The One Where I Come Careening Back Into The Blogosphere With Pomp And Circumstance

SOOOOooooo... this is awkward.  Where the hell have I been?  What the hell have I been doing with my time???? 


Well, there's been a lot of this:

And this:

And this:

Maybe this:

A LOT of this:

And ultimately, this again:

... followed by much slipping on ice, falling on my ass, bitching and moaning and taking pictures of the thermostat in my car and sending them to family and friends in California because no one in the state of New York gives a shit.  (I may or may not have spent a considerable amount of time whining all summer about the heat and humidity and proclaiming loudly "I WISH IT WOULD SNOW!"  Now it's like everyone is blaming me for this endless winter, like it's MY fault that Mother Nature is an asshole.  I said SNOW, not fucking NARNIA.)

Did I mention that an ice storm hit on my birthday and I had to cook my own birthday dinner and didn't get a cake?  Because THAT was fun. 

So yeah, all that complaining took up most of my time.  It was like having a full time job and working tons of over time. 

On the plus side, I DID find a cute pair of high heeled wedge boots that are made for walking in the snow and have reasonably good traction.  That made getting dressed and leaving the house a little less craptastic. 


In other news, when I wasn't bitching about the weather I was deep in contemplation about Finding Myself.  (Yes, I said Finding Myself.  Like it's 1970 or something.  Seriously.  I'm a Time Traveler, yo.) 

I turned 51 on December 20th.  That, in and of itself, was way more traumatic than it should have been.  I mean, 50 is the new 30, yes?  Which would make 51 the new 29, because as you all know, I am aging backwards.  What's hard about turning 29? I asked myself.  You've been 29 before.  It wasn't that bad.  You got through it.  You didn't die.  So what's the big deal THIS time around?

Well, as it turns out, the Big Deal is that turning 29 the second time around isn't nearly as fun as it is the first time.  The second time you have wrinkles, thick gray hairs randomly springing out from various parts of your face and head, skin that is losing the battle with gravity and allllll this old age shit that is screwing up your mojo and causing you to do strange things like purchase a pill organizer because you take so goddamn many that you can't keep track of them yourself because your mind is going.

Your friends start getting grown-up illnesses and dying.

In your head, forever and ever, you see them as being 18 years old and fearless, racing into the turquoise surf of the Pacific Ocean, smiling... laughing... and then suddenly, they aren't there anymore.  And you ask yourself, how did this happen?  Wasn't that, like, yesterday?

The last time I spoke to my father before he passed away he said to me, "This life... it goes so fast.  It just goes so fast."  He was 91 and dying of cancer.  His life was full of incredible things.  He was brave, strong, tough... talented, creative, a genius.  He did terrible things, he did wonderful things.  He was a seriously flawed human being who never stopped living until the day his number was up. 

I'm 51 and I haven't done shit. 

I became overwhelmed with panic because I am closer to 100 than I am to 0.  Loosely translated, this means that I am almost dead.  With all the health issues that I have not been allowed to ignore lately (fucking doctors) the fact that I am not immortal has become increasingly clear. 

The knowledge of my imminent demise had a massive domino effect:

Holy shit... I've wasted over half my life sitting around wondering what I should do with my life.

Oddly enough, time didn't stop for me... it just kept right on going.

Time is such an asshole.

I don't want to die thinking I have wasted this life.

*suddenly losing train of thought*

Oh Jesus, what if I gain 600 lbs and wind up being like the mom on Gilbert Grape and have to be hoisted out of the roof because I'm too fat to fit out the door and my family has to burn the house down to save me the indignity of having my huge, bloated carcass being dropped into a dump truck because I'm too large for the hearse...

Shit!  Do I have time to lose weight before I die?

*CRASH!*  All the dominos came down.

For some reason, everything in my life eventually boils down to exactly where  I am weight-wise.  Like, it's okay to die if I'm thin, but if I'm fat?  No.  Not acceptable.  I will not be fat throughout eternity.


My entire life has been centered around my weight.  Seriously.  My mother put me on my first diet when I was 8 years old and according to photographic evidence, was a normal, healthy little girl. 

Summers in junior high and high school were spent at our family cabin frantically dieting for a month or so because I needed to get down below 100 lbs.  (I usually started the summer at 105.)

Then came the roller coaster ride of pregnancy, baby weight, pregnancy, baby weight, pregnancy, baby weight, depression, weight gain, weight loss, weight gain, weight loss,...  And so it goes.  How do you feel?  I would ask myself.  Well I don't know, I'd respond, let me go step on the scale and I'll get back to you.

So I spent a few years in the 90s gaining and losing 100 lbs.  And gaining it back.  And losing some of it and gaining back more of it. 

I pulled my head out of my ass in 2005 and lost all of it and kept it off until I moved to New York, when I began re-fatting with a determination that should have won me a prize.

When I was hoisted by my own petard in August of last year (aka informed that I was ridiculously unhealthy due, in large part, to my weight) I had a head-removed-from-ass-ectomy and started putting my health first again.

In doing so, I finally, FINALLYYYYYYYY figured it out.  Finally.

My huge light bulb moment went something like this:


It's not about your weight, you dumbass.  It's about your health.  And your personal choices.  Stop waiting to be at your ideal of a perfect weight to live your life. 


I knowwww, right?  Profound.

And yeah... for a smart girl I'm not exactly quick on the draw when it comes to myself.  (However, if you ask me for advice about YOUR life, I'm Dr. Freaking Phil.  I rock with the good advice, and I do it without all the hillbilly homilies.  Though that's not to say I don't appreciate a good hillbilly homily.  Or Dr. Phil.  In my next life I want to be Robin McGraw.)

In case you were wondering, this is the Year Of The Dani.  I am making changes, positive changes (this is, indeed, a changing day in my life).  I've changed my intake, my out put, my outlook, my hair (I'm growing it out, which is Kind Of A Big Deal).  I became a vegetarian in January and am so freaking creative in the kitchen that I deserve my own show on Food Network. 

I'm happy.  For the first time in a really, really long while, I am truly happy with myself. 

Go me!!