algarrobo, chile.

I’m fleetingly passionate.

Thinking thinking thinking. Not doing doing doing.

I spent hours last week researching things. Taking some classes. Korea. Hairsytles. Home decorating and shopping sprees (thanks, Pinterest, for that last one.)

I became engrossed in ideas, planning and plotting a future for myself that extends beyond this comfortable little cubicle of mine. That future was made up of the most wonderful things: beautiful words and stories, people I love, places newly discovered, and style. Lots and lots of style.

And now, here I am, back at work. Researching up-coming TV. The coming of a fifth season of Mad Men makes me crave a warm, soft couch, fuzzy blankets, huge sweats, and marathons, all while wearing the reddest of red lipsticks — which I also spent time researching today.

It’s an annoying habit of mine. Research for hours to fulfill the curiosity and spontaneous excitement at the opportunity. Then completely burn out all of your interest when once you’re met with barriers made of practicality.

Two and a half years ago, I was pretty much comfortable with calling myself a writer. I wrote every single day; stories, blog posts, vignettes and made-up scenes that haunted my brain. And the ideas, I thought, were just going to keep on coming! After all, I was embarking on a 10-month trip to the ends of the earth: Chile.

Well, in Chile, I wrote a whopping 22 blog posts for the 298 days that I was there. Roughly,  that’s one post every two weeks — and I wasn’t really writing a whole lot outside of that.

I thought that experience, that seeing something, that going somewhere…I thought all that would give me something to write about. That it would be the thing I need to give me ideas to actually put finger to key to write something worth writing.

So maybe after the experience, I’d have something?

As of now, nope. Nopo. Nothing. Nada. Zero. Cero.

All I can do now is say “there’s nothing” in two languages. (No hay nada.)

It’s not for a lack of ideas. There are those. They’re just lacking focus. Like everything in my life.

~~~~

Last week, I was talking to my GTT (Google Talk Therapist) about my new job. I like it, my new job. I like that my job is to think about words and people, images and messages. These are things that I love, even if the industry is one that bores me a bit. I’m learning a lot. But, coming from a background in politics, where things move a mile a minute, and that press release needs to go out yesterday, I feel like I have a lot of downtime because  I tend to get things done with that same mentality.

Anyway, here’s what GTT said:

 GTT: you know what you need?

me: whats that

GTT: a grand dream

me: what mean you

GTT: you know. you need some big deal goal to work toward

  to give your life some shape

me: agreed. i just have no idea what it should be

  my focus has always been the people around me, rather than the things that i do

GTT: start daydreaming!

I sold out. BUT! Before you judge me for being all diet-y (wait, are you doing that??), remember my 30 before 30 list?

I sorta do. A whole big list of things that I wanted to do before the big 3-0 hits in a little under 4 years. I crossed some off recently, and we’ll get to those when we get to those, but in the meantime, I want to talk about number 15:

Feel completely comfortable naked

OK. So that’s why I’m “dieting” and have been for two weeks now.

The problem is, I’ve never been one to take things like “dieting” all that seriously.

“I don’t believe in diets, man. Life is short, food is good, and grabbing a beer with friends is way more fun than hitting the gym.” -Jami, circa 2 weeks ago

Well, you all know that it’s true.

Secretly, though, I may have agonized a bit over things like, you know, my weight. I was always thin, up until I started hitting puberty at the ripe old age of 8. Then my hips started to curve outward, my slender legs started to fill out, and my breasts — ha, no, not really, not my breasts. Flat, those stayed, while my lower half began to curve and bulge in ways I had no reason to understand.

I went through high school and college with an expanding ass and thickening thighs with enough self-esteem to get me by and enough humor to laugh off the comments of my critical family.

Interestingly enough, though, it was when I started gaining confidence that I began to see weight loss in a more realistic light. These past few years my mid-20s have had me splitting at the seams with happiness, strength, and so much self-love that I’ve begun to think that maybe I’m a little narcissistic.

Well, until I looked at myself in the mirror next to my friends.

I’m lucky enough to have made some pretty awesome friends these past few years. Three girls from three different places. They do different things, have different passions, and all live their lives totally differently.

What do they have in common? They’re all thin little pieces of beauty. Standing next to them feels like being the penguin trying to be one of the flamingos.

They’re encouraging, wonderful, and they all love me dearly. “You’re not fat,” they’ve all laughed at me in one way or another. “Look at your ass!” they cry. “You’ve got rockin’ tits!” they point out. (At 26, it would appear that I finally grew some boobs.)

And they’re right, of course. I’m not fat. I carry most of my weight in my hips, ass , and legs, and even at my heaviest, I still fit into a 13 in Juniors. Not that big really.

But I want to be totally comfortable naked. In fact, that’s on my 30 before 30 list.

So what would that take? Slimming down, dipping below that high-school-low — that mark I haven’t seen since high school.

Toning up. I took lots of yoga classes while I lived in Chile last year — I want to take more of those. And beyond that, I really want to start running. Ever since I was a kid, I watched my dad walk out the door, no matter what the Northwest weather is doing, and run step after step on his thick, strong legs that I so ungraciously inherited. I want to follow after him, and I want to run beside him.

So WEIGHT WATCHERS, huh? Yup. I’ve done it before, lost 15 pounds by following it half-heartedly for a few months. So what happens if I really follow it, and start doing my yoga and my running?

I get over this weight hump, I’m hot, and I don’t agonize internally about having to be seen in shorts or a swimsuit.

Here’s why I love Weight Watchers: I’ve been doing it for two weeks now. I don’t starve. In fact, as long as I’m conscious about it, I still have plenty of points for hanging out with my friends and grabbing that beer — very important, given that I live in a completely beer-centric corner of the US and I love it so dearly.

“I don’t believe in diets, man. Life is short, food is good, and grabbing a beer with friends is way more fun than hitting the gym.”

It’s all still true.

Woot.

Yesterday, I sat across from Jeremy while we ordered breakfast from our favorite north-of-Seattle joint. On his white shirt were the words “Cerveceria Kuntsmann: Valdivia, Chile.” I was puzzled for the briefest moment: Chile? Where’d that come from?

Oh, right. From me. I was the one who spent ten short months in that long, thin country at the end of the world, visited that brewery, and spent ten minutes mulling over which shirt to buy him.

Outside today, the characteristic nothwest rain pounds away the very un-characteristic 10 inches of snow that fell this week. I lay curled under my favorite comforter in my best friend’s mom’s spare room in Bothell, Washington, switching between listening to Gotye and reading. And in this comfortable little corner, the reality of those ten months seems like something more akin to a dream I had.

There are occasional reminders that it did actually happen. My skin is still a touch browner than Jeremy’s. My favorite Chilean sends me quick messages to complain about the draining heat in the south of the world. Spanish words sometimes leave my mouth out of instinct. In those little notes, I remember that world that I left a month ago.

And that’s the thing — it really has been only a month since I left.

In that month, I’ve acquired a job, a car, and put a deposit down on a fantastic apartment in North Seattle. I’ve spent time with my family, my friends, my boyfriend, my dog, and my dad’s new cat. Nothing seems new, or different. Everything is just the same as it ever was.

I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. On the one hand, it’s comforting. And on the other, it’s monotonous and draining. I spend hours researching more ways to get away.

It felt as though I was actually doing something of note for myself while I was in Chile. Something distinct, something to set me apart from the pack of 20-somethings that are just like me. Here? Shelling out marketing materials for a start-up company that I don’t entirely understand? Sure, I’m making my living and getting by and allowing myself to spend time with people I love — and that’s the most important part of any life, the people you spend it with.

But I worry. I worry about living my life without any passion. I see friends around me doing things they actually love to do, and it makes me … jealous? Something akin to that. In any case, I feel like I could be doing more. I feel wasted.

While I had Chile, to look forward to, to live with, I had passion. I had something I could cling to and say “You see this? This is mine, and I love it and I don’t have to let it go.”

This isn’t to discredit everything I have here. I’m incredibly grateful to everything I have here. I just feel a bit empty.

Now that I no longer have Chile, what do I look forward to? What’s next? What dreams do I have left?

Chile was a reality, but it was a reality that I made out of a dream that I had once. So I’ll cling to my South American dream, and hope that I can find another one soon.

Because I just might go crazy if I don’t.

I have not, in my adult life, lived in the same city as a boy I’ve been seeing.

What? That can’t be right.

Right. Let’s examine this statement a bit more.

Let’s define “adult life” as life beyond high school. Let’s define “lived in” as being in a city with no immediate intention of leaving for extended periods of time. For the purposes of this study, “same city” actually means “same area code.” And let’s define “boy I’ve been seeing” as just that — any boy that I have seen, in any type of romantic setting.

That means in eight years — around six of which were spent in relationships — and over the course of a few different boys, I’ve never, ever lived in the same city as one of them.

It was an easy win in “Never Have I Ever” because almost no one can leave a finger standing and a drink untouched.

Welp, cross that one off the constantly decreasing “possible ‘Never Have I Evers.’”

I’m living in 425/206 area. My boyfriend is also living in the 425/206 area. I have no intention of leaving. Not school, not a job, not a raging desire to leave for the sake of leaving.

And it’s occurring to me that I have no idea how this kind of relationship works.

How often should we see each other? Is it okay to hang out at home doing nothing, when instead I could be hanging out with him? What do you do when it stops feeling like a special treat to be able to see him?

I hope I’m cut out for this.

Also, things are good so far. So don’t worry. More updates to come.

I drove through it in my new car, my beloved dog on my lap, as I went to pick up my take-out drunken noodles from my favorite local Thai place. I felt like I should have felt something.

I didn’t.

Since I’ve been home now, I feel like I’m not feeling anything right. In the past week I’ve gotten a job, I’ve gotten a car, and I’ve found a place to crash for my first month in Seattle. Rather than feeling happy that everything has fallen into place so nicely, I’m suspicious, and panicky, and quietly worried.

“It’s happening too fast.”

“It’s not supposed to be this easy.”

“Something has to go wrong.”

“They’ve made a terrible mistake in hiring me. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

…are all things that I’ve been repeating this past week.

I’m not normally this pessimistic, so I don’t know what’s going on there.

I feel like I should still be adjusting here after 10 months abroad. While I was there, my friends and I would speculate the different ways that we would be culture-shocked. So far, the only things that have been true are that I keep forgetting that I can flush the toilet paper and I tend to say inappropriate things really loudly because I forget that the people around me speak English and can understand me.

Instead, I sometimes forget that I was even living in Santiago. Are there really these people that exist, that I spent so much time getting to know?

While I’ve felt completely and utterly happy when all of my friends are gathered, such as at our New Year’s Eve party, outside of that I felt something missing. Something not quite right, that rubs me raw and drives me crazy. I can’t pinpoint it.

I just know that I’m feeling it all wrong.

I’m terrified of failing. I feel like there’s so much at stake, but there’s not.

I’m excited to move to Seattle. I desperately don’t want to leave my family here.

I’m completely at odds with myself.

Someone tell me how I should be feeling.

and instead of saying all of your goodbyes
let them know you realize that life goes fast
it’s hard to make the good things last
and you realize that the sun doesn’t go down
it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning ’round.

flaming lips, do you realize?

It’s funny how quickly days fly by when jam-packed with school, with grades, with pools, and dinners, and birthdays, and trying desperately to claw at each minute we have left here.

14 days. 6 in Santiago. 8 in the south: Valdivia, Puerto Montt, Puerto Varas, Chiloe.

Am I happy to be going home?

Depends on the hour that you ask me.

The point is — I’m done with teaching. Now it’s loose ends, it’s packing, it’s savoring what’s left.

It’s looking forward to hugs and kisses and reunions with people I’ve missed desperately. And it’s finding that perfect place in Seattle, it’s picking up where I left off, and it’s planning for the next big adventure…even if I do have to wait 4 years to do as much.

And mostly, it’s remembering that this isn’t the end, not if I don’t want it to be. The sun doesn’t ever go down — it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning around.

And it’s trying to sleep every now and again.

I wake up kind of early. The Grandma Gross rolls my mom and I made the night before would have risen by now, so I’d preheat the oven. The catch, of course, is that I always forget — what temperature do I preheat it to? I knock on my parents’ door, waking them up, to ask.

350. I set it, then turn the TV in the living room to channel 8, NBC. I always estimate the timing of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade incorrectly — it starts later. In the meantime, I watch the coverage in my pajamas, keeping my nose alert for the smell of the sticky buns warming in the oven. They’re the best part of the morning. A family recipe, bread dough rolled thin and smeared with tons of butter, brown sugar, walnuts, and raisins. Soon, I’ll have to take the tin foil off so that the tops get brown and crispy.

When they’re finally ready, the parade is starting. I quickly pluck a few rolls onto my plate, spooning the caramelly syrup from the bottom of the pan over them. I pour myself a glass of ice-cold milk, then settle onto the couch to watch the parade.

Soon my mom will be up, to start with the cooking. I’ll be called into help, but mostly she’ll do it herself so that I can return to the parade. Then the family will start arriving: aunts, uncle, grandmas and grandpas and cousins and their family dogs.

We’ll gather together, and we’ll be thankful.

…

But not this year. Not even this year without me.

This year, I’m working a full day teaching English in South America, preparing for finals, and shopping at the Chinese Mall, and tanning on my friend’s rooftop.

This year, my parents are celebrating in different places altogether. This year, my mom wouldn’t have been there to remind me of the correct temperature, or to start cooking. The turkey wouldn’t be in the oven. In fact, it’s doubtful that oven will ever see a Thanksgiving turkey again.

I could be sad about all of this. Well, I am sad about this. In fact, I’m fending off tears in the teacher’s lounge as I type this.

…

Instead of waking up to my Grandma-Gross-roll-anticipating stomach, this morning I woke up to my usual 6:45 alarm. I put my phone’s music player on shuffle while I took my morning shower, and as I turned the water off, sad at the thoughts that I’ve been trying to avoid since August, I was assaulted with lyrics from a teenage favorite:

One thing I’ve got to say before sales dive
Stay positive and love your life

I smiled.

Things won’t be the same. That fucking sucks, and I’m angry about it, and I’m sad about it, and I want it to undo itself. But there are still so many good things about my life, including that I have the opportunity to live and work abroad. I have a boyfriend and great friends who all love me. My family, as much as I might hate the reality they’re in now, is awesome.

There’s plenty to be thankful for. And this Thanksgiving, I’ll remember it.

Even if it’s not to the taste of perfectly cooked turkey and Grandma Gross rolls.

…EDIT

Given the info that I’ve learned in the two hours since writing this, I felt compelled to add a bit more.

I found out during my last class that one of my students took his own life last night.

I didn’t believe it at first…surely, the student who was constantly smiling, giggling his little laugh, and was incredibly good at English couldn’t have been in a suicidal place.

I was wrong.

It just goes to show that we can never know if someone is depressed. I should have already known that — I was pretty damn good at hiding it myself back in March-June of 2010.

But I realize that I’ve been sort of blessed in that I have an incredible outlook. Even though I can be cynical and ridiculous about a lot of things, I have an eternal optimism that has been shaped by the positive people, the positive music, the happiness that I’m lucky enough to have in my life.

Stay positive. Love your life. It’ll never be perfect, and as Tall Brewnette wrote on my facebook today, “heartbreak comes in many forms…but nothing changes when you’re comfortable.”

And most importantly, share that positivity. You never know who needs it most.

But I’ve come farther with it than I ever expected. Spanish was never something I factored in completely when I deicded to come to a Spanish speaking country.

–”You’re really brave to come here without knowing the language.”

–”‘Stupid’ might be a more apt description.”

It’s a typical conversation I had in my first few months here. I think it’s pretty spot on. I haven’t come out fluent (not that I ever expected that), but I’ve come out of it functioning. I can get by, I can have short conversations. I can function. I’ve become enamored with the thought of learning more, though.

One thing this dual language world of mine has done has inspired a small passion for words — it’s made me appreicate my own language immensely, and has kindled a curiosity for another that I don’t want to die once I return to the US in 40 days. It makes sense. I’ve met many people who claim a love for words, and when I think back on it, most of them speak more than one language. It makes you think about connections, about how words are formed — it makes you think in a different way. I’ve been reading more, writing more, playing around with words in my own language that I did before.

I dunno. Just a thought.

I’m feeling sad today. Rhyme? Reason? None. Maybe it was seeing that “40 days” countdown on my phone. Maybe it was the Duoc party last night that reminded me that while a lot of this is total bullshit, the relationships and the community we’ve built are real and will be broken in just a few weeks.

I got incredibly lucky with my school. For one, it’s location is amazing, just a couple blocks from the presidential palace. We have everything around here, and I rarely need to leave. And, it’s an old mansion. It’s ancient feeling architecture inspires visions of the lives this place has held before, and boy do I love to just think about it when my students are busy working at it.

But on top of that, my coworkers are really amazing, from the other gringos to the young, wonderful Chileans I’ve come to love so much, the relationships I have here keep me smiling throughout the day. They completely make up for some of the not-so-awesome aspects of this job.

Duoc is an odd place. Sometimes it feels like chaos. Sometimes I want to strangle everyone. Sometimes I hate my students. Sometimes I imagine the medieval methods of ruler slapping and dunce caps aren´t such a bad idea. Sometimes it smells like a ridiculously disgusting dump.

And then other times, I can´t stop smiling. My students can be pretty cool. They’re funny, they’re clever, they’re so sweet. It’s funny, really, because when I first got here, I did not, did not, did not give a crap about the teaching thing.

On one of the training days, one of the guys in my program came up to me with a video camera.

“Why did you want to teach English in Chile?” he asked me.

“It was a means to an end, but don’t tell TeachingChile that,” I’d said with a chuckle.

“Just wait until you’re finished. You’ll be singing a different tune,” he told me.

And I’m not finished yet, but I’m already singing a different tune. I’ve gone from hating this job, to tolerating, to loving it, and all up and down the same spectrum, over and over and over.

I felt like a traitor on day one of classes. After seventeen years of being a student crammed behind a desk, there I was, standing in the front. I was going to be the one assigning homework. I was going to be the one  marking attendence, giving low marks, and failing students.

Here are some of my favorite moments from this past semester.

Today, intermediate 2: I’m looking over rules that students are writing for staff and passengers on their imaginary cruise ships.

Staff can take drugs, drink alcohol, and do orgies in the jacuzzi.

“I think that you mean ‘can’t’ here,” I told him.

“No, eso. Lo pueden.” Uh, okay then.

Staff can throw disgusting people in the sea.

“I don’t think I want to go on your cruise….” I said.

“No? Okay, I change it for you.”

Three weeks ago, basic 2: Me: “Okay, guys, what does ‘beautiful’ mean?”

Them: “Hermoso!”  “Bonito!”  “Lindo!”  “Delicioso!”

Me: “Hold up, hold up, hold up. ‘Delicioso’ does NOT mean beautiful.” I proceeded to tell them about my hatred of the word. You see, sometimes (every day) when I walk the streets of Santiago, men leer. I’m a pretty blonde girl, and they like pretty blonde girls. I really hate it, but I’ve gotten used to it by now, but one thing still gets to me. Men will walk by and whisper in my ear, “Deliciosaaaaa.” Delicious. Fucking “delicious.” They think I’m DELICIOUS. They want to taste me. It skeeves me out, and it’s gross.

My students got a kick out of it. They thought that was hilaaarious. So I’d made it clear: if you pass an English speaking girl on the street, don’s say that.

Later that day, we were going over adverbs.

One kid: “Miss, you are extremely, extremely, extremely beautiful.”

Another, nodding. “Sipo. Delicious.”

I about died.

October 5, intermediate 2: A student brings me a birthday present. Lots and lots of chocolate. Wrapped up in proper wrapping paper. Blushes when I hug him and say “thank you.”

Those are just a few. Do they make me want to be a teacher forever? Nope. I don’t think it’s for me. But they add to this experience so much more than I expected them to, and I love them for it.

Eso. Nothing else to dwell on.

Only six weeks left. Six weeks to the end.

I see myself back home. The hugs from friends I haven’t seen in too long. The laughter, the love. The rain, the grey skies, the music and newest trends I’m missing out on. Six weeks, and I’ll have all of it again.

I love my life. Not here. Not there. I love all of it, all of the people in it, all over the world.

Do you ever become grateful to the people who’ve hurt you? Sometimes I do. I think about them, the different ways they’ve cut and bruised me. I think about how broken up I was, how I felt that I would never heal.

I have a cut on my thumb that I got from carelessly slicing through some bread yesterday. I let it bleed, rinsed it, inspected it. I pulled the small wound apart to see layers of white skin, without a speck of blood. Minutes after I wounded my own flesh, my body had aleady clotted the blood. It had started to repair itself, regenerating cells to join those bits of flesh back together.

Soon, any trace of it might be gone forever, without a blemish of evidence that ever indicated pain. Or, maybe it will take longer to heal, leaving a toughened bit of skin. Something to match my other scars. Something to remind me.

It’s kind of incredible, when you think about it — that our bodies can heal and recover from all kinds of stresses and wounds, many without a trace of having ever existed. Our bodies are built to be repaired.

And for some reason, we always forget that this applies to the whole. Our bodies, of course, but also our minds, and our souls.

People have hurt me. I’ve hurt people. Humans, for all of our advancements in technology and human rights, will still hurt each other. Relationships are complex, fragile, and they’re never infallible. We push each other, we fall. We cut each other, we bleed. Sure, our bruises and our cuts on our minds and souls aren’t on display the way they are with our bodies, but they go deeper. They often scar badly, and take much longer to heal.

But they still heal. With more care, with more pain, but we heal. We’re made to be broken. We’re made to heal, and when we do, we bear the marks of injury as a reminder.

So I’m sometimes thankful to them, those people that pushed me, that cut me, that beat the shit out of me. They’ve left impressions unable to be forgotten, even if I wanted it so. They’ve made me this way, maybe even more than those that have never hurt me. They’ve shaped who I am, and they’ve helped give me this life that I love so much.

If you’ve ever hurt me — thank you. Chances are good that I’m over it, and I just smile to myself when I think of you now. Thanks for this scar.

You only have one life. Live it. Try to be happy with it. Especially when it seems the hardest.

“People don’t change,” I’d told him adamantly. There was an anger, a harshness is my voice that wasn’t typical for me. Well — maybe it was for the time. Somewhere in the dark, I could feel his eyes rolling.

“They don’t,” I insisted. “People always say they’ve changed, and maybe they work at it for awhile, but they always revert to who they were to begin with. They don’t change, they only make an effort to be better or different. Sometimes it’s successful, and sometimes it isn’t. No matter what, whatever flaw they’re trying to change is hiding just beneath the surface. It’s there. They haven’t changed.”

I believed that vehemently a year and a half ago, when I wrote this entry, explaining why I’d told him that. Because I had never changed. As much as I didn’t want to be, I was still a coward. I was still lazy. I was still a liar.

Coward. Lazy. Liar.

Those were my three fatal flaws. They were a part of me. They were lifelong enemies, and I’d be fighting my whole life against them.

Except fast forward to a year and a half later — here we are. Am I still a coward? Am I lazy? Am I a liar?

Well, let’s see. Despite never being outside of the country, save for Mexican resorts, despite not speaking the language, despite a constant fear of never making friends — I moved to Chile.

More than that, though — I’ve thrived here. I fought past my fear of putting myself on a limb to make a lot of good friends. So…I think, that even though there are parts of me that still make me nervous, like calling my boss to make sure I have a job when I get home, I’m pretty confident in saying that I’ve kicked that fear in the ass. It no longer defines me and what steps I take in my life.

I’ll get rejected someday. But that’s okay.

Lazy? Sure. I just finished grading the midterms I gave two weeks ago. I took a three or four month blog hiatus. I have my moments, but in working very independently with my old job, and with the job I have keeping internet stuff maintained, being flat-out lazy isn’t really an option.

Am I lazy? No. Unmotivated? At times. But aren’t we all?

How about liar? I only lied in the past to cover up those two other flaws. So, without having to deal with those two much, my need to lie is dormant. We’ll see how it fares when faced with necessity.

Coward? Nope. Lazy? Change the vernacular — I’m just occasionally unmotivated. Liar? Negative.

I was talking with one of my best friends on Skype yesterday when it dawned on me…I’ve actually changed. 

But I still think I was halfway right — trying to change, gauging your progress, making that constant effort, isn’t how you make real change happen. If you’re fighting to be different, it can’t be all that real.

Instead, after a number of experiences, both based on actions of your own and on outside influences, you’ll turn to look down the path you’ve been walking, and what you’ll see are the pieces you’ve left behind. You’ll look in the mirror and notice a new laugh line. At that, you should smile. Somehow, you’ve changed.

Back then, I was terribly unhappy with myself and my life. I obsessed over those flaws, worried about them, battled with them, and always felt like I was losing. It wasn’t until I stopped giving a shit, when I became too happy with my life and the friends I had around me that I could start to really change.

And part of that change is completely credited to this blog, this small community that I’ve had reading along with me, cheering from the sidelines. Here I am now: two and a half years, 200 posts, a whole new person.

Thank you for that. When I get home I’m making you cookies. Really!

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, it’s spring here now.