Because of a book

Last month, I read 29 for the From Left to Write book club. Simply put, it's about a grandmother who finds herself with the rare opportunity to live for one day as another age. As the title suggests, she chooses 29. What makes the story even better is that her granddaughter gets to experience the day with her.

The first thing that ran through my mind while reading was, if I could go back to any age for one day, which would I choose? I'm sure the answer might change as I get older, but as of now, I'd relive a day of my 17th year, ginormous glasses and all. Seventeen was the year of my first real love, the year I spent carefree days with friends before things like betrayal and tragedy became known to us, before we were naturally separated by adulthood. Instead of stressing about AP tests, I would cherish each moment spent on and behind the stage, a place I miss now. Instead of worrying about peering eyes, I would kiss my boyfriend with abandon, savoring sweet moments that I didn't realize I would forget over time. Instead of taking the days I had with my friends for granted, I would hug them each a little tighter, a little longer.

As I got deeper into the book, my thoughts turned to my own grandma. I remembered first seeing a picture of her when she was about my age and wondering what she was like back then. I thought about how amazing it would be to experience an earlier time with her. Then I wondered, what age would Gram choose? After turning the last page of the book, I wrapped it up to send to my grandma along with a note, basically saying what I've shared with you here.

Yesterday, when I called Gram for Mother's Day, I asked her what her decision would have been. She told me, "Sweet 16, or somewhere around that time." I was surprised that we chose similar ages, expecting for an almost 95-year-old woman to choose a later year. Being the kind of person who needs prodding before she'll talk about herself, Gram waited for me to ask, "Why?" before explaining. She said it was because she was a free spirit back then, and she briefly reminisced about wandering through the park next to her house until she heard her mother call her from the window for dinner. It was a small, yet meaningful, glimpse into a time I know little about in the life I someone I love.

I was reminded again of the power books can have. I doubt I ever would have had this conversation with Gram otherwise. This detail, though seemingly small, helps to make a more complete picture of who she is. A warm, memorable chat with Gram and a new tidbit of insight into her life, all made possible because of a book.

Making friends is hard to do*

*Sung to the tune of "Breaking Up is Hard to Do" because I like making up songs and then getting them stuck in your heads.

I remember a time not that long ago, college to be exact, when it was so easy to make friends in a new town. You ask the person sitting next to you in class, "Do you want to get together and study for this test?" And you're friends. You ask the person tanning next to you at the pool, "Want to go to a party tonight?" And you're friends. You say, "Go Gators!" to the person cheering next to you at the football game. And you're friends.

But now, you're older. You're not in school, your colleagues live hundreds of miles away and knew your IM handle before they knew your last name, and the people you meet at organized functions are busy with their families and don't have time to keep up with the friends they already have.

You put yourself out there, going to anything you can (even when you don't want to) where you might meet someone with a common interest, putting a big smile on your face, no matter how uncomfortable you feel. Eventually you meet her. A potential girlfriend. You exchange phone numbers and go home happy that you might be able to see a movie one day with someone other than your husband.

As the days pass, you look at her phone number. You want to call, but you don't. How many days do I have to wait so that I don't seem overly excited or needy? If I wait too long to call, will she lose interest? Should I wait for her to make the first move? You laugh at yourself. It's not like it's a boy you're trying to date. But when you do finally connect and decide to get together, you realize just how much like a blind date it really is. What if we have nothing in common? What if we run out of things to talk about before our lunch even arrives? What if there's no chemistry? Lunch goes well. It goes so well, in fact, that you don't realize four hours have passed since you arrived. The girl has made it through your audition, but did you earn a callback? And so the questioning begins again, and you wonder who this insecure person is and where her confident lookalike went. More than anything, you hope that this girl turns out to be good friend material because you don't know how many more times you can willingly put yourself through this.

Now is when you tell me that I'm not neurotic, or if I am, that I'm not alone (lie if you must).

---

On a completely unrelated note...
This blog has been going through a bit of an identity crisis in the past year, so I have decided to part ways with Crafty Cher and give her a new home, reserving this blog for posts about life and writing. If you're interested in my "artsy" side, you can hit me up at Second Glantz Crafts.

Sophie's Choice: Then and Now

When I watched this performance last week...

...my first thought was that Eddie Vedder is still beautiful (maybe even more so now). My second thought was how depressing it is that my teen crushes are now as old as my parents were when I first began crushing on them (no disrespect, Mom and Daddy).

The next day, I busted out all of my Pearl Jam CDs, remembering the music videos in my head, laughing when I heard "Daughter," which reminded for the first time in years of an inside joke from my freshman year in high school. As I downloaded Pearl Jam's newest CD, I remembered the difficult decision I had to make as a tween.

I finally had enough money to buy a stereo with a CD player, thanks to my grams. Once said stereo was secured, my parents agreed to buy me a CD since we only had records, tapes, and yes, 8-tracks at home. They took me to this new, amazing store called Target. It was so pretty. I walked to the electronics section with a spring in my step, excited to get Metallica's Black Album. It was a total no-brainer. Until I saw Pearl Jam's Ten sitting next to it.

Ten in one hand, the Black Album in the other, I looked imploringly at my parents, an implied question in the eyelashes I batted at Daddy. $17.99 and $15.99 stick out in my mind for some reason, but details aside, suffice it to say that CDs were expensive enough back then that my parents assured me only one would be going home with me. Metallica or Pearl Jam? It was my very own Sophie's Choice.

Ultimately, Eddie Vedder et al. remained clutched in my hand, while I said my silent apologies to James Hetfield, hoping he'd forgive my disloyalty.

At home, I watched Ten tirelessly spin in my new CD player as I listened to the songs over and over again. There was no regret about my decision, especially since it wasn't too long before Metallica joined my small music collection as my second CD.

Last week, as I was preparing my iPhone for my business travels, I was faced with a modern Sophie's Choice: an iTunes error message informed me that there wasn't enough room on my iPhone to sync my music selections.

Ruh-roh!

How in the world do I decide which albums to remove from my library? The thought process went something like this:

Okay, I know which ones I can't remove. My Evanescence playlist would be deleted over my dead body. I have to have them with me at all times. They're on my phone, my iPod, my desktop, my laptop, and even on Hubby's phone. I will not be without them.  

If I'm traveling, I have to have Dave Matthews Band with me. Their sound is the only one that will calm me in times of extreme stress. If my plane is going down, it's a safe bet that "Satellite" will be the last sound I hear. But do I need 10 hours of their music with me? Probably not. Okay, live DMB albums deleted. Now there's room for some Ani DiFranco, a necessary companion when I'm peeved, and I am going on a work trip after all. 

Broadway is a must. Lately, I've been listening to a lot of Wicked and Next to Normal, so those are the two shows loaded on my phone. One is going to have to be sacrificed, though, if I'm going to fit Glee on my phone, and how can I be without such an instantaneous pick-me-up? Hm, if I were found dead, and the police went through my music, the combination of Evanescence, Ani DiFranco and Next to Normal might give them the wrong idea, so Next to Normal will have to go. 

Finally, I need some tunes that will get me pumped if I'm feeling sluggish. This includes a custom mix from a friend and a few random albums, including the new Pearl Jam one, which is what started this whole darn thing in the first place. The only thing left for me to dump to make room for said happy music is my Rick Springfield playlist. I admit, I feel a little bad about this one - I mean, he is on my list and all. Then again, if I am found dead on my trip, I don't want the obit to include, "She was listening to "Jessie's Girl" when she died."

And so my library of travel tunes was complete. Too bad I didn't listen to a single song while I was away.

Shades of grey*

Since rediscovering my natural hair color in the past year (it's apparently brown, in case you were as curious as I was), I have begun to notice some ahem, highlights.

No, I'm not talking about the red that sometimes makes an appearance after I've been out in the sun. I'm talking about the shades of grey that have taken residence in my nest of curls.

In all honesty, I'm actually okay with this latest change in my appearance. I earned each strand fair and square (several are named after former students), and I see it as a rite of passage of sorts, wearing them like a badge of honor (or battle scars). I admittedly also don't mind looking a tad bit older. While looking young is not necessarily a bad thing, it sometimes has its disadvantages, especially in the professional world.

So the color (or lack thereof) I can welcome with semi-open arms. What I can't handle is the changing texture of said greys. As previously mentioned, I have a nest of curls that sit atop my head. The greys are like the broken springs of a mattress, sticking straight up like corkscrews. This is not okay. Did you hear me greys? Not. Okay. Key word being NOT.

Now understand, I am a master at taming unruly kinks. I've been doing it all my life (when I wasn't burning my hair with chemical straighteners). But there is no cream, spray, or serum powerful enough to tame these grey jerks. And so they stand at attention all over my head, like the screaming banshee.

I might have to take Hubby up on his "gracious" offer to pluck them out for me (if he'd let me pluck his eyebrows in return, we'd totally have a deal), because I'm not exactly sure what this look says, but it's definitely not "older and wiser."


*I stand by the British spelling of "gray." It's my one Anglophilic hangup.

crayons photo by Eliza Cate, image source; screaming banshee image source

My ABCs

I feel good... DaNaNaNaNaNaNa. It's day 2 of my fitness goal, and I am not only on track, but also enjoying it. Don't get me wrong - I'm not jumping out of bed with a spring in my step or anything. To the contrary, I lay in bed for 30 minutes talking myself into it and then drag myself downstairs at a sloth's pace. But after the second or third yoga pose, my eyes are finally open, and I'm proud of myself for making a good choice.

As I was thinking yesterday about the many things I try to fit in my day and the ever growing list of pastimes I try to juggle, I was reminded of my eighth grade year when my parents made me choose between continuing my dance lessons or taking Spanish class at the high school. Even though the choice was easy (a good dancer I am not), I remember thinking that it was unfair. I was interested in both, so why couldn't I do both? That was the first (but certainly not the last) time I got the "you can't do everything" spiel. I attempted to prove my parents wrong as I got old enough to make the kinds of decisions that would allow me to do so, taking an obscene number of college-level classes my junior and senior years in high school while attempting to participate in numerous extra-curricular activities. I survived it, but it wasn't pretty. I was burning the candle at both ends, as my mother loved to remind me, and as an adult looking back, I can see the toll it took on me both physically (eating Taco Bell at 10:00 at night after drama rehearsal only to fall asleep in your books a few hours later does not make for the healthiest regimen) and emotionally (I think my flare for the dramatic had less to do with me being in drama and more with me being tired and stressed all the time). But I didn't stop and learn my lesson then. No, I continued the frantic behavior through college and well into my career. Only now (we won't count how many years after high school that is), am I starting to learn a new set of ABCs: attitude, balance, and choice.

Attitude

It's bad enough trying to do everything; it's even worse trying to be perfect at everything you're trying to do. When I make the decision to take on a big load, I know now that I have to shift my attitude. For instance, this month I'm participating in three scrapbooking endeavors - two classes at Big Picture Scrapbooking and one Layout a Day challenge. When I'm taking just one class, I can expect myself to keep up with the assignments and fully engage on the message boards. Similarly, if all I'm doing is the LOAD challenge that month, I can expect to make 30 good layouts. But if I want to have it all, I have to change my attitude and accept the fact that I can't comment on every discussion board, nor is every layout I make going to be perfect. If my expectations aren't realistic, I'm setting myself up for disappointment and possibly even a dislike for otherwise enjoyable activities.

Balance

Some people are content to have one hobby; I wish I was one of them, but I'm not (all the blame for that one goes to my "renaissance man" dad). As is evident by my all-over-the-place blog, I like to spend my time doing a myriad of things. Admittedly, some things I try for a time and am content not to adopt on a lifelong basis. But as I get older, I find more and more that I like - and want - to do. Though it took me decades, I finally get what Mom told me all those years ago. I might be able to do it all, but definitely not at the same time. So I have to find a balance. I can no longer scrapbook every minute between dinner and bedtime every day if I also hope to crank out another chapter. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm no longer trying to blog everyday right now: I decided to focus this month on scrapbooking because all of these fun things are happening in that world right now, and I'll turn my focus back to blogging when that calms down. In order to achieve balance, I have to be willing (there's that attitude thing again) to make choices.

Choice

I realized yesterday, that I was really missing my piano playing (when I say piano, I mean keyboard, and when I say playing, I mean tinkering). But I also had a blog post brewing. And I wanted to create a layout for the day because I had skipped Sunday (which I was okay with thanks to an attitude adjustment). (And I might have also wanted to watch The Bachelor... don't judge.) So I made a choice. I spent the hour I would have blogged playing the piano, and I made a quick, not-so-great (but I was okay with that, too) digital layout while watching The Bachelor. My attitude and choice achieved balance. And in turn, the balance affected my attitude, making me super happy that I progressed in learning a new song.

So what if it took me more than a decade to learn? Now I know my ABCs...

Under WHERE?

The lovely ladies at Girl Talk Thursday want me to talk about my skivvies. This definitely begs for a new post label: TMI. No?

But if I can stand in front of several high school crushes in only my underthings when changing costumes (I was in theatre, people), I can certainly talk about them.

If reading this post is going to get your panties in a wad (I'm sorry, did you miss the part about me being a dork and loving to make puns?) then I'll see you back here tomorrow with a less-revealing topic.

I'm a bit anal... oh, maybe that's not the best choice of words in a post about underwear... OCD about categorizing things (though you'd never know it by looking at the current state of my house). My underwear is no exception. The drawer that houses my unmentionables is divided into three sections, corresponding to my three categories of undies:

enter if you dare

1. comfy, cotton panties;
2. comfy-but-won't-let-the-girl-downstairs-breathe, line-free panties and thongs; and
3. why-did-I-buy-these, I'm-ever-going-to-wear-these, I'm-a-married-woman panties.

Needless to say, only 1 of the 3 categories makes regular appearances in the laundry.

I remember being obsessed as a teen with making sure I had pretty, matching bras and panties on at all times because you never knew when your boyfriend was going to move to third base girlfriends might see you in the locker room. Now? I'm lucky to put on a bra that's not stretched out and panties that don't have holes in them (I'm pretty sure the "thou shalt not divorce thy wife for wearing ugly undies" clause is right next to the "thou shalt not divorce thy wife for not shaving her legs all winter" clause in the marriage contract Hubby signed). No, my Victoria's Secret money goes to practical things these days, like sweaters that will keep me warm enough to prevent a $500 heating bill (and lip gloss, lots and lots of lip gloss). Just another sign of getting old, I guess.