It’s late… on a Sunday (which has now turned to Monday).  And thanks to a really delicious iced coffee at about 6 pm tonight, I am wide, wide awake.

I think this officially means I’m old.  I have become one of those people that now has to say “Oh no thank you, I can’t drink coffee after noon or I’ll be up all night.”  Sigh.  In all honesty, I suppose I’m glad I realized it was the coffee.  The alternative would be losing my mind.

I’m a sleeper, and I love sleeping because I love things I’m good at.  I pride myself on being to sleep whenever and wherever I decide.  This makes me especially good at the following: (1) traveling, (2) hangovers, (3) timezones, and (4) traveling through timezones with hangovers.     

I went to bed well over three hours ago and laid there, staring at the inside of my eyelids wondering why I wasn’t REM-ing and fervently evaluating whether: (1) I had any “issues” I hadn’t worked through as of late, (2) I was upset about something, (3) I was forgetting something I needed to do before tomorrow, (4) I should have taken Advil PM, (5) the snoring dogs were keeping me up, (6) I was getting sick, (7) someone was mad at me and I should have picked up on it by now, (8) I was mad at someone and should have picked up on it by now, (9) I just have anxiety, (10) I’ve actually been sleeping this whole time, (11) I was hungry, (12) smelling beer could be giving me a gluten reaction, (13) these racing thoughts were just a dream, (14) laying here could be equally as effective as actually sleeping, (15) I should just get up and do something with myself, (16) tea might help, (17) I could work from home tomorrow (this) morning, (18) anyone interesting was still awake and wanted to hang out, (19) my mama friends were up feeding babies, (20) I should text these potential baby-feeding friends (or is that really rude in case they’re actually catching a couple hours of sleep?), (21) I would have it in me to run in the morning, (22) I should try yoga breathing, (23) white noise might help, (24) I should write something…

In the end, I combo’ed numbers 3, 15, 16, 24, and here we are.  As I brewed my tea, I remembered the amazing iced coffee I thoroughly enjoyed about 8 hours ago.  Then, I quickly remembered the lesson I learned about iced coffee just about this time last year.  It’s turning to summer, and it’s now that glorious season when iced coffee suddenly sounds (and tastes) WAY more delicious than regular coffee.  

Let me save you a sleepless night or two: Iced coffee is like 4 times more caffeinated than hot coffee.  Usually.  The trick is if you go somewhere that specifically has “iced coffee” on the menu (or, apparently, in a self-serve vat next to a bowl of ice with a fancy scooper at church), chances are, it’s the “special” kind of iced coffee, which has been double or triple brewed and tastes miraculous.  The takeaway here is that iced coffee in the afternoon will have you evaluating and re-evaluating your existence at two in the morning.

And here is the other tip: The only thing that will make tomorrow tolerable is a very large, very iced hair of the dog.  So don’t fight it.  Skip your regular brew, march immediately to the closest coffee shop (from experience: the more “hipster” the shop, the stronger the iced coffee) and order the biggest size they have.  When the barrista gives you that “over the black-framed glasses/are you sure you want to do this/our iced coffee is ridiculous/you don’t know what you’re getting yourself in to” look, just nod affirmatively and tell her to go easy on the ice.

OK, team.  I’m about to admit a recent discovery about myself that I still don’t really believe.  Ready?

California is my happy place.

Believe me, I’m as shocked as you are. 

And this no expectations thing?  Pretty freaking phenomenal.

I’m finally on the downswing of what has been a bit of a rough go recently. And as rough go’s… go (?), when it rains it pours (what if I did an entire post in metaphors alone? It’d probably be the cat’s pajamas).  

So, alas, tough things have been happening professionally (too).  Things like start-up transitioning, funding and opportunity and all of that awesomeness that translates to growing pains and stress for control-freak perfectionists like me.  So, to say I’ve been “a tad stressed” lately is a bit of an understatement.

My colleague, with whom I have plenty of amazing road warrior stories (such as impromptu ho-downs, renting and valeting a 16-passenger white utility van, running a 5K absolutely schnauckered, cigarette burns in shower curtains, cockroaches, 4 am fire alarms, attempted suicides [by people other than us] and other appalling experiences that really don’t need to be re-lived) asked me to assist in his client trip this week.  Having not been on the road together in quite some time, I said I would be happy to help him support his client for the week in California.  All I knew was that it was a bike race in the general LA area.  I like biking, so I agreed.  That was months ago.

Last Sunday, I hadn’t really given any thought to my trip, other than to lament how much freaking work I had to do and how much a trip to California was going to set me back and stress me out.  At the 11th hour, it hit me that this wasn’t my typical client trip, for which I could pack one/two/three of 12 or so “set” outfit combos.  I both reveled and panicked in the realization that I could spend the week wearing yoga pants and running shorts, and I actually didn’t quite know what to do with all of that freedom, so I overcompensated by packing ALL of my running shorts and an abundance of yoga pants.  I’m an over-packer to begin with… but the fruits of my labor this trip were just short of absurd.

Anyway (I’m getting long-winded, so I’ll cut to the chase), it turns out that we were slated to FOLLOW the PRO CYCLING TOUR of California.  WHAT?!?!  How had I not fully realized WHAT THIS MEANT?!?!  But, I’m so glad I didn’t.  It made everything that much more incredible. (Back to that zero expectations thing…) Oh, and we weren’t exactly in L.A. either.

From the small coastal towns, like Avila Beach (which is where I will retire someday), to the amazing community of cycling folks (notably, not “bikers”), to watching the incredible finishes by the best cyclists in the world, to the VIP tents sponsored by local vineyards… It was the best work trip I’ve ever been on.  And it could not have come at a better time.  Combine all of that with runs along the ocean every morning and some of the greatest wine in the world every evening, and I believe it’s safe to say I’m a different person after this week.

It was precisely the professional recharge I needed.  California, man.  Who knew?

 Chips and giggles, people.  Chips and giggles.

I can’t remember whether I wrote the You Ain’t Crazy post before or not.  The irony there is palpable on many levels… (read on, reader).

But after watching Brené Brown’s TEDx talk, I felt like I was back at the kiosk in Pittsburgh with a big black man telling me that I wasn’t crazy.  Sometimes, you just need someone (anyone) to tell you you’re not crazy.  So thank you for being that person today, Brené.

About a year ago, my colleague and I were in Pittsburgh, trying to get home after a really, really long couple of days.  We made it to the airport and started circling for our rental car drop-off location.  After the first lap, neither of us had seen a Budget Rental Car lot, so we exited the airport and prepared for round two.  Ok, stop talking to me because we have to concentrate on returning this car, my colleague said.  I am, of course, super engaging, so naturally my ridiculous storytelling was distracting us from finding our rental car place.  So, I shut up but still no Budget.  The third time around, we turned the radio off, thinking maybe our awesome taste in music was inhibiting us from locating the rental car return.  Still no dice.  Finally, on our fourth lap (now, what’s the definition of insanity, people?), after I had located the paperwork that confirmed we were in fact in a Budget Rental Car, we pulled over at the Enterprise kiosk.  Anyway, I hopped out of the car, walked up to the window and asked a very large black man where I could find the Budget lot.  He gave me a once-over, uncrossed his arms and handed me a piece of paper.  His face softened as he bellowed: Guuuuuurl.  You ain’tcrazy.  

In my hand, I held directions to the only off-site car rental lot at the airport - Budget.

There’s a certain relief in knowing that everyone (or at least a lot of other people) do the same, seemingly crazy things you do (ok, I do).  Hearing Brené’s take on the things we (all of us… or at least lots of us) do to avoid feeling vulnerable (namely, for me, perfectionism and foreboding joy) was eye-opening (and SO freaking accurate).  

Take 15 minutes to watch her TEDx talk.  If you don’t, you crazy:

So much love this morning.  It’s a bit of a teary Sunday, but I have the brown dog and an almond milk latte, and I am focusing on being grateful.  Spotify understands me, and it’s quiet here.  I’ve needed this all week.

Someone once asked me to name my favorite place in the world.  I couldn’t come up with just one (I’m a bit of a natural overachiever).  So, I narrowed it down to five, and among them was the place I sit now - the love seat with the afghan, next to the window.  I’m really, deeply happy here, especially when I’m writing.  Yet it’s easy to forget how badly I need this.  There are always awesome things to do on Sunday mornings: brunches to consume, hangovers to nurse, mountains to conquer, God to praise, sleep to catch up on, chores to run… I adore Sunday mornings.  And this Sunday morning, I decided between a killer bike ride, grocery shopping and just sitting.  I didn’t know it until now, but I subconsciously chose sitting.  And reflecting.  And quiet.  It’s been a bit of a crazy week, and I needed some time and quiet for my head to calm itself.  That happens best on this little couch.

I know a bunch of you have been following my most recent experiences.  And I can’t thank you enough for All Of The Love (said to the tune of Rhianna’s “All Of The Lights.”).  Just when you think you can’t feel any more love… There’s more love.  I love that.

This week continued my streak of really bad travel luck.  Suffice it to say it included canceled flights at midnight, 5 am shuttle rides, and fence-scaling with my boss and two new colleagues, one of whom said she felt like last week moved her from JV to Varsity.  We even gave her a letter jacket - the infamous green adidas jacket, which, when people hear we’re from Colorado, makes them think we work for that kind of ”wellness company” (translation: selling the pot).  It’s made for such great stories that we’re a bit loath to change our “uniforms.”

Anyway, I’m just rambling on now about nothing really important, so I’ll stop.  I guess the important part was in the need to sit on this couch and write… even if it was nothing all that profound.  I will now go do the other things Sunday mornings are meant for.  Thank you for AOTL.  I am incredibly grateful.

I almost don’t know where to start with this one, guys.  Sunday was practically a religious experience for me.  Actually, it was more of a “faith experience.”  I much prefer “faith” to “religion.”

Last Thursday night, after lots and lots of waffling, I decided that I would actually get on my early flight the next morning and go to Big Sur.  I would go, but only with zero expectations.  To say that I had not trained to run a marathon is the understatement of the century.  I had not run more than 5 miles in 3 months.  This is not an exaggeration.  But, not wanting to miss the incredible views of the coastline from Big Sur to Carmel, I decided I would stay registered for the marathon and run as far as I felt like running the morning of the race, and then, I would walk.  And once I was done walking, I would stop.  And then I would catch the sag bus and meet my friends at the finish line.  This was my plan.  And it took a WHOLE lot of self-coaching to be even a little ok with just taking it as it comes. 

My original crack at this post ended up being all about expectations… and I’ll post that one later (because I got a little long-winded and I didn’t even get to the part about the race), but let’s just say that I received some phenomenal advice on Thursday: Great, go to Big Sur, try to enjoy the weekend with your friends, and run however much you feel like running.  Just do one thing: Have no expectations for yourself.  Don’t just say you have no expectations, but really, truly have no expectations for yourself.

There are no words for how fortunate I feel to have been in a house full of people who told me to do whatever the hell I felt like doing.  People who undersand how hard it is to hold yourself to no expectations.  People who just get that you’ve been through hell lately.  These people gave me a room with a door and literally handed me a bell and told me to “ring for carrot cake and/or wine.”  These are good, good people.  People who let me have a meltdown within 15 minutes of meeting me and then immediately took me for tequila.  People who greeted me with real hugs and told me to do my thing and let them know what I needed.  People who said that the last time they were in Big Sur, they didn’t run the marathon because they straight up just didn’t feel like it.  They were exactly the people I needed.

I tried (really, really tried) to have no expectations.  But I learned this weekend that it is actually impossible for me to do that kind of thing through trying alone.  So, to ensure that I went into that run with absolutely nothing left, everything (every SINGLE thing) that could have possibly gone wrong leading up the start line, went wrong. 

It started with this, and went on to involve me missing the Monterey Airbus shuttle and eventually being dropped off multiple hours later at the Marina shuttle shop.  Apparently, “Marina” did NOT mean the “Monterey Marina” (two miles away from the house we were renting) but instead meant “the Wal-mart parking lot in Marina, California” which was another town over.  I was the only person to have arrived to Monterey that early, so I found myself with 3 hours to kill, a dead cell phone and low blood sugar in the Wal-Mart parking lot.  I walked for a hour, with a 35-pound pack to try to find a coffee shop in the middle of BF-nowhere (or WT-central), California.

Fortunately, two of those really good people described above thought to go out of their way to come get me.  For the record, they too thought they were picking me up at the Monterey Marina and were shocked to find me 20 miles away, in the middle of BF/WT, CA.  These good, good people got me to the nearest happy hour, and not too shortly thereafter, it was as though we had known each other for years.

Fast forward through tears and tequila to Sunday morning.  I had gone to bed (with my bell) at 6 pm the night before with the explicit instructions to the rest of the marathon group that if I was not in the kitchen, ready to go at 3:30 am (yes, seriously) for our departure, that meant I was not going to the race, and I was not to be disturbed.  It had been a rough month weekend, and they really, really understood.

Shockingly, I woke up just before my 3:15 alarm.  I laid there long enough to decide that I might as well do this (whatever “this” was), so I dragged myself from bed and repeated the same prayer/mantra I had been chanting all weekend: No expectations.  Run until you’re done and then be done.  That is enough.

It was nothing like marathons past.  I didn’t have my stuff laid out.   I didn’t have a “race outfit.” I hadn’t given any thought to what I would eat that morning or if I would get coffee.  I really, really just didn’t give a sh*t.  After everything that had happened up until then, I didn’t really even have a sh*t left to give. 

The lack of sh*t-giving also resulted in me being ridiculously unprepared.  Apparently, it’s cold in California in April.  And it’s super cold at 4 in the morning.  I had shown up with a tank top, running shorts and my shoes.  That’s it.  Lucky for me, the good people of the house donated clothes to my cause.  I ended up looking absolutely ridiculous in my multiple layers of mismatched attire, the llama hat some ex-boyfriend had given Carrie many moons before and my pajamas pants.  Nevertheless, I got myself “together,” grabbed my leftover brunch and a coconut water from the fridge and off we went.

After riding on the FREEZING cold bus for over an hour to the starting line, we arrived an hour and half before the start.  It was 35 degrees and we had to wait outside.  This is all pretty much my idea of torture.  So, our group staked out a spot and made ourselves “comfortable.”  I chowed down on my leftover bacon and eggs (yup, seriously) and started to assemble my totally discombobulated self.

At that time, I realized I didn’t have my running belt.  Dammit.  This meant, I had no way of carrying my phone (translation: my music/camera) or my energy gels.  Forgetting your running belt is every marathoner’s worst nightmare.  Whatever, I told myself, I’ll pack that stuff in my sports bra.  Who cares at this point? Certainly not me.

Marathoners also understand the importance of getting in line early and often for the porta-potties.  My porta-potty line position was one thing I could actually do something about, so I grabbed a cup of hot coffee and prepared to wait it out. 

I arrived to the bathroom area and was pleasantly surprised to see that there was actually no line at all.  I walked right in and quickly realized that I was still holding my coffee… which, I most certainly was not going to put on that disgusting floor.  So, instead I balanced it on the top of the toilet paper holder and got on with it.  With running shorts and pajama pants at my ankles, I sat* on the FREEZING cold toilet seat.

Almost immediately, the neighboring porta-potty occupant aggressively exited, slamming his stall door and sending my cup of steaming hot coffee FLYING… In. To. My. Shorts. and scalding my frozen legs.  Let me be very, very clear here: the coffee cup landed upside down in my shorts.  I was totally, and completely drenched.

If I had had ANY expectations left for the run… any small hope that maybe I would surprise myself and run a respectable distance… really ANY expectations AT ALL for f*cking ANYTHING good to happen… they were most certainly gone as I pulled up my soaked bottoms and walked out of the porta-potty covered in brown liquid.

So, with absolutely nothing left of my ego, and my expectations in the toilet (ironically, yet figuratively), the only thing I could do was run…

I have never in my life had an experience like the following 4 hours and 39 minutes (because people ALWAYS want to know how long a marathon took you… even when you tell them you had absolutely zero intention of actually finishing the race.  That almost makes them want to know more.  So there you go, you nosey people.  Now you don’t have to marathon-stalk me). 

It was the most peaceful, fulfilling, exhilarating and heavenly experience I believe I’ve ever had.  Every turn was magical.  There were no imaginary walls.   My legs just carried me.  I laughed and cried and TALKED to people.  I NEVER talk to people during marathons.  Not out loud anyway.  I actually usually swear at them (beginning right around mile 18) or judge them intensely (um… you wore THAT to a marathon.  You have GOT to be kidding me).  Maybe it was because I was wearing a llama hat and a jingle bell t-shirt and I had my phone between my boobs.  Maybe it was because I really Did. Not. Care. about anything but the beauty of the experience and the feeling of the ground beneath my feet.

The hills and the miles melted by, and I found myself continually surprised to look up and see that I was at mile 7 – 15 - 22, and I wasn’t ready to be done yet.  From the opening miles in the morning fog, to the turn when you first see the ocean, to the infamous bridge, to the taiko drumming as we climbed hurricane hill… all of it was absolutely breathtaking.

I chatted with God quite a bit over those miles.  It was impossible not to.  I understand now that each and every one of those terrible incidents leading up to and culminating in “coffee crotch” was absolutely necessary to prepare me for one of the best days of my life.  I simply couldn’t be trusted to appropriately level-set my expectations on my own volition alone. 

No matter how much I told myself that I would be ok (really, truly ok) with only running 1/8 of a marathon or even not running it at all, there was still a little part of me that hoped for a miracle.   Every time I told myself or someone else that I was just going to take it as it comes, there was a whisper in my head saying:

Fine, but what a waste of a trip (and the MONEY!) if you’re not even going to run… You’re going to feel really left out when you wake up in the empty house by yourself… Think how lazy you’re going to feel when everyone else is out there running… You’ll regret this… Maybe you should have just trained and you wouldn’t be missing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity… Fine don’t do it, but if you don’t run, then you don’t get to eat sugar ALL WEEKEND, and Carrie makes that awesome gluten-free carrot you love.  No running? Then, no carrot cake… You know what, you really suck, and you shouldn’t have even come this weekend.

If I’m honest, that whisper didn’t shut up until I found myself covered in coffee with my pants around my ankles and absolutely nothing left to lose.

___________________________________________________________________

*Yes, I actually sat on it… for two reasons: (1) it was early, so the porta-potty was still clean-ish, and (2) I needed to save whatever strength my quads had in them… so yes, I sat.  Try to get over it.  

I know I’ve mentioned this time and time again, but I’m pretty sure I could drive myself to the airport with my eyes closed.  I also tend to write lengthy and somewhat witty blog posts in my head on the way to the airport.  There’s something about travel that inspires me to write.  I hope to explore that in more detail at some point in my life but fully recognize that it may require an early retirement.

Anyway, this morning.  I was scheduled for a wayyyy too early flight for a PTO day, because my thought at the time of booking was that I would rather get up early and have more time in sunny California with my friends than sleep in and arrive mid-day.  Sorry friends, I love you guys, but I should have slept in.

I was C.R.A.B.B.Y. this morning (and I’m sure if I gave it some creative thought, I could come up with six self-descriptors to define that acronym, with the first word maybe being something about seeing you next Tuesday). 

Bright, early and en route, I wrote a blog post in my head about how if there were a contest for driving to the airport with your knee, while applying makeup, eating eggs, singing along to Spotify and drinking coffee, I would win.  Hands down.  I know I shouldn’t brag, and I know my mother is cringing while reading this, but it’s true.  I do this.  Almost every morning.  And believe me, I know I’m playing with fire.  One of these days, I’m going to rear-end someone because I’m too busy meticulously applying liquid eyeliner in my rearview mirror instead of watching the road on 1-70.  I know: Yikes. 

Yet, I wear the steering-wheel hole in my jeans, on the left leg above the kneecap, as a certain badge of honor.  I can’t help it.  I pride myself on my ability to multi-task. 

So this morning, I was mentally writing the above post, while eating scrambled eggs and cruising along on Pena Boulevard.  I had already applied my makeup before reaching the highway (which is ahead of my typical schedule), so I was mentally patting myself on the back for “leaving some time to enjoy my breakfast while I drive.”   When ALL OF A SUDDEN… The car ahead of me in the right hand land (I was responsibly in the center lane) started swerving very dangerously all over the place.  I immediately put down my bowl of eggs and assumed the appropriate 10-and-2 position, careful not to slam on my brakes, but to tap them to slow down and let the cars behind me know that something was amiss.

The Oldsmobile continued swerving across all three lanes of traffic at 75 miles an hour, when the passenger side door swung open and a woman balanced on the edge of her seat while pushing and kicking back at the driver, who was trying to throw her out of the moving vehicle.  Holy, holy sh*t , you guys.  There was nothing for me to do but stop, in the center lane, and watch, as her long hair kept getting caught in the slamming passenger side door.

The car tore off the road and into the ditch, and I quickly realized that all of the cars behind me had had the opposite gut reaction from me.  My instinct had told me to stop my car.  Apparently, everyone else’s instincts had told them to drive as fast as they possibly could and get the hell out of there.  I was a sitting duck when the Oldsmobile popped out of the ditch and back onto the highway, hurling along in the wrong direction and against traffic at a terrifying speed.

They missed me, and from what I could tell from watching in my rearview mirror, they missed everyone else too.  Thank God.  And that was when flight kicked in.  Not in the sense of my flight at the airport, but “flight” like that adrenaline hormone that tells you to run fast and far away.  So, like everyone else left in the aftermath, I floored it.  Floored it, while dialing 911 and frantically checking my rearview mirror, convinced the Oldsmobile would appear at any moment. 

 As I relayed the story to the dispatcher, I was amazed by two things.  One, I was the first person to call about the incident.  And I’ll be honest, it didn’t occur to me to report the emergency until I knew I was safely out of harm’s way (I’m not sure how I feel about that or what it says about my character, but there it is.)  I was the first person to call 911, even though it took at least two minutes for me to realize that was the appropriate response.  Second, I didn’t think to do anything helpful while it was happening… I didn’t look for a license plate number.  I didn’t notice the race of the two people in the car, even though I looked right at them while they raced past me in the opposite direction. Despite my many, many trips to the airport, multiple times per week, I struggled to tell the officer where exactly the incident had happened.  When asked what kind of car it was, I responded, “Um… an old car?  Yeah, like really old.  Like a car maybe from the 1970s.  Maybe it was an Oldsmobile.  But was white.  Or maybe grey.  Yeah, I think it was an old white car.” 

Emergencies are weird.  That’s the only conclusion I have for you.  They’re weird, and the way people respond in times of chaos and danger is fascinating, and frankly, it’s more than a little terrifying.  In light of all of the recent tragedies, the only spin I can put on this is that people who are heroes during really scary times are really, really heroes (profound, I know… but I can’t say it any other way).  I’m embarrassed that I panicked and froze in the midst of a (relatively-speaking) mini-disaster.  I’m surprised that the airwaves weren’t tied up with people calling 911.  And I am shocked that I could barely recall the details of the incident.

There’s no bow here.  That’s it.

i envy those
who live in two places:
new york, say, and london;
wales and spain;
l.a. and paris;
hawaii and switzerland.

there is always the anticipation
of the change, the chance that what is wrong
is the result of where you are. i have 
always loved both the freshness of
arriving and the relief of leaving. with 
two homes every move would be a homecoming.
i am not even considering the weather, hot
or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope.

-Gerald Locklin

It’s early.  It’s Saturday.  And I am awake because the dog puked.  

I’m convinced someone needs to invent a “vomit alarm,” as nothing gets me out of bed faster then the gurgling, gagging sound that comes right before the dog spews.  I hear from my mama friends that baby vomit has a similar effect, as do a whole host of other baby noises.  And for the record, yes, being one of the only childless friends left in my circle, I often use stories of my dog in a pathetic attempt to stay relevant.  And yes, perhaps more for the record, I know it’s not even close to the same thing.  My friends know that I know that I don’t really know, so they’re gracious enough to let it slide.  As much as they have to be fighting the eye-roll urge, they usually just nod politely when I make comments like, “Oh my gosh, I know EXACTLY what you mean.  My dog does that all the time too!”  Not the same, I know.  

I have good friends.

I’ve decided it would be a good idea to reflect on how much I adore the brown dog because right now, the 3 additional hours of sleep that I didn’t get is making me a tad resentful.  So, I will try very, very hard not to dwell on the (effing miserable) time I spent on my hands and knees cleaning (disgusting) yellow, biley vomit out of the carpet at 6 am this morning, and instead I’ll focus on what a joy the brown dog has been in my life over the years.

I got Stout the morning after a brutal breakup at a Mexican restaurant.  I won’t go in to the details other than to say I hiccupped and cried into my fajitas and, by pure coincidence, bad luck and a little bit of irony, I got stuck with the bill.  It was terrible.  I came home to a very supportive roommate (and by supportive, I mean that she opened a bottle of wine and a jar of dulce de leche and we got right down to it).  After reaching the tear quota for the night, I headed off to my room to check email and stalk the dog adoption website.  And there he was – the eight-week-old chocolate lab puppy I had been waiting for.

He is love.

I’m a very lucky girl.  A lucky girl going through a pretty tough time.  And I am so incredibly grateful for my friends.  

They say friends are the family you choose.  This couldn’t be more true (truer?) for me.  I have a great family, whom I love dearly.  I also have friends whom I love equally (if not more, some days) dearly.

I had in-flight and online happy hour this Friday evening with one particular friend, who offered the same exact advice another best friend had offered earlier in the week.  Write it down.  All of it.  Sit down and freaking write.  THAT is what you need. So stop fighting it and just do it already.

And they’re right.  While I probably won’t be writing for you all to see (at least not now), it needs to be written.  And I’m so incredibly blown away to have people in my life who just get that about me.

I’m reading this great book, Carry On, Warrior, by my favorite blogger.  I got on the plane and almost immediately burst into tears.  I was close enough to home that I felt like I could finally let go of all of the emotion I had been holding in all week, but I quickly realized that I still had three hours in the company of complete (and super judgey) strangers.  So I decided to read until I could sign online (yes, they now have airplanes with internet.  Crazy, believe me, I know).  I opened Carry On, Warrior, which… let’s be honest, is EXACTLY what I needed someone to tell me.  Call me an effing warrior and tell me to just carry on.  Please. 

Glennon writes: If, anywhere in your soul, you feel the desire to write, please write.  Write as a gift to yourself and others. Everyone has a story to tell.  Writing is not about creating tidy paragraphs that sound lovely or choosing the ‘right’ words.  It’s just about noticing who you are and noticing life and sharing what you notice… If you feel something calling you to … write … Just do it.  Be generous.  Offer a gift to the world that no one else can offer: yourself.