Don’t cut off your nose to spite your Facebook

It is hard for most of us to imagine a world without social media.  We tweet, post, link, like and when we’re through, we retweet, repost, and share again.

What is the first site you think of when you think of social media?  Chances are, you think of Facebook.  There’s a good reason for that.  Everything we do, from stopping for coffee on the way to work, to picking up take-out on the way home, is linked to Facebook.

Facebook logo Español: Logotipo de Facebook Fr...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The movies I watch, the theaters I watch them in, the music I listen to, and the stores I frequent all have pages on Facebook.  There was a time when buying merchandise was thanks enough, but now they want me to “like” them, too.  It was fun for a while.  One of my favorite pizza joints posts coupons on Facebook.  I used it a couple of times.  Now it just tells me which nights to avoid so I don’t hit the FB coupon lines.

My soda has a Facebook page, my permanent markers have a Facebook page, and yes, I have a Facebook page.  I have 227 Facebook friends.  The last time I saw that many people all at the same time was probably at my wedding.  And I didn’t really know half of them, either.  As friend lists go, mine is pretty short, and I could probably cull it even further.

Typically, 70% of the posts are not original, but simply reposts of what someone else posted.  Maybe this is true in real life, too.  I mean, maybe I’m coming down too hard on my FB friends.  How much of what we say in person is original, either?  Personally, I just don’t have time to sit around reading all the stuff that other people post so that I can repost it on my timeline.  To be fair, I don’t spend a lot of time on FB at all, and it’s not a place I like to share my deepest thoughts, my every move, or my drama.

Yes!  I have drama in my life.  Who doesn’t?  I make a choice to keep my life private — both in Facebook and reality.  Posting my drama just leaves me open for pity or those who want to one-up me, neither of which is better than the other.  Keeping my drama on the down-low allows me to seek guidance from those I select, while putting up a classy don’t-you-envy-my-life front for the rest of the world.

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If I’m on Facebook, I am most commonly accessing it from my phone.  I could put the phone down, but what fun is that?  Me and my Smartphone rule the world, and FB just wants in on it.

  • Notification:  You have an 1 event pending!
  • Notification:  Friends have sent you 3 game invitations!
  • Notification:  You have 1 friend request!

This event invitation is one I’m too honest to accept, and too compassionate to decline.  It’s an invitation to send a Christmas card to a  little kid with Cerebral Palsy.  I agree with the concept, but here’s the thing . . .  The invite says “our address is . .”  so whoever created this lives with the kid and is looking forward to all the warm fuzzies of watching the child be buried in his own Christmas mail.  There’s also the part about sending mail to a child I don’t know.  How would I sign it?  Love?  Sincerely?  Yours Truly?  I’ll probably give money to my local food shelf and click “tentative” on the invite just to make it go away, and hope the FB Friend who invited me will forget they did.

The game invites I will delete, only to have them pop up again tomorrow.  There are three games I play.  One is a quick timed word game, another is a zone-out bedtime number game.  The last is a virtual reality that feels more like a grown-up dollhouse.  I talk about them like they’re real, and mourn them briefly when they die.  It freaks Bubba out and that’s enough for me.  None of these games require Facebook, and I stopped posting my high scores there as soon as I figured out how to adjust the setting.

English: Woman in bikini.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The friend request will be accepted, providing her name isn’t Brandi and wearing a bikini.  That happens.  It’s not that I’m opposed to a girl wearing a bikini, it’s that she spells her name with an “i” and wants me to spend money getting to know her.

A bit of advice for those losing passwords.  Do not click the option that says, “We don’t recognize your username or password.  Would you like to sign in using Facebook?”  Clicking OKAY will not direct you to your original account.  It will set up a whole new account.  You will now have two accounts.  One with none of your history, and the other with no way to get into it.

Why would Facebook and your favorite app want you to sign in through FB?  Because they share your information like two biddies down the street over a cup of cheap coffee.

“She likes browsing sexy lingerie!”

“Are you serious?  Wait until I tell the other sites about that!”

“Oh my!  Do let me know which sites are interested!”

“You’ll be the first to know!  Have some more coffee . . . sugar?”

” . . . and cream, if you have it.”

I know it’s all in the name of suggestive marketing.  The grocery store does the same thing when they place ping pong balls next to the 3.2 beer.  But Cub Foods doesn’t send someone around to watch what labels I’m reading for the sole purpose of suggesting I buy something else.  That would be nosey and I’d stop shopping there.

So why do I continue to shop at Facebook?  I treat it like a party hosted by a friend of a friend of a friend.  I don’t really know the host, but I respect the space and everyone there.  It’s a good place to reconnect with lost loved ones, and see how their kids have grown.  There are a lot of different conversations going on, so if I don’t like one I can join another.  I try to keep it generic, because there are a lot of people attending from all walks of life.  It may not be the best party going on, but you’re bound to see someone that makes you smile.

Like any party, it’s better after you’ve had a few.  So if you see me there, I’m likely to have a drink in my hand.  I won’t be driving, but if you’re a good friend and I’ve had too many, please tell me to put the phone down . . .

Peace . . .


The Behavioral Science of Snow Removal

Schneeschaufel snow shovel

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It occurs to me that those living closer to the equator may not have the luxury of appraising neighbors on methods of snow removal.  By closer I mean closer than one of the northern-most United States of America.  Mention you are from Minnesota, and people immediately conjure images of wolf-like dogs racing across an open tundra, a parka-clad rider mushing them on in search of the next meal of blubber.

Yeah, it’s something like that.  Only I’m in my Dodge Neon, the dog has positioned herself on the center console looking out over the dashboard, and I’m on my way to the supermarket.  Sure it’s cold, and there’s snow on the roads.  It’s Minnesota.  It’s winter.  Get over it.  The minute a flake falls from the sky, everyone wants to know what the roads are like.  My answer?  “Eh . . it’s winter.”

And with the season comes the practiced art of snow removal.  Minnesotans have been removing snow for centuries.  Technically, the snow is not removed.  You can’t remove snow unless you bring it inside, melt it and flush it down the drain.  No, we move it.  From here to there.  Sometimes, we have so much snow to move that we scoop it up in front loaders, empty it into dump trucks and haul it away.  I’m not sure where they go with it, but if it were me I’d haul it to California.

While snow in the city comes with parking bans, tow trucks and impound fees, in the suburbs it’s all about what your neighbor is doing.  Why should winter be different than any other season?  As soon as the lawn is covered, and they can no longer judge the green of your grass, they will begin to analyze the white of your driveway.

Technically speaking, if one does not remove the snow from one’s driveway, the snow will eventually remove itself.  However, if your intention is to leave the snow until it melts in the spring, after driving over it and the fluctuations in temperature, you’re going to end up axle-deep in frozen ruts going nowhere fast.  I think all Minnesotans can agree that some amount of snow movement is necessary.

You have several options, offering various stages of effort and cost.  You can buy a shovel or hire a kid to shovel you out.  You can buy a snowblower, or hope a neighbor brings one over.  Some people put a plow on the front of their truck and not only plow out their place, but make money plowing out others.  My dad used to take out his four-wheel drive with the plow on the front and drive around looking for little old ladies shoveling their own driveway or families stuck in the ditch.  His pay was the smile on their face.

Once suburbanites have chosen our option of snow removal, we are obligated to assess our neighbors’ methods and motivation.  It is safe to say that a homeowner can be accurately labeled by the driveway he keeps.

  • The Gambler:  This guy checks the forecast first.  He may leave up to three inches lay if he thinks it will melt by 2 p.m. tomorrow.  If the stuff is still falling, he gauges the weight per shovelful, duration of snowfall, and rate of accumulation before making his plan of attack.
  • The Sloth:  This one owns a snowblower, but will wait to see if it melts first.  He is often seen three days later carelessly snow-blowing ice chunks toward windows and small children.
  • The OCD:  He is out there with his shovel as soon as a dusting appears.  Unfortunately, as soon as he finishes the bottom of the driveway, the top is already accumulating snow again, and he can’t possibly go inside until the whole thing is clear.  You might want to bring over a cup of hot chocolate or a small meal.
  • The Over-Acheiver:  You can spot this star student by the way he not only shovels his sidewalk and driveway, but his effort extends to parts of the yard, and even into the street.  Where other houses’ curbs slope naturally to the street, his is cut at a 90-degree angle exactly at curb depth.
  • The Good Samaritan:  This guy can often be spotted down the street, snow-blowing out every plow drift along the way.  The plow drift, as Northerners know, is what the city plow deposits at the end of your driveway after you have meticulously cleared it out.  The Good Samaritan wears a frost-encrusted smile accompanied by a frozen-snot icicle mustache.
  • The Homeschooler:  You can spot this one by the number of shovels lined up in various sizes outside the door.  While the shovels are in use, please slow to 15 mph as children will be present.

Me?  I’m inside huddled next to the space heater.  The chimneys across the street are emitting a steady flow of horizontal steam, communicating a cold, steady wind against a sunny blue sky.  I can hear the rhythmic scrape of Bubba’s shovel, his black toque bobbing occasionally above the window sash.  He finally invested in a snowblower this year.  And as Murphy’s Law dictates, I think we can forecast a fairly light year for the stuff, rarely dropping enough to start it up.

Maybe that makes me the smart homeowner.

Peace . . .


Coffee, a Good Friend and a Dog

As I sit in the quiet of my own thoughts, I am reminded of one of my best practices, “Be your own best friend.”  I love to sit on the couch before the house wakens and watch the sun come up.  The sky changes hues, the clouds shift, and the world comes alive.

There is no one else I would rather be with in these moments than my self.  We sit, the two of us, in our honesty and peace, and share a steaming cup of coffee, perhaps with cinnamon or cream.

“How delicious,” I say, as the warmth fills my chest.

I remember the week, with its lists and rush and habitual planning.  I wince.  “Remember what I said to that guy at work?”  My self smiles, and remembers.  “He knows you didn’t mean it like that,” she says.  “You probably didn’t sound as crazy as you think you did.”

My self is practical, and forgiving.  And she’s right.  The guy probably doesn’t even remember what I said, much less how I said it.  I reach for a doughnut hole that Bubba brought home the day before.  It smells delicious and pairs well with the coffee.  My self smiles.  “Don’t forget how well you’ve been taking care of yourself.”   I haven’t forgotten, and I promise my self that I will savor it and eat something healthier later.

Mount Kinabalu Clouds 2

The dog lays her warm head on my knee.  Her brown eyes are irresistible.  I trace her forehead with my fingertips.  The sky is beginning to lighten.  The clouds are purple-grey.

Funny stories from the week return.  Bubba using foreign accents just to hear me laugh.  A coworker teasing me on the phone.  My self chuckles, and says, “What would it be like to see nothing humorous in the world?”  For a moment, I feel guilty.  “I suppose there is enough suffering in the world that I shouldn’t make idle fun at every turn.”  My self thinks this over for a moment and replies, “I suppose there is enough suffering in the world that one should find humor where one can.”

We balance each other.  Me, putting my best foot forward in the world, and my self justifying the way I do it.  She eases my guilt, my shame, my embarrassment.

clouds

Blue is beginning to break through the clouds.  White, fluffy puffs race across my window, right to left.  Silhouetted branches dance in the wind.  Cars begin to move on the street.  Voices.  A stirring from the bedroom.

“I could take a walk.  You know . . . get a few steps in before I start the day.”

My self considers this.  “I’ve been looking forward to this time all week.  The peace and quiet.  Just the two of us.”  We guard this tranquility jealously.  I tuck my cold toes under my leg.

“We have all day to get more steps.  We can go to the dog park later,”  I say.  She smiles.

“I’m really happy with how my resume turned out.”

“You did a nice job.”

“I hope they think so.  I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Nor I without you.”

I think about how far we’ve come, my best friend and I.  She isn’t always my best friend.  At times she is my own worst enemy, letting anxiety and fear mushroom to the surface.  But for all the times I’ve despised her, she is the only one who is with me every minute of every day.  When it seems the world is against me, she is there still.  When I’m in a crowd, or on stage, or in the dark, she abides.

Sometimes I see her looking back at me from the mirror.  If I could remember when I was a baby, I would remember loving seeing her there.   Babies gaze into mirrors, laugh at them, touch them, and sometimes try to kiss them.  When does that end?  Is it with our first bad haircut?  Our first pimple?

There is so much we share that the world will never know.  A random act of kindness is made more precious by keeping it between the two of us.  She is the only one I can trust with wicked gossip or spoken confidentialities.  My self even holds secrets from me too, revealing them only when I am ready to know — she can be very sly!

We celebrate together.  We never wait for others to acknowledge our birthday.  If she wants a party, I plan it!  If I want a special meal, she comes up with a menu!  If we want a gift, we go shopping!  No one knows how I want to celebrate better than my self, so why would I place that expectation on anyone else?

I value this relationship I have with my self, and make time for us.  It requires life to slow down.  It necessitates waiting and listening until her voice is clear.  It takes being honest with my self and accepting what she says with love and understanding.

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The dog’s wagging tail tells me that Bubba is waking.  My cup is cold and empty.  Heavy blue November clouds now hang in the sky.  Our quiet time is coming to a close.

I reach for another doughnut hole and my self says nothing, but I know she’s thinking it.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

It’s true.  Best friends don’t have to say anything.  They just know.

Peace . . .


Plant Yourself Where You Can Bloom

St. Francis de Sales, the gentleman saint and ...

St. Francis de Sales, practicing his blooming (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

..~~*~~..

“Bloom where you are planted.”

 — The Bishop of Geneva, Saint Francis de Sales (1567-1622)

*~~.~~*

We’ve all heard these words of wisdom.  Blooms are beautiful, and graceful, and showy.  They also smell good.  And who doesn’t want to smell good?  But the old adage sounds a little to me like, “Shut up and get back to work.”  I mean, making the best of things is always a good idea, but there’s nothing wrong with thinking outside the planter.

You may be a late bloomer, in full bloom, or just wearing bloomers, but I think we can all agree that blooming is good.  A bloom is a plant’s marketing campaign.  It’s like walking through Macy’s.  You’re only going in for the white sale, when all of a sudden you’re sidetracked by the bright lights and juicy colors of the cosmetic department.  Your head turns.  Left, then right.  The next thing you know you’ve walked headfirst into a woman spritzing you with this year’s version of Miss Dior Eau De Toilette.  Suddenly you’re dancing around like a bee on a stamen.

English: A picture of compost soil

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When someone tells me to bloom where I am planted, it’s usually because they’ve buried me in dirt.  “Sit here, I’ll bring you water when you look dry.  Now, do something fabulous!”

Last year I planted some zinnia and sweet alyssum seeds.  They came up great.  They bloomed where they were planted as expected, and at the end of the summer, I pulled them out and dragged their dead, lifeless carcasses to the compost pile.  Their job was done.  I gave them water, sunshine and the occasional human-to-plant conversation.  I enjoyed their grandeur, and I was grateful.

On the way to the compost pile last fall, a few seeds fell off and nestled into the scrappy little spot between our driveway and the neighbor’s.  In the spring, they germinated.  The seedlings were unnoticeable until their height surpassed those of the weeds.  Eventually demanding my attention, I realized they were unmistakably zinnia.  It wasn’t until a few weeks later I noticed the smaller, daintier white flowers of the sweet alyssum too.
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My front garden blooms every year.  It greets me on the way in, and rivals the draw of any cosmetic counter for the bees and butterflies.  But it was the courageous zinnia with its alyssum companion that made me smile the most this summer.

While weeding the cracks, my neighbor called from his backyard deck, “Don’t pull the flower!”  I knew they were smiling too.  And it made me think about Saint Francis de Sales’ words a lot.  I thought about the difference between blooming where you are planted, and finding a place to plant yourself.

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When you find a place you want to grow, you’re no less beautiful, and you smell just as good — provided you practice personal hygiene, of course — but it might take a little longer to get noticed, because people won’t expect to see you where they aren’t looking.  But once you rise above the weeds, and they get a chance to know you for who you are, you will make them smile.  You will be blooming in a place they didn’t even realize needed a flower, or knew that one could grow.

In time, you might even find that they make a regular garden out of it, and you can take pride in knowing that your blossom was the first of many.  And maybe . . . just maybe, as one day they haul your body off to the compost, one of your seeds will fall in a crack in some other forgotten space . . .

Or maybe that’s another story.

Peace . . .


Are You Living a Life of Balance or Control?

 

Balance is a condition in which an object is subject to equal forces or weights, enabling it to remain steady.  The world is in constant flux.  Nature is in an endless state of rebalancing itself.  Humans, being more of nature than we are willing to admit, are drawn to the never-ending endeavor to balance.

Chances are, in the past twenty-four hours you have thought about balancing at least three the following:

  • Workload vs. Personal Time

    Yin and yang stones

    Yin and yang stones (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

  • Relationships vs. Solitude
  • Spending vs. Saving
  • Weight Gain vs. Weight Loss
  • Sleep vs. Wake
  • Exercise vs. Rest
  • Perfection vs. Acceptance
  • Beauty vs. Function
  • Work vs. Play

Since the beginning of time, we have pontificated the meaning of balance.  Think yin and yang, buddhism and dualism.  The ancient Greeks, Chinese, and the Aztecs all had great philosophers of balance.  Give the word balance a go in your search engine, and you will see that nothing has changed in over two thousand years.  Humankind still seeks the point of balance.

The problem with being human, is that we not only strive for a thing, we believe we can conquer it.  We seek to achieve balance, as if it is something that is owned and kept.  However, balance is only present for the fleeting moment between too much and too little; on the border between light and dark.  The point of balance is so fragile that a soft breeze or speck of dust can overcome it.

A world with true balance would be one without wind or heat or rain.  The cost of balance is monotony.

Life is not meant to be balanced.  In our struggle to own balance, we have moved away from the natural ebb and flow of equilibrium.  We have shifted toward a desire to rigidly control it.  We believe that if only we could control everything (see the above list), existence would be a breeze.  In a balanced life, we are prepared for any situation, there is time for all our duties and passions.  We are healthy, happy, financially secure, and love what we do for a living.   The natural world is not one of total control.  It is fluid, in motion, swinging one way and then the next.

Barbara Billingsley in the pilot "It's a ...

Barbara Billingsley in the pilot “It’s a Small World”, 1957. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I spent too many years trying to devise the perfect menu plan, budget, schedule, diet.  I tried to control the motion around me.  Each day was a new chance and every bedtime was another failure.  Friends hear me say that June Cleaver was my idol, and we joke about that, but it was real.  Many of my best years were lived trying to be a fictional character in a time period that no longer existed.  The time with my children — the laughs, what I learned, the privilege — I wouldn’t trade for anything on earth.  If only I hadn’t felt such a need to control it all . . .

While the cost of perfect balance is monotony, the cost of maintaining control is turmoil.  A person believing he can achieve balance is one fighting against the natural movement around them.  He is trying to stand still in the surf or stop the wind from destroying a house of cards.  It is not the peaceful existence he had hoped for at all.

I am learning to enjoy a life of natural balance — shifting when the tide rolls in, regrowing after the fire dies out, appreciating the warmth of the sun before nightfall . . . because I cannot tell the sun when it is time to set.

I have found life is more peaceful this way.  Sure I am still drawn to making the compulsive list or two.  They can be found tucked in backs of drawers or folded between the pages of books.  And so I allow myself these occasional fits of contemplation, pen in hand, eventually admitting that the balance is in the imperfection.

Peace . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


How I Lost Over 150 Ugly Pounds in One Week

Five days off work, plus two weekends equals 9 days in a row of over-indulgent ME-time!  Some people travel.  Others reconnect with nature or family.  I like to choose a theme.  This week the theme was Decluttering.  If you know me at all, you will know that anything worth doing is worth making a list:

Items that need decluttering include:

  • Coats
  • Table Linens
  • Entertainment center
  • Clothing
  • Undergarments and socks
  • Pajamas
  • Cleaning closet
  • Pet supplies
  • Cookware
  • Beauty and health products
  • Crafts
  • Books

Half Price Books

As you can see, I have my work cut out for me.  I decided to start with the books.  Three boxes have been patiently waiting for their trip to the Half-Price Bookstore for several years, so this was an easy beginning.  I dusted them off, trying hard not to fall back in love with any of them in the process.  I only rescued two.  One was a trail-guide to trees, which I’ve actually searched for twice this year.

“Oh, hey . . . HERE you are!”

The other was my How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk book.  I can’t believe I was going to give away the all-time best book on communication EVER.  What was I thinking?

Because today is a beautiful sunny day, I dressed in a lightweight t-shirt.  I checked twice to make sure you couldn’t see the dark-colored bra underneath, finally deciding it was only visible if you were staring at my chest.  At my age, I can only hope for so much!  My brushed hair fell in soft waves along my shoulders.  With my cheeks blushed, eyelashes curled, I looked in the mirror.

“Hello, beautiful!  Looking good!”

On the way out, I grabbed another stack of recyclables harvested from craft supplies and patterns, and a sack of trashed junk from the basement.  Both the trash bin and the recycle bin are nearly full, and the garbage pick-up was yesterday!  My step lightened as I went back in to grab the latest box of culled books.

“Wow!  How much does this bad boy weigh?”

I stepped on the scale with and without the box.  It weighed in at around 38 pounds.  No wonder I was looking so great this morning.  I’ve lost a lot of weight!

Balancing the box against the store window while pulling the door open, I looked down.  The weighty box stretched my shirt, revealing not only my plentiful cleavage, but the black brassiere I had carefully checked for show-through.  I released the door and hauled up on the neckline of my t-shirt.  A chivalrous employee ran from inside to hold the door.  Hiding behind my sunglasses, I accepted their offer and retreated to my car.

George Washington smiled smugly from the ten-spot.  He knew I was taking him to coffee.  There I ran into a friend from work.  She asked how my week of decluttering was going.  After I shared with her the fruits of my labor, she said, “Well, you look . . “

“I know.  I look great, right?”

We shared a nod and a broad grin before I went on my way.

Clearly the weight loss was showing.  As with any plan, you need to stay motivated, or you’ll be right back where you started — or worse.  The problem with taking nine consecutive days from work, is that nine days is exactly how long it takes to forget how energy-depleting work life is.  Today, on day eight, I’m all like,

“I can keep up this momentum!  All I have to do is to come home from work and spend a half hour each day organizing and decluttering!”

I seem to have forgotten that feeling of wanting nothing more than to put on my p.j.s and melt into the couch.  Not to mention getting ready for the next day,  bedtime rituals, possibly mustering up enough energy to eat a healthy dinner.  And how, by Thursday, I usually just say,

“F*** it, give me a peanut butter sandwich.”

English: A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, m...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t get me wrong, I love my time off, but she’s a tease.  Everything seems attainable from this side of the time-clock.

So what’s my plan?  How do I keep moving forward after the success of a 150-pound week?  Maybe these inspirational quotes will be more effective for decluttering than they have been for weight loss.

“This is a journey, not a destination.”

“One pound at a time.”

“When I feel like quitting, I ask myself why I started.”

“Good things come to those who work their asses off.”

“Keep calm and carry a gun.”

Wait . . . that last one I read on a t-shirt at the gas station.

Never mind.

Peace . . .


Note. To Self:

When I began this blog, back when I called it WholeyJeans, I worried about what would happen if I went back and read my first posts.  Would I want to edit them?  Would I find them embarrassing?  Would I want to delete some of them?

Now that I’m in it a while, I find I’m so busy trying to keep up on other peoples’ writing, I don’t have time to go back and read my own.  Yet when asked for whom I write, I answer, “Myself.”  So just in case my self should stop by, I’d like to leave a little note.

To Self:

I’m glad you’re stopping by to check out the blog.  I’m curious to know your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment.

There are a few things I should probably tell you.  People are saying that you are too hard on yourself.  You should really lighten up.  After all, you do your best in everything you try.  Other things that people say is that you are hard-working, creative, dependable, responsible and wise.  I’m proud to say that you are my self, and if you insist on being such a hard-ass, I’m going to have to step in.

I don’t want to share rumors, but I’ve also been told you are quite the worrier.  I understand wanting to research and prepare before you move forward, but with all due respect, I think it’s paralyzing you.  It might be time to set aside the details and take some small steps.  Moving in some direction is better than not moving at all.  You don’t learn anything sitting still, you know what I mean?

That’s pretty much it for now.  I’m really glad you stopped by.  Keep up the good work.  I know it isn’t easy to balance time, bank accounts, family, health and recreation.  But if you keep doing what you’re doing, everything is going to be just fine.

Remember . . .

Be yourself. You’re okay. And it really doesn’t matter what other people think.”
– Taylor Schilling

Which is completely unoriginal, and very easy for her to say.  When you’re rich and beautiful and famous, I can imagine it would be a lot easier to not care what people think.  But it’s true anyway . . .

Peace . . .

 

 


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