and it would easily fit. Sometimes it was even clean. Regardless, everything and anything looked great in my twenties.

Not that I knew that then; I never looked in the mirror and saw “fantastic”. I always had an eye on what could be better. I focused on the flaws. They say that youth is wasted on the young. I get that.

That’s not to say I didn’t have moments of feeling fabulous. I did. I loved the freedom of being able to experiment with different styles. I just wish my friends had told me that wearing headscarves like the Premier’s wife wasn’t necessarily my best look but even if they had shared that little fashion tip, I’m not sure I would have cared.

And that’s the point. I miss so many elements of being young and not caring. The magical time in life where anything was possible and transformation was easy and effortless. Red lipstick and black leather skirts one week, short shorts with a striped t and pink lipstick the next. Style and fashion were not finite, it was interchangeable with moods, imagination and a sense of self-expression based on a whisper of a whim.

It wasn’t just the experimentation of shirts, pants, skirts and lipstick, there was also the freedom to experiment with life on all levels. School, work, personal interactions, life concepts, social conduct and social construct. It was a time of developing a sense of self and it was fun to feel so free.

I miss who I was.

Forest Gump said that life is like a box of chocolates. No Forest, it’s not. Life is like ice cream left out to melt. A slow sense of sinking, a softening that slowly turns to mush.

I used to be pretty. Cars would stop when I crossed the street. I could talk my way out of a speeding ticket and always get help when I felt the need to ask. I flirted my way through my first thirty plus years. It was nice and definitely easier than where I am now.

Now I get called “ma’am”. Oh how I hate that. When it first started to happen, I looked for my mother. The “ma’am” led to “can I help you carry your groceries?” F U sonny, I’ve been carrying the weight of a family for twenty years so I think I can handle four litres of milk and a bag of potatoes. I don’t like being thought of as “less than”. Not yet. It’s still too soon.

This getting older comes with a sense of “settling” and that’s not just my chest finding a soft spot to rest on my belly. It’s a constant state of compromise for many different reasons. It’s in the workplace, volunteer realm, family and certainly how long I get in the bathroom. I also settle for “less” of myself in order to give “more” to those around me. When I was dancing on speakers, I had centre stage of my life without a care in the world. Now I wrestle with how to escape the confines of the consequences of settling and wonder how to stretch out for more.

The “settling” makes me feel frumpy and tad bit dumpy. I laughed when I recently watched an episode of The Crown on Netflix. Queen Elizabeth was re-playing clips of her youth including her 1954 tour to Australia when she was a young woman. Her husband Prince Phillip walks in and says:

PP: “look at all those crowds coming to see their beautiful new queen”

Queen: “now she’s old and dumpy and they want to get rid of her”

PP: “not old and dumpy; experienced and mature”

The Queen rolls her eyes. I’m with you Liz. “Experienced and mature” is a terrible consolation prize.

I think about the phrase “aging gracefully”. Why is this term seemingly focused on women and not men? Aging gracefully seems like another terrible passage that women must navigate and endure. Honest to god, haven’t we done enough? From twelve years old, we avoided wearing white pants once a month. We packed MIDOL into every bag to ensure that we didn’t inadvertently kill anyone that might piss us off. We would grind our teeth through period pain yet smile outwardly and carry on. I’m telling you, if men experienced any part of our journey, they would have fallen to floor, crashed through the glass ceiling and crawled into bed, never to be seen again.

For some, the next stage was motherhood. Lovely if you can bear it. I personally never found joy in leaking from every orifice but took it in stride. After three children, I should be an expert at stretching like an elastic band only I fear that I have finally snapped.

There was a brief reprieve in my 40’s. Freedom from diapers and packing lunches not to mention growing out of classroom festivities that required artistic talents that I certainly didn’t possess. I could leave the house without needing to remember the children and for a while, I reclaimed a part of me. It was a good stretch of time until it was over.

Suddenly I grew hot at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t sleep and although I had never been able to keep track of my children, the brain fog was so bad that name tags would have been helpful.

These changes were and are mortifying. While I could hide not being able to sleep, there was no hiding the arrival of 15 extra pounds and feeling a sense of shame. I was not who I wanted to be.

I used to be pretty. I used to feel free. I used to be someone that danced in the wind and twirled with abandon. I was the ocean and now I’m a pond.

Age gracefully. I’m not sure I know how to do it. I look to see how other women are managing. How they do it? How do they dress, behave, interact and adjust? They seem poised whereas I feel in peril. Recently my mother sent me a pair of grey cords with an elastic waist. I would be indignant if they weren’t so damn comfy.

I am determined to master this next stage and quick. I am haunted by the fact that in 8 short years, I will be 60. I don’t want to arrive at that doorway wearing grey cords and sensible shoes. I want to be sexy and sixty and rocking out a pair of jeans and a fabulous blouse. I’m hoping I can finesse the “french tuck” . This will take work as there is a good chance I won’t look french but frazzled; like someone who just forgot the full tuck as I rushed from the loo.

I want to have awesome hair and and a grounded sense of self that is kind, compassionate and confident. I want to sit in meetings and give meaningful input based on years of lived experience that matters. I want to know that I leaned in and had success with projects that had positive impact. I want to have that sense of grace that comes from running a hard race called life and being able to rejoice that I survived the moments where I thought I would quit. I want my memories to give me joy. I want to look forward with optimism and backwards with gratitude. I want to once again twirl with abandon and feel like the ocean.

Maybe the “settling” is actually an important part of the transition. This isn’t easy and I feel it’s even harder under the stormy clouds of COVID. It’s been eight months since I have felt that I have see the sun. I’m feeling an ache. The ache of sadness, of loss and often a deep despair that comes from floundering and having to constantly adapt and change. I mourn what was and I hope to God we can all arrive alive. This COVID world is crazy and creating so much chaos and confusion that it feels impossible to set the compass. These feelings are also tinged with a simmering rage that must constantly be quelled and replaced with a narrative of “be calm and be kind”. I just want my feet to touch the ground and find a path that has certainty.

I know. This sounds like self pity which is kind of true. I can’t blame aging on everything. I do have some sense of responsibility moving forward. I could start with saying “just one” instead of “just one more”. The problem is that I am craving the “more” to offset the feeling of “less”.

I used to be pretty but I also used to wear stupid scarves. To be young is to be pretty and as we move through ages and stages, we change and so must our descriptives of self. I am not pretty but I could stretch to attractive. I can land on confident and strong and celebrate that I am not afraid to speak out. When I was “pretty”, it was easy but lazy. Batting an eye didn’t require me to weigh in on what mattered. I allowed lipstick and blush to speak more loudly instead of me. I liked the easy path; until I tripped and met real life while face down. Those first hurts bruise, bleed and leave scars. But all battle wounds have a story and no good story exists without a struggle. I would like to be further into my story with the major obstacles behind me allowing me to ride into the sunset. Alas, that is not my path. I am not a short story, rather and extended version of War and Peace.

Today I write this because I am so DONE with COVID. The first few months were manageable and I welcomed the downtime to try and reinvent myself. Who knew that self-transformation would take this long and I am still not sure that there is an end in sight. I am envious of all those who have successfully used COVID to learn to meditate, take up yoga, change careers, reach a goal, tighten a belt by a notch or embrace new beginnings. I feel that I’ve stayed stuck in the same spot no matter how fast I have tried to moved my feet.

And maybe I am stuck in the same spot to learn the right lesson. I am not pretty but I am competent. I can choose to mourn my past or cherish the memories. If I stayed young, I wouldn’t know the deep connection that comes from being married, the total immersion of falling in love with each of our babies or come to understood that through pain and loss comes rebirth and new beginnings. If I stayed young, I wouldn’t have friendships that have spanned over 40 years, I wouldn’t know women who could say “I see you and you matter”. I wouldn’t be seen for what I have become, I would be landlocked in the beginning without depth or journey.

Maybe, just maybe, Forest was right after all. Maybe life is a box of chocolates and we don’t know what we might get. Yes, there are moments of pain, passages of hardship and the mortification of aging but with all that come deep friendships, rich connections and experiences that might finally allow me to settle into a real sense of self. Life is not easy. I’m a bit chagrined that I thought it would be. Silly really given that all the good bits come from falling apart. What kind of lived story is interesting if it always works out?

I’m not sure if anyone feels the same but if you are feeling adrift and COVID confused, you are not alone. I share your yearning for things to be easier and more certain but maybe we have to hold on just a wee bit more. By giving our all, maybe we can rise and shine with the sun and feel like the ocean while we twirl with abandon.

Here’s to doing hard things, believing in happy endings and celebrating the moments that matter that make us more than we thought.

With love,

Size seems to matter and almost everything that seems to matter needs to be measured for size. What size are your jeans, how big is your bank account, what size of coffee would you like, how big is your house, how large is your car….. We upsize, downsize and supersize. We measure our success and count our failures. We try and “fit in” and lament when we spill over. We “size” up our situation and question if and how we “measure up”. Sizing can be an exhausting narrative of endless comparison. Does size really matter?

In our house, size does matter. When we were first building our house, we all lived in 920 square feet. Aiden and Megan shared a bedroom, Owen slept in the hall and when people came for dinner, we ate outside. Yes, even in the winter. One bathroom for five people was tight.

The house grew and so did the kids. Their growth documented on the bedroom door frame; multiple lines in various colors, marking dates and attaching names. A vertical measurement of time and moments. Owen uses it to see where he is compared to where Aiden was at the same age. Aiden is 24 and 6’2. Owen is 14 and hopes to be 6’3. He is so desperate to get big that he sometimes measures on his tip toes, trying to cheat time and reality. I get it, he wants to get bigger. Time is so slow at 14 and leaves you wondering “will I ever get bigger?”

But back to size. Given that Owen is 14, he should fit pants size 14 – 16. That’s what the label says. This means that we shop in the youth section of stores. This is an important section; it’s less expensive than the men’s section.

He says that the 14-16 is too small. I reluctantly stretch to size 16-18. We are brushing up very close to the adult world and pricing. I walked through that door with shoes, it hurts the wallet. I am skeptical. How can a 14 year old boy need a size 18? Is this Owen standing on his tip toes? I shake my head; thankfully the pants fit. It’s the underwear that is now the problem. I am perplexed with “Mom, they don’t fit“.

“Owen, they do fit. They are size 14-16 just like you”. “Mom, they are too tight”. “They can’t be too tight, I bought the right size”. “Mom, they don’t fit!”. At this point, I am a little bit annoyed. First of all, in a small town, it is practically impossible to buy anyone underwear. Second, since I can’t find the “essentials” in town, I have to either drive to the nearest town which is 1 1/2 hours away or I have to brave online shopping. On line shopping is scary for me. I get overwhelmed with choices. Also, you have to pay attention to what currency you are shopping in.

I brave going on line. Why get dressed when you don’t have to? I am tempted to buy Hanes. I like Hanes. They have value packs. Owen wants something a bit more exciting. Exciting is more expensive. I bend and buy exciting. They don’t fit.

I move to size 16 – 18. Surely exciting and expensive will fit at this point. The word “SUCKER” comes to mind. Undergarments are hard to return. Why is this so difficult?

He may be 14 but he is 5’7 and weighs 130 pounds. When I stepped back I realized that he was bigger than I thought. Here was my epiphany. I have been keeping him small.

I thought I was an enlightened mother. I understand my job description. My role and goal is to give them roots so that they can fly…..blah, blah, blah. It’s just that the flight to new heights leaves a hole in my heart that hurts. I know this hurt, I felt it when Aiden and Megan both left. It’s a feeling of empty that tempts me to pack my bags. They can fly while I drive. Sounds fun, except that it doesn’t work that way.

Owen, I am sorry that I have to tried to keep you small when you have been doing what you were raised to do which is to rise strong and stand tall. You are not the “baby” of the family; you are simply the youngest.

I looked back on all the other ways that I have kept Owen small. It wasn’t just shopping where I tried to keep him small, it was with chores and enabling him to do less because I wasn’t ready to see him do more. And as for that glimmer of fuzz on the upper lip, I am pretty sure that was just my imagination. I hate awakenings. Another scoop of ice cream for my humble pie.

The days are long, the years are short. Owen, while I selfishly wish you could stay small, I truly wish you a big life that meets or exceeds all of your dreams. You are bigger than any potential label. Don’t let anyone tell you where to fit. The size of your life is whatever you make it. You are the only measure that matters. Be as big as you want. Live your life more like the doorframe and mark the moments that matter while standing on tipped toes.

I learned a few lessons this week. Living small is like being squished into the wrong size of underwear. It’s not very comfortable. Lately, I have been living small and maybe being labeled as something I am not. While this concept is possibly true for everyone, I look at it through a pink lens for women and wonder why it is hard to stand tall and strong. With all my questions, I consult the world of GD (Glennon Doyle) and think she might have it right. “Women who are brazen enough to break rules irk us. Their brazen defiance and refusal to follow directions make us want to put them back in the cage.” “Girls and women sense this. We want to be liked. We want to be trusted. So we downplay our strengths to avoid threatening anyone and invoking disdain. We do not mention our accomplishments. We do not accept compliments. We temper, qualify, and discount our opinions. We say “I feel” instead of “I know”. We ask if our ideas make sense instead of assuming they do. “

And that’s just the start. That’s living small.

This is my commitment. Not only am I going to practice standing taller and stronger, I am going to work to elevate all those around me; especially the women. Women in the workplace or within the volunteer networks. These women are getting shit done but often have to shrink so they don’t offend.

Enough.

Strong, competent women don’t fit the mold and definitely not the label so rather than trying to squish, let’s toss the mold and cut out the label. Elevation is an action; like encouraging someone who is ready to fly.

Here’s to stretching and giving wings to our dreams while refusing to be small. Here’s to living our best life and be damned with measuring the size.

With love,

Shelley