5 years blogging: at peace...with being at peace

Happy 5th Blog-o-versary to me! 

This is post #718 for The Peterson's Go Public! blog.

That's a lot-o-posts!!!

I know a lot of it feels like the same ol', same ol--- but I'm certain it was still totally worth the time it took to for me to ponder and write as every single post has helped me sort things out spiritually, emotionally, and mentallly. And hopefully to help some of you, too, who may be reading for whatever reason.

It's crazy, over the last 5 years, how much has changed.
And how much has stayed the same.
Especially me.

For as long as I can remember, I have always been a faithful, God-centered individual. But having to live these last years completely reliant on my Heavenly Father the way I used to be on my husband--to comfort, provide, support, give advice, share in my victories, and--yeah--even complain to, has cemented that faith deeper than I could ever have imagined. It has increased my empathy for those who struggle in so many ways. It has made me more sensitive to the promptings of the Spirit. It has further heightened my gratitude for life's daily blessings, small and great. It has taught me, as I have received so many blessed acts of service, to look for and act upon every opportunity to serve, as even little acts of kindness can have such an impact.

One of the biggest changes it has made on me is in my ability to be at peace. 

I learned early on in my single life that I would get eaten up by fear and overwhelmed by all that was in front of me if I didn't let the worry go. I had to learn to look to the past for wisdom and perspective, to the future so I could properly walk towards goals I wanted to accomplish, but to live solidly in the present. If I came up against a situation or trial I couldn't resolve, I learned to apply the amount of effort I could (which is often an uncomfortable, exhausting amount) -- but then to just let it go and let One who was a better problem solver than I take care of it.

It has been a long and hard-learned lesson, the letting go, the finding the balance between "doing all within my power" and the "being still," but I've made leaps and bounds in my progress. And I am committed to continue to learn.

I don't like waiting. I don't like feeling helpless or ineffective. But I have learned to find peace, despite.

And I'm at peace...with being at peace.

I know, without a doubt, I am loved by my Savior. That he cares about and is aware of all my struggles and needs. That He is working overtime to bring blessings to pass for me, but in His time and in His way...which (another thing I've learned) are better than ways I can think up.

Many of you have asked about how things went in California with my job interviews and with Mr. Perfect. And I can answer wonderful and wonderful. Maybe I'll say more later--there's a lot to say--but that will just have to do for now.
I haven't heard back yet if I'm hired or not (the companies all told me it would be about two weeks before I did) but I really would like nothing more than to find sufficient employment and make the move to California to (amongst other things) be near this incredible man who constantly summons within me a feeling like coming home, and to spend more time with his precious,wonderful girls.  He would like that, too.

But I can't force it or speed it up. I can't make people hire me. I can't wave a wand and have a magical pile of money appear. I can't have my whole house packed up and cleaned and sold or rented in a day. So I wait.

And while I have moments of panic in the wait, I stop and  remind myself that things are working out. Things are starting to fall into place. I'm going the right direction. My head and heart both say yes. I am having positive opportunities continue to be placed in front of me, and I trust that. All of it. It will all work out, however it is supposed to work out. And that is, peacefully, enough.

afraid all this will end. afraid it won't.

I remember meeting with one of my church leaders over six years ago, early 2006. I had just found out my mom was not going to get better. I was four months pregnant with our fourth son. Our home felt suffocatingly small and the real estate market was just starting to crash. Our business was still shaky. I was worried about my husband's unexplained bouts of self-loathing and the quiet anger that often accompanied them. After nearly 12 years of what I can only explain as wedded bliss that seemed to grow with each year, that period in my life was like a cold slap in the face.  I remember asking this leader,

"Is there really any lasting joy to be had in this life? Is there any real earthly reward for living life in the way God asks?"

He smiled, a wisened older-man type smile, and said, "Well, now that's the real question, isn't it?" He told me that life was like an old-fashioned train ride--with an excess of chugging uphill and black smoke in your face. The goal was to keep watching for those spots when the smoke would clear and you would have a straight shot with a lovely vista to take in before the next hill. "Worth it" moments when the journey made sense.

Little did I know that meeting was just the beginning of what has been one big uphill--Rheumatic Fever, divorce, death of family and loved ones, finishing school, leaving behind full time mothering to find adequate employment, finding and losing love a few times, multiple huge decisions to make for my family with the weight of all the consequences on my shoulders.

I have kept that train analogy in mind this whole time though, and really have looked for and found some smooth, clear spots along the way. Some breathtaking views. Good friends, good opportunities, good chances to grow personally and spiritually.

Now feels like one of those times.

In the days since my last post, I have managed to line up four really good job interviews in Orange County for my trip there later this week. I've found a temporary stop gap for my financial problems. I've been blessed with some wonderful opporunitites to serve friends and strangers. I've had some really great, funny, heart-to-heart times with my boys. I couldn't be happier with my Mr. Perfect and I think we're both starting to get some answers as to what we should do next, or at least not be afraid to talk about options.

It's scary though. Because I've been here before. Several times. In a spot where it appears everything is about to come together--paths cleared, minds enlightened, answers given, my heart ever-so-grateful that it had been brought to this point. And then...poof. It goes away. Or has. One element changes and the rest tumbles down like a stack of plastic cups. And I have to regroup, rethink, retry. It hurts. And it's a sad and terribly exhausting process.

Though I really can't complain because every time I have learned something. Or a lot of somethings. Doors close and windows open, then windows close and doors open. I think I went up and down a chimney once. I do a lot of climbing in and out. I get a little more fearful of trying/risking with every perceived failure, but not so much so that I don't still try again. And again. More cautiously every time, but I really am proud of me for not giving up and becoming bitter, jaded, lazy, untrusting, or unfaithful when my life's circumstances could easily make me so.

I have never ceased to say life is good. And mean it. I have never stopped believing in promised blessings to come.

And so, I just wanted to make a mark in the blog about this time in my life. This right now. When things I have wished and prayed for for a very long time appear to be coming to pass. Or parts of them.  Am I afraid they might go away? Yup. Am I afraid of the idea of possibly having to start again, yet again, if all this doesn't work? Who wouldn't be? But it's all still worth holding onto. Gently.

It is ever so good. And I am at peace. So be it.

let me into the fire, gosh darn it

Boise has a large population of Californians who moved here for the clean living, friendly people, hill and mountain access, and burgeoning cultural scene. They sell their 1,100 square foot homes near the beach for a million dollars, then come here and buy 6,000 square foot luxury estates on an acreage lot with a view (thanks for currently employing me, folks). They increase the number of salons in the area, make me feel a little less attractive, and speed up the pace of traffic on our freeways, but other than that, the Californians are welcome editions to our city. "I got out of the fire just in time," they often say in reference to their old coastal home.

I nod in agreement, but here's my little secret...

I want to run into the fire.

I guess because I don't see it as fire. And because I've always seemed to be doing the opposite of what everyone else is.

Frankly, life has been trying to pull me to California since 1991 when I first met a young man from there whom I wrote to for two years while he was on his mission for our church. After he got home and I started college, we almost got married, but one of the big reasons it didn't work out was because marriage meant living in California. He didn't want to leave. I didn't want to go. And so we went our separate ways in late 1993.

How ironic that 15 years later I should end up divorced and dating Haute Cakes who lived just miles from previous guys home (he never did leave). And after Haute Cakes, that I should decide I didn't like anyone better than Mr. Perfect...who lived in the exact same Orange County area (and not for lack of looking around here, mind you).

There have been other indications, too, rather divinely given, that I belong there. Besides, I just love it. Some of the best people I have ever had the privilege of knowing have been from Southern California. They feel like 'my kinda people.' I love the idea of being able to go outside all year, the beach, the sound of Disneyland fireworks, a creative and entrepreunerial-driven culture for my kids to grow up in. The minute I turned down my MFA acceptance--that thing I thought I wanted more than anything-- the first impression that hit my heart was, "You're supposed to get to California, silly."

Not that I don't adore where I live right now--I grew up here. It's beautiful and it's all I've ever known, I have gracious and wonderful friends and employers, and heaven knows I've carved out a pretty sweet place for myself socially and professionally, but I still feel like a move is in our future. A way to pick ourselves up and put ourselves in a new, challenging situation rather than sitting here having them forced upon us, like it or not, as has been thus far. Besides, all great writers, at one time or another, generally GO somewhere else to become great, right? (UC Irvine DOES have Ron Carlson...)

Brad is on our side, too. He says he will move with us or at least not stand in the way of our moving. (Hopefully the first, albeit rather bittersweet considering if he'd just done that three years ago things would be very different now, though I can't complain because I really do believe everything turns out just as it should. And, seeing as how Haute Cakes just got married...it really does. End tangent).

Even if it's just for a few months or a year, the boy squad and I are all up for the adventure. Now, the trick is just GETTING THERE ALREADY.

Since June, I have applied for upwards of 300 jobs in Orange County. At first, they were only creative, challenging jobs I thought I would enjoy and be good at. Then, I expanded to include all jobs I was qualified for. Finally, I just started applying to everything in the salary range I needed. Jobs like Refrigeration Repair Specialist at Disneyland and Managing Editor at Black and Latina Woman Magazine. I drew the line at dishwashing (even if it WAS on Fashion Island). At the same time, I have been trying to track down appropriately sized but still affordable housing--the biggest expense we'll have. I have someone able to take my home here on a month to month rental basis (until I'm certain we're staying and would be ready to sell) but we'll need somewhere to lay our head there. I've had some great leads on both jobs and housing that I've pursued voraciously, but no luck...yet.

It's really not a matter of the "if" we should go (that's been decided), it's just the "how" and "when." And wishing I didn't need all my internal organs so much so I could sell a few to have the handful of cash that would get us down there and let us live for a few months while I job searched in person. But...for now, the search continues from here, in this weird living- between-two-worlds state of mind. I head back to California in a week for a few job interviews and testing *fingers crossed.* While I would never excuse Brad from his financial responsibility to his children, being able to provide for them without his help has been the fire beneath my feet for the last 4 years in finishing school and seizing every opportunity for career mentoring, experience, and advancement. 

In the meantime, I am learning all kinds of  (more) patience, long suffering, optimism, trust, and faith in God's timing. How to simultaneously explore every prompting and impression, and sit still and wait at the same time. It's like spiritual multi-tasking. I'm cool with it.

In the mean time, if you're in Orange County and in need of an interior decorator, or PR/Marketing princess, or a brand journalist, or incredible writer/editor/literary director, or an executive assistant with a lean towards real estate, or a nonprofit social media strategist, or a radio host--who offers impeccable integrity and robot-like work ethic and only asks you allow her a degree of creativity and flexibility with her kids and no Sunday work...well, hey! Get in touch with me. But, honestly, I can't repair refrigerators--even at Disneyland. And I'd rather not wash dishes, even glamorous ones. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

dear life

Dear Life--

I work marketing in a luxury real estate office. Do you know what that means? It means all day long I look at houses and lofts and condos in the highest price ranges in our city. Ones with bathrooms as big as my home. They look like this:

And they suddenly intensify all the imperfections in my circa-1988 ranch-style builder's special that needs a new roof and new doors and a new HVAC and new windows and the carpets cleaned.

Working in a swanky part of town also means that I share the parking garage with a lot of swanky new cars. It seems every week there's something new and shiny parked next to me. Something with the dealer's temporary registration still taped in the back window, indicating it's not only new but BRAND new. Mostly Euoropean sport sedans, but these fancy tanks are also popular:

Which serves as a sore and ugly reminder that my mini-van is now 11 years old and won't hang on forever.

I also have to walk daily by all the new chic restaurants our city is known for--their patrons strewn about the patio dining, listening to live piano music, and forking cuts of tender beef into their mouth, while I envision my food-shaped Lean Cuisine meal waiting for me in the freezer back at the office.

You know what else I seem to see everywhere that isn't really money-related but is something I don't have all the time that I really want? This:

 

Love. Support. Laughter. Hugging and kissing and special glancing. The stable blessing of waking up to the same person every morning. Sigh.

 

Not to mention all the cute shoes and outfits hanging in store windows that cost as much as my monthly grocery bill. And all the salon services (hot stone massage, deep conditioning, hombre hair, shiny nails, hair waxing, 18th century diseases injected in your wrinkled face) that I'm sure would take several years off my oft-bedraggled appearance if only I could afford even the tip on such frivolities.

 

Well, all these wants add up inside me sometimes until I find myself no longer seeing the donut--just the hole.

 

But, Life, you're too good to let me go on like that for long, aren't you? In quiet, daily moments, usually in prayer or scripture study, you remind me that I am still a blessed, blessed woman. That although my home will never have a sauna or a 6 car garage or a room devoted entirely to my cats (just saw one of those today), there are people who live like this:

 

 

 



That although my mini-van has its quirks and a nice paint gash where I accidentally backed into Brad's car a few months ago, some families will never know more than this for transportation:

That while I may not dine in fancy restaurants with any regularity, I have never known any real hunger, have never waited in a bread line or stood by a ration truck, fighting to keep my family's share.

And though I may  not have a cuddle partner all the time, I do still have my Mr. Perfect and the perfectly lovely monthly visits we've managed to patch together, and the hope that--in due time-- we might be able to figure out how to make it work with moving and kids and money and all.

I know just how lucky I am to be in a place where the source of my fears has never had to be from war, torture, disaster, or homelessness...

But more from the unknown--risks taken or not taken. Important choices requiring great amounts of faith to decide on.

Life, I know that a loving God has designed you for each of us perfectly. That He loves the billionaire and the refugee just the same, and that monetary status is not a reflection of the goodness of the person. In fact, there have been studies showing that people in third world countries are actually HAPPIER than those in first-world countries with their fretting over second mortgages and iPhone covers.

It doesn't mean my trials still aren't hard to carry, but they're mine. Designed for me to be able to find the strength to endure and to overcome. And honestly, I wouldn't trade them in for anyone else's. Of course, if you'd like to let me try living in that high-rise condo and driving that dandy Land Rover--just to be *certain* I'd not trade for that trial, well, I suppose I'd be down for the experiment :).

But really, thank you for my life, Life. Thank you for what I have, what I still have, what I've always had. Thank you for my mostly strong and able body, my toothpaste commercial teeth, and my nice abs. Thank you for the variety of cold cereal in my pantry. Thank you for this safe country that allows me to speak my mind, cast my vote, and sit in the church of my choice each Sunday worshipping the God I believe in. Thank you for love. And the hope of love. And thank you most of all for these:

When my boys are near, I just can't see the hole at all. Everything is simply donut, donut, donut.

you made me feel i was 14 again...

the closest picture of me at 14 I had scanned onto my computer. I was actually barely 16--in rainy Germany. My overalls with the bow belt loops are about as awesome as they can be...

Now 14, my Z is preparing to enter his freshman year in high school in the next few weeks. During a quiet moment with just us two this afternoon, I wanted to give him some advice--let him know I understood a lot of fears and apprehensions he's having, open up a dialogue. But I remembered being that age and having my mom try to tell me she understood and all I could think was, But you grew up in the 50's! You're so...old.

So, I thought my 14 year old might like to hear some advice from his 14 year old mom. I went to my box of journals and dug out the one I kept during 1989-90, when I was 14. Z worked on his drawings while I read.

He laughed at the number of crushes I went through, including my pining over Joey McIntyre of New Kids on the Block (I almost said they were the N'Sync of my day, then I remembered N'Sync was a decade ago and I had to search around in my head of current culture to reference One Direction). He nodded in solidarity as I spoke of frustration with friends--excessive clique-ishness, being sad to watch friends make choices to drink or smoke, or lose them when they started to shun friendships in favor of relationships. I spoke of concerns for my family, especially my younger brother who always seemed to be running with the wrong crowd. Then there were the stories of my spiritual "coming of age," how choices I made (or didn't) at that age had lasting influences on my life. I loved that my Z recognized several names of people I continue to be friends with today, helping him to see that nurtured friendships can last.

While I loved the whole experience of wandering down memory lane with my son who, I really think ended up convinced that times aren't so different and maybe his old mom knows what she's talking about--

I was also very humbled by life in general. By the wisdom I had at 14. In fact, many of the concerns and hopes I had then are the same ones I have now, just set against a different backdrop than junior high: Struggles with losing people I love, with the effects of those close to me making poor decisions that lead them to unhappy places. Hurt when betrayed by dishonesty. Feelings of inadequacy over my appearance or capabilities, usually when I unnecessarily compare myself to others. Frustration when I don't reach the lofty goals I set for myself. Sadness over injustices in the world. A deep desire for stability and peace in my own life, and a belief they could exist in spite of what was happening in the world.

And 14 year old me shared a lot of the same hopes and 'fancies' that 37 year old me shares, too. She loved perfect 50's cut dresses, good pizza, and jazz music. She read and wrote voraciously. She always believed love was just around the corner, and was never afraid of it--even if it hurt. She lived to be silly with friends. She adored her family and time with them.  She was a terrible driver. She wanted the very, very best for everyone around her and was excited about others' accomplishments. She wondered about the nature of God, but never doubted his kindness or guidance. The future was a thing to both fear and anxiously anticipate.

I also realized I had essentially been praying for the same things for nearly 25 years now. Some of those prayers have been answered, though in ways I didn't expect. Some were answered and then unanswered. Some, I'm still waiting for.

And I think that's life, you know?  Becoming increasingly more aware of the world outside yourself, of your part in it, of what you can affect and what you can't. Being tempered and made wise by experience. All while holding to that constant wanting of (hopefully) good things that has likely been with you since you were a child.

Life is the perfect test, the perfect testing ground. It's mean. It's tough. It's tiring. And its hard-fought wonderful moments make all the difficulties worth it--and then some.
I think the sentence I ended my 14 year old-self's journal with is the most telling: "Oh well. I suppose I'll learn one day!"

And you know what? I suppose I will.

down for the count

So, my heart broke again. I mean, literally. Sometimes I wish my life weren't so like a Russian existentialist novel.

On Valentines Day, 2008, just before my ex and I separated, I ended up catching Rheumatic Fever. Sitting in the swanky bistro, trying to enjoy our awkward 'romantic' dinner in spite of recently finding out the firsts in a string of terrible things that he had done secretly over the years, my head swirling as a deep sickness set in. In the aching blur of sadness that accompanied the whole unrecognizable, lying mess my marriage had become, I hadn't even noticed I had strep throat. You shouldn't not notice you have strep throat. Because sometimes it then turns into Rheumatic Fever and you endure a month of 100+ temperatures and the most excruciating pain words fail to describe, and then end up with heart damage, following which your husband leaves "to find himself" and "be alone", then allowing you to say (ever so poetically) that he figuratively and LITERALLY broke your heart.

Since then, I haven't let the damage slow me down much. I run. A lot. And kickbox. And hike. And long board. And pretty much whatever else I want. I do live with palpitations, mild cramps, and shortness of breath from time to time. But, last week, I started having shooting, stabbing pain. Like someone was taking a taser to my chest. It would pass quickly, but was happening frequently and intensely enough that I finally drug my uninsured self into my doctor for an x-ray and EKG to make sure I wasn't having a heart attack or blood clot. I may not have gone, but little J told me he "never, never, never wanted (me) to die." So...

They found that some of the scar tissue that had formed around my mitral valve as a result of the Rheumatic Fever had pulled away. There are a lot of pain receptors around the heart and the pain was just their way of sending out the occasional message that, "Hey! Something's wrong in here..."

Nothing I could do but endure the pain, wait for it to heal, and try to avoid stress (bwahahaha!)

And the whole incident just seemed so reflective of my life as of late. How deeply I wish my heart were just this thing I could take out of me and place on my nightstand, like a handful of change, or a watch, or dentures. I think it might be easier like that. It's having a hard time keeping up with all that's being asked of it lately, this heart-o-mine.

You may have noticed (or not) that it's been eleven days since my last post. That's a long time, for me. I've been waiting and waiting for something really positive to happen to report. But things seem to  feel like I'm back in a spot similar to where I was right after the divorce. Waking up each morning, feeling the weight of what I'm up against settling in me like wet cement that's drying. Wondering how, how, how am I going to do this?

Basically I'm in the midst of a culmination of everything I have fought at one time or another during my  4 years 4 months of singleness--loneliness, rejection in various forms, uncertainty, financial strains (income still cut in half), spendy house and car repairs, loss of hope, impatience, sadness over my appearance, the letting go of dreams, worries over my kids, feeling incompetent and yes...brokeness. All hitting me at once. Relentlessly. Until I just kind of slumped to the ground and let it all keep hitting me. I didn't have it in me to get back up.

Good thing I know how to take a punch. I mean, I am not weak. I am no dummy. I am in no way slothful or lazy. I am not lacking in talent or creativity or ambition.  I have always lived the very best I know how to, faithfully, every. single. day. And yet, single life thus far has seemed rather like a series of practical jokes. Everything coming together again and again to say, "YES! THIS IS WHAT YOU SHOULD DO! THIS IS HOW YOU SHOULD DO IT! THIS IS WHO YOU SHOULD DO IT WITH! HERE YOU GO!" And then...it's all gone as quickly as it came.

And why? You know? Why? What about me is so different or worse than those who have so much seeming ease--spiritually and temporally? What about me makes me 'unqualify' somehow? It makes me struggle with my faith, though I know God is ok with that. He's not going to let me go. He just keeps reminding me that He knows better and has my best interests at heart, that all things will work together for my and my children's good, even if it  doesn't feel like it right now.

I guess I finally cried myself out. Because today I woke up and there were no more tears. They just wouldn't come. So, I got up and I went about life as usual:

*I prayed alone. *I prayed with my kids. *I made breakfast and drove car pool. *I smiled at everyone I passed and noticed all the lovely details about the world around me. *I walked a woman who was lost to her destination and looked for any other acts of service I could perform, large or small. *I spoke only kind, honest words. *I worked hard at my job. *I came home and loved my boys up good and fed them and listened about their days. *I did some reading and writing. *Then I went and spent time with my friend, M. We picked blackberries in her backyard had the most delicious homemade blackberry chiffon pie plus a nice talk, laughter, some So You Think You Can Dance and cuddling with her sweet baby. *Then--thankfully insulated in the pie and friend love-- I put my boys to bed, *cleaned the house, *ignored the laundry that needed folding, *had a phone chat with Mr. Perfect, *and sat down for round two of work for the magazine and radio show. And to write this.

Unless I somehow find a way to utilize the 3-4 hours that I actually get to sleep, I can't do any more. I can't work any harder.

I need some divine help. Some opportunity that I can't create myself. A little miracle.

I've felt like it was coming, that miracle. Seen it in my mind's eye (for lack of a better word) so clearly I was surprised it wasn't already so. And yet, every day that passes with no change, or with things getting worse, makes me wonder if I am forgotten about. If I'm forever going to have to live with the negative after-effects of Brad's choices. If I am destined to be one whom God tries the heaviest for long periods of time--some type of reluctant saint-to-be who goes into the trials kicking against the pricks and throwing a fit because, "This is hard and I just want it easy already. Waaaaah!"  I know things could always, always be worse.  I know I am still comparatively VERY blessed. But, in the context of first-world problems, it's heavy. 

I just have to keep telling myself that right now I am ok. I can't look even as far as three hours away or tomorrow, or think about what I lack and feel that re-assurance, but in this very moment, I am ok. I am sitting at my computer, clothed, in an air-conditioned home with high speed internet connection. There is a variety of food in my refrigerator and pantry. My sweet boys are tucked into their soft beds with clean sheets and pajamas, healthy. My well-fed cat is asleep at my feet. I have beautiful music streaming through my speakers. I have a job to wake up and go to tomorrow. I have good, kind, funny, talented friends. I have a whole army of family-angels helping me from the other side of the veil.  I have a plan. And a back up plan. I have a tummy still happy from pie. I have really straight, white teeth and great abs. And frankly, I am all around a pretty incredible woman. And, most important, I think I may still have a teeny tiny more in me to dig up to give and keep going--physically, spiritually, emotionally, mentally.  Somewhere in a spot inside me I have yet to discover, a reservoir of extra battery life I am being prompted to find and share. I will get back up, soon enough, and start to throw some punches back. And then, watch out! Because we all know what happens in those boxing movies  when the underdog gets back up...

anticipation

In addition to their brilliant striped shirts and their brilliant head wear and their brilliant long loaves of bread that are fun to pretend to hit people with, the French have a brilliant term:

 "Anticipate the Cheese."

I'm not sure what the exact French translation is (Google Translate says, "Anticiper le fromage" which is probably wrong) but I promise the term exists. I read it once years ago in a cookbook and it stuck with me. That idea of giving up something that's there right now in anticipation of something better.

Like, I could eat that .69 Hershey bar I grabbed at the check out line OR I could wait for that homemade bittersweet creme brulee' baking for an hour in the bain marie at home. I could eat the $1 hamburger from McDonalds OR I could wait for the pork loin with parsnips, carrots, and fennel roasting in the crock pot. I could eat this semi-stale green gummy bear I found on the seat of my van OR I could anticipate the cheese.

I suppose in all those instances I could have both...but partaking of the first kind of takes up space the second could have occupied better. Cheapens it. We all know the ills of over indulgence. Or maybe we don't. I'm pretty sure the French would say we don't. But if you think about it, nothing is good when you've had too much of it, right?

I promise the point of this post isn't just to ramble on about food (mmmm...food). But about the idea of anticipation which, I think, is the pleasant side of being patient.

It can be dangerous if you build things up too much in your mind and then get let down by reality, but as long as you're prepared for anything in the ballpark of cheese-like pleasant, you should do a little anticipating of the possibilities. Dreaming. Hopeful-ing.

As I've expressed a few times of late: Although I am genuinely happy, I am also soberly aware of the uncomfortable place I am in life right now. The place I have been off and on for the last 4 years and 4 months. A place of limbo, of survival, of constant change and change and change. And while I'm always up for a good risk or adventure, I likes my stability, too. Which has been a bit spotty. It's been a blessing to learn to live and even thrive amongst *rolling with the punches* (I can do super hard stuff!) but I really would like life to settle sooner or later. Even for just a year or two. Or ten. Or always. I wouldn't mind always, really.

But I continue to "anticipate the cheese," --pass over things that are here and easy but not quite right, for things I want more. And not just "want" but KNOW are better. I wait. Because I have learned that for as frustrating and heartbreaking as it's been to be sooooo close to that cheese so many times--in my work, in my writing, in opportunities, in relationships--and then lose it, there IS a great deal of comfort in knowing all those things have been so close to my grasp. It means for as quickly as things can go bad, things can go good. Take a turn for the better. Poof. Just like that.

And really, you know--why not keep thinking like that? Why not expect good things for me? Why not sooner rather than later? Why not expect that my next meal will be...cheese?

money schmuney

On my way to work this morning, I drove by a luxury car dealership. There was a man in creased trousers, a bleach white button-up shirt and shiny tie, with shampoo commercial silver hair. He was circling a waxy Mercedes, the drivers side door open (and, I imagine, emitting that intoxicating new car smell), talking on a cell phone.

I knew immediately he was going to buy the car. Something about the easy, content look on his face. The confidence in his stride. A man with few worries.

And I couldn't help but think, peering at him through the kid finger-streaked windows of my aging mini-van which sometimes quits for no reason while I'm idling--

Do you know how much of a difference what you're about to pay for that car could make in my life right now? In my friends' lives? The friend who has clotheslines criss-crossed across her kitchen because her dryer broke?  The one desperately in need of an attorney retainer so she can go after her wealthy but estranged ex-husband for some type of child support? The one who would like to have his broken molar fixed so he could stop having headaches?

Not that I begrudge anyone their right to monetary success and being able to spend hard-earned money on whatever they choose. I understand that there are a lot of secondary markets served by luxury purchases. I'm just saying...well, I hate that so many problems can be solved by money. So many minds eased from worry if they had a little extra.

I know I was blessed to have it and share what I could for a number of years. I know it made a huge difference in quite a few lives. Of course, giving money was always in addition to (or usually secondary to) giving of my time and labor in service. But sometimes, although people enjoy another person being there-- smiling, working alongside them--what they really need is cold, hard cash. And it is terribly frustrating not to have it to give anymore. To feel the hard boundaries and limited freedom not having it creates. 

As of last month, due to a situation I said I wouldn't blog about specifically, my finances have been cut in half. At a time I'm already staying awake for 20 hours a day working 5 different jobs and just making it...where on earth am I supposed to come up with double what I make now?!?! 

I suppose I've had these break-neck changes come frequently enough in my life that I'm not really worried. I'll figure something out. I always do. And it's never had to be anything illegal or immoral :). I know God is on my side and provides. I'm the best steward over my finances I can be. I'm still largely without debt. It's just, well, yeah. Have I said *frustrating* enough yet?

 Two years ago, while at the state Fair with Ninja, he dared me to go have my palm read. That whole "peeping wizard" thing isn't normally something I'd buy into, but it seemed harmless enough. And it was actually rather eerie, how accurate the palm reader woman was about my life--how and where I carry stress, the regular intervals of tragedy and/or loss in my life, my creative desires, my children. And then she pointed to a spot on one of the creases on my palm and said, "And here. I can see that you have struggled with money. I can see that money isn't important to you except to have enough of it and to be able to give to others. And it's coming. It's coming."

It was...calming. And whether or not it was accurate, it gave me something to look forward to. A happiness inside to know that maybe, just maybe, I could be the source of financially blessing others one day. A type of undercover super hero that sees a need and secretly fills it. Even if it can't be something huge like a house or a car, sometimes just the money for a dryer repair or a cell phone bill or a night out makes all the difference. I know. I've been the beneficiary of such kindness before. 

Anyway, for now--I keep working. And working. Hoping that these relentless efforts I've put into my education, my writing, my career--working for less in jobs that have a lot of promise and/or mentoring experiences--will pay off. Somehow. Eventually. Knowing that while all the best things in life really are free, I think the world could use more good people with money. Schmuney.

work it out

Just fair warning that I am writing this blog post very late at night under the influence of several potentially dangerous situations:

1. Coming down off the *high* that time with Mr. Perfect always produces. Yes, I'm back from California. And yes, it was good in a way I'm not ready to put into words yet. Also scary. Scary good.

2. Coming down off the *high* that writing something so potentially brilliant creates. I have been a writing beast lately. Finished several flash fiction pieces that seemed to perfectly join into a collection which, with a little fluffing, could easily become my first novel or novella. And it's beautiful, which makes me cry just to think that I produced something like it. With my own hands and brain. Really, if I can finish it right in the next few months, I really don't see how it can NOT get published.

3. Coming down off the *high* that Ben and Jerry's S'mores ice cream gives me. It was on sale. And I missed national ice cream day a few days ago so I'm making up for it tonight. At least I scooped an honest one serving out of the pint and into a dish. Go me.

So, in the midst of all this physical/emotional crashing I'm doing--a metaphor came to me: 

A year ago, I started trail running in the foothills surrounding my city. It started as hiking, and then one day--I couldn't just walk anymore. My legs started to move faster, then faster, and they didn't stop. For miles they didn't stop. And suddenly--I was a runner. Which I'd always loathed when it was just me and pavement and neighborhood and car exhaust to breathe. But the hills were different. 

They were like a difficult game I knew instinctively how to beat. 

I knew where to plant my feet to get the most leverage to get me up an incline the fastest. How high and long to leap to get over a boulder.  How to deftly (and non-rudely) slide around slower people on the trail. How to spot and avoid slippery sandy patches. I've done hundreds of trail runs now and only fell once (with the lingering scar to prove it). I feel like a pro.

What I love about running the most (besides the health benefits, the beautiful nature, and the divine booty it has sculpted me) is that it's just me and the trail. A starting point and a stopping point. And the only thing that makes the difference in getting from one to the other is me--how fast I go, how much  I put into it. It's my efforts that get me there.  And even if I have to slow down, I know I'm not going to stop. I'm going to get to the end and get back. Clean, done, ta-dum.

I kinda wish all life were like that, you know. 

Because really, I can see where I'm at now and I can see where I want to be. I can see the distance, the layout, all the obstacles I need to leap and scale. I've started running--a great, even pace. The breeze at my back. The just-right music in my ears. Confidence in the muscles of my legs. But gosh darn it (!)--the trail on this journey keeps changing on me. Boulders change size. Places that weren't sandy suddenly turn so. Poisonous snakes slither out of the sage.  Packs of touristy old folks with walking sticks and floppy hats materialize out of nowhere and leave no place to get around. I'm knocking some innocent bystanders over in my haste.

My efforts just don't seem to do the same thing in this trail called "real life." I feel I have to rely too much on stuff like "luck", and "opportunity", and "patience", and "money", and "magic."  The agency of others, too, putting all kinds of bends in the trail I can't see around. 

I have never been afraid of work. Not even really, really hard work. No task is above or below me. "Put your head down and go to work." My Mom taught me that. And every checklist I complete gets  a smiley face put in the 'finished' box,  and a sense of pride I've done my  best, or darn near it. Despite being a complete creative type, I'm thrilled I've figured out how to schedule and plan and hold things together in a semi-organized manner working between four boys and five jobs and seven email accounts.

On days when I'm not much more than an ugly, cried-out, stressed-out husk of myself who feels she has nothing to offer and who is only going to fail those who depend on me the most. Those days I wonder how long I can get away with just pulling the blanket over my head and doing nothing. Well, I know I always have my labor to offer. 

To my family. To my job. In service to others in whatever capacity. I've been blessed with a capable, strong body that can just go and go with little sleep and little food.

I have worked so. very. hard. these last four years to get to the point I want so badly to be at. And several times, the summit has seemed in sight. There's a bench there, and a drinking fountain, and a million dollar view. Rest. And then...switch-o, change-o. Everything shifts around. Keep running, girl.

Not that I am not thrilled with what I *have* accomplished. Really, I'm pretty awesome, I know that. (horn tooted) But, it doesn't mean I'm not dog tired. I know many of you can relate. It's so easy not to think about all the people who have been sitting on that kooshy bench at the summit for a long time. How did they figure out how to get up there? Was their trail up there easier? If so, do they really appreciate the view?

I don't have answers tonight. But I do have a Source I can ask the questions to. And I have faith. And I have a little more strength left in me. And I have more Ben and Jerry's in the freezer.

Work will work stuff out, I think.

I run on.

pathetically real confessions of a single woman

A little over a year ago--back in April, to be exact, near the end of my final, crazy 25 credit semester, I spent a chunk of money I should have kept in savings to buy an airplane ticket to go and visit a man I knew wasn't in love with me, but whom I thought I might convince otherwise if I just was where he was. He was a brilliant musician. He looked like a well-groomed homeless man. He was so content with himself and in his aloneness that it made me want to immediately change all that about him. Make him feel he should need someone. He was also a good kisser.

He only lived 6 hours away, so I could have driven, but I didn't. I flew because it gave me extra hours to read Henry VIII and draft a paper on Charlotte Temple--both difficult to do from behind a wheel and both needing done two days ago. And I wasn't really in love with him, either. But I hadn't dated anyone for 5 months post-Ninja, I had been spending way too much time talking to myself at nights, my phone was atrophying from lack of use. Plus, this guy was intriguing and we'd started something over our two previous visits to one another (one involving him coming to see me on a Greyhound because his car could barely cross town, and one involving me driving fifteen hours in one day) and, annoyingly,  I always finish what I start. I go until someone/thing says, "Stop already, Lady."

A quick summary of that trip would go like this:

*More money for a rental car, because apparently his car also couldn't drive the 45 minutes between the town where he lived and the airport.

* More money for a hotel room, because apparently he couldn't put me up on his couch.

*Spending the next several hours sitting in band practice where I moved a lot of drum kit and spent more hours talking to the bass player than I did the guy I'd come for.

*It was unexpectedly cold that day, and I'd been using "guy's" old wool sweater with the blown out elbows to keep warm (he'd taken it off during practice, I'd picked it up. It smelled like him, which was nice, I thought). As we were walking outside, he said, "Can I have my sweater back? It's cold." That should have told me something. But...

*We got tacos from a little shop called Diego's. We drove my rental car up onto a ridge overlooking the city to eat them. He brought his guitar and sang to me (though it was a song I knew he'd written for his ex-girlfriend). Still, I thought, Oh, here it is. I better capitalize on this moment. I said, "I think I love you, ____________ (insert his name)" (which, I knew immediately as it fell from my mouth wasn't true and hated saying because those are not words I use trivially and even had to stifle the laugh that almost followed, but it felt like a game of chicken at this point and I wasn't going to be the one who jumped out of the tractor).

*His response was, "Yeah. I don't know how I feel." Then we drove back down the ridge in awkward silence. It was not my finest moment. And I left the next morning. And he chose sleeping in over telling me good bye. And I cried in the airport (and I noticed, then, a lot of people cry in airports) but I still finished my Charlotte Temple paper. And I went home and wrote one of my most powerful short stories ever loosely based on the whole ordeal.

And I laughed at myself, and at the experience, and at the boundaries sadness can push me, anyone, to. But I never vowed to do better because I really hadn't regretted any of it. Not even the money, really, sort of. {And as a face saving follow up on that story, he did--months later--like a few men have--admit that he hated himself for letting me go and I was the best thing that ever happened to him, etc, etc}

And a year and several months later, what am I doing? Using a chunk of money I should probably put back into my savings (which is now depleted) to buy an airplane ticket. Different guy. Situation inside me feels completely different. Situation between guy and I feels completely different. But maybe it's the same and I just want it to be different. Maybe I am comforted enough that there is no drum kit to be moved to convince myself it's different. But I think it's different. Honestly. My heart--and that stronger voice behind my heart--say so, for what that's worth.

Once, one of my friends, in a declaration of  unhealthy love, decided to ride from a party-- very drunk--on her bicycle because the guy she thought she loved and thought could love her back wanted her to come over. Right then. She ended up crashing. Two black eyes and face scraped all up. And that was only the exterior manifestation of what I'm sure was the emotional crash inside her. I'm not privy to all the details of that story, but I'm guessing when she didn't show up, that guy didn't call and see where she was. Or, if he did, didn't rush out to help when he found she was hurt. He probably just called some other girl.

I guess this is just me, peeling back all the spirituality and faith that I usually (happily) enshroud myself in, the stuff that gives a shinier perspective to everything, and just being pathetically real. Figuring stuff out. Trying. Wondering why we, as women, do what we do sometimes. Let people do things to us. And not just women--men, too. Why, sometimes, we're so afraid to just let go and be loved in a normal way by someone we might not feel really excited about but who would be good to and for us. Why we don't say no when we should. Why we take on too much. Why we hold on to things maybe we shouldn't. Why we don't always learn our lessons.

I'm ok with doing less than smart things. I have enough self-respect to know when to laugh and turn things around, to save my dignity.  I know my worth. Yes, I push too far. Yes, I'm neurotic about losing things I put time and effort into building up. Yes, I make stupid-ish choices sometimes. But everything has a purpose if I let it. And sometimes, those stupid choices pay off.  In my career and in my writing mostly, so far. But maybe, you know, one day they'll pay off in my romantic life during the sparse times I have one. When they do pay off, then people call them "wise risks." And congratulate you on not being ruled by your fear. And point to you as a good example for others to emulate when just a month or two ago they all said the opposite.

Go figure.

in heaven

You won't believe what I found at the grocery store tonight...

CHOCOLATE CHEX!!!

Yes, those of you who have read for years KNOW how obsessed I was with those. They were one of the first things I could stomach eating after the divorce. Like a little bowl of happy.

Then, one day, about 2 1/2 years ago, I couldn't find them anymore. I searched every store around here and nothing. My stomach mourned.

Until tonight. When, there--front and center on the cereal aisle--they were back. I literally picked them up and kissed them! I wasn't sure if I wanted to go home and eat them or lock them in my basement so they could never get away from me again.

I bought one box. I trusted that they would be there when I went back for more next week. I'm good at trusting.

It was a little moment of heaven. Which made me think of other non-traditional things my heaven would be composed of...

In Jennifer heaven (which of course is accessed by climbing a stairway):

*Every night will be clean sheet night.

*Every year will be new mattress year.

*The words "jams and jellies" will be used more frequently. Especially jellies.

*The paint on the wall will look like the paint on the swatch.

*Sporticus will be my personal trainer. Alan Rickman my personal thespian coach. And Jaime Oliver will cook jellied things for me.

*Bathrooms will be self-cleaning. Actually, whole houses will be self-cleaning, with an option to clean them manually if you're like me and kinda like to do the cleaning thing. Especially vacuuming.

*The space age machine Jane Jettson would step into that would get her dressed, do her hair, and put on her makeup will actually exist. (But flying cars will still be a thing everyone looks to the future for).

*Ben and Jerry's will come in pint, quart, gallon, and bucket sizes. And be calorie free. Also, giant spoons.

*I can sing like Barry White. And also like Rosemary Clooney. It will just depend on my mood.

*Everyone will have a witty sense of humor minus the potty mouths.

*Everyone will know all the words to songs that fit the occasion. And the dance moves. Heaven will for sure be like the coolest ever spontaneous musical.

*Monkey butlers.

*My mom will still find that joke where she put random things in my shoes for me to find (whole eggs, Matchbox cars, chicken bones) to be hilarious.

*I'll finally meet my dad and learn that maybe, he didn't die in a car accident after all, but rather a freak transporter accident that occurred when he was beaming down from the Enterprise to the surface of an alien planet.

*Hugging. All the time. Everybody. Because no one in heaven will give creepy hugs.

*Kissing, also. Lots-o-kissing. But not everybody. Just that onebody.

*We will all get to take turns ratcheting up the heat in the furnace where all the people who ever hurt kids got put.

*Wyld Stallyns concerts weekly.

*Lawrence Welk will have installed bubble machines. Everywhere.

*Polka music Thursday's.

*Tickle fight Wednesday's.

*Pizza and little smokies in the lunchroom every Friday. And no one ever sits by themselves at a table. Ever. No making fun of anyone.

*Sidewalks are covered in chalk drawings (that's Mr. Perfect's contribution. He'd also be a part of heaven.)

*Upon entrance, everyone gets a happy, giggly baby who smells of powder and fresh milk. They also get one awesome old person to be their buddy and keep everything in perspective.

*All animals are non-shedding

*Angela Lansbury is a fashion icon.

*Only my van will break. Not my heart.

*Loneliness is as foreign a concept as slide rulers or rotary phones.

*Money Schmoney.

*We find out all we really DID need was love. Or that Heaven is a woman dressed in blue. All those things songs convinced us of.

*Finally, finally, finally...more answers than questions.

*And no more weird episodes of homesickness that aren't cured even when you go home. Because, really, you never were home. Until now.

becoming real

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but Really loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get all loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

~~

That was from the pages of one of my favorite childhood books, The Velveteen Rabbit, which I pulled out to start reading to my younger boys.

I don't know that I could say it any better--what it means to become real, to be real. How life and love and experience--and even pain--transform us. How you have to be humble and lovable enough to allow the transformation to happen. 

I looked at myself in the mirror this morning. I looked tired. More. Still.  The kind of tired I don't seem to rebound from even when I get a few nights of decent sleep under my belt. Tired not just for lack of sleep but for the weight I carry, the demands that don't stop which I still try to meet cheerfully. And sometimes everything about my face and body just seems to be wrong and I begin to calculate the cost of thinning my nose, lifting my eyes, smoothing my neck. Thinking if I just looked differently, someone would find me adorable. But then, I look again. I mean really look. At what lays just below my skin and shines out. That 'thing' that lights up my whole face when I let it. That fuels my smile and my faith and my laugh and my compassion. 

Look, I know our spirits are ancient. I know we've always existed and always will. I understand this life is really just a blip on the radar of eternity. I know someday everything will make sense, and all the things taken from or withheld from me in this life will be returned an hundred fold.  I do, I believe that all the way to my toes. But, right now--hour to hour, day to day, month to month, year to year--this is all I know. It feels endless. And it can be hard. And scary. Being at the mercy of what feels all too much like chance or luck from time to time.  The wondering, when and if and who and how and why. It takes it's toll in many ways. But they don't all have to be bad tolls, do they? Some tolls are good. Toll House cookies, for example. 

And the good tolls--I think those are the REAL happening. And being allowed to happen. I'm letting life and those I care for love off all my hair and pull out my eyes and loosey-goosey up all my joints..for a reason. Because it feels better than staying shiny and new and untouched. And it feels comforting-- that trusting that the *real* me can never, ever be ugly to those who understand. 

Nothing is too hard for God. He can soften up and wear down the sharp edges on  all situations. All challenges. All people.  Me included. Me included. Me included.

a second chance

People don't often get them...but I did. I guess after a week, I've finally wrapped my head around the whole situation enough to blog about it.

The truth is, I went to California not only for my annual birthday trip, but in pursuit of a second chance. With Mr. Perfect. Who, let me clarify, isn't really perfect. He's plenty flawed in ways I just can't seem to think of right now, other than he has a cyst on his wrist, sometimes gets mumbly when he's sleepy, has a bad dog he rewards with a treat every time she runs outside and down the street, and once spilled ink on his bedspread. All terrible things, I'm sure :).

I don't know how else to explain it except that he's perfect to/for me.  That it's him. It's always been him since we first met a little over a year ago and he inspired this post. And at first it was just the idea of him, someone like him--that gradually, as I got to know him better, became him. 

So, I went on my trip last year, hopeful, but just in time to catch him on the tail end of his singlehood as he decided to start an exclusive relationship with another woman. We had one dreamy, friendship-only birthday date at the Tim Burton exhibit, eating Dim Sum, shopping at a toy store, and being stuck in traffic for two hours. Then we shook hands, his Facebook relationship status changed the next morning, and it all ended like this. 

I respected his relationship (he was fiercely loyal to her), was genuinely thrilled for him, and interacted with him only occasionally over the next six months. But, as we both have a sort of 'online presence,' I always knew what was going on with him, and him with me.

Just a week or so after returning from that last trip, I met Dr. Yummy and fell head over heels. But still found myself (rather annoyingly, when one is in love with someone else) not able to go a day without at least one thought of Mr. Perfect popping up. Somewhere along the way, we both ended up single again and resumed a more regular friendship at the beginning of January. Both dating other people off and on, but still mixed up with one another, too. Sometimes vocally entertaining the whole "what if?" idea. Every good day I had seemed to be connected with him somehow. Even after a  year, every text I would get from him would still make my stomach do little woopity-do flips.

So, I guess I finally forced myself on him or whatever that thing is I do when I can't live with the uncertainty anymore, knowing I might not be able to really get involved with someone else until I figured out how Mr. Perfect and I worked together outside of texts and Face Time phone calls.

Off to California I went.

And, it went good. Like really good. Like really, really, really good. Like I have never felt more free to be my authentic self spiritually, physically, and emotionally ever, with anyone. Including my ex-husband.

I could speak whatever kooky thing passed through my brain and Mr. Perfect wouldn't just tolerate it, he'd get it. I could ask any question and Mr. Perfect would answer. I could dance across benches as we walked down the street, hand in hand, and Mr. Perfect would dance with me. When I hugged him, he hugged back harder. He even offered to push me, really fast, on the shopping cart through the parking lot. And, oh! The laughter! How my heart had been yearning so long for such laughter. I knew I could have easily lost myself in his routine--wacky as it was. Could have loved everyone in his beautiful family.

I know he was feeling dizzy about the whole thing, too.  Surprised and maybe a little blind-sided at how well we fit. How mooshy it all was.

I saw, hard as I tried to fight it, a glimpse of a possible life together in a little mid-century modern cottage we fixed up, all filled with art and kids, fingerprints on the windows, pie baking in the oven. The furniture re-arranged to make a blanket fort. The Specials would be playing on the stereo. He would be at his desk drawing in his brilliant way. I'd be sitting nearby, on the corner of the bed, laptop open, writing my next best-seller. While I washed the dishes, he would come up behind me and wrap his arms around my waist, push my hair out of the way, and give me a kiss, right behind the ear. And in the evening, there would be family prayer and scripture study, with his two girls and my four boys listening, I imagined, with permanent marker moustaches and eyebrows drawn on their faces and tin foil costumes of some kind on, leftover from whatever adventure they'd thought up together. We're both semi-moody creative types with active children, so of course not every day would be all sunshiny, but I still think we'd fall into bed at night, exhausted, but happy, reach for each other's hand, smile, and say, "Good job, you."

And I don't know how all that would work or re-arrange itself to happen. I just know it would be worth it. And I'd do whatever I had to for it. 

For now though, while he meets some crazy deadlines and gets some things sorted out in his life that he feels he needs to, we go on as friends and distant sweethearts. In a ship where we relate, but not in a relationship. Maybe that means it's time for me to let go. Maybe not. I'm just willing to wait a little longer and see because--

I don't know that I will ever meet someone like him again. I trust in God to let me know about that. Trust in His timing and abilities and individual plan for me. But I really did feel I needed to make a record of the event. Because of its importance in the scheme of my single life.  Because even if he doesn't feel the same way, all I ever wanted with Mr. Perfect was one, perfect second chance. And I got it. A little nugget of joy in life, like being able to pull a single diamond out of a whole mine full of them. That's worth something. And no matter what happens from here, it feels like enough.