Summer of the Traveling Panda

A few weeks ago, I found myself homeless and eating breakfast in a bowling alley in the middle of the afternoon. These are circumstances that imply my life took a wrong turn somewhere. Leaving San Francisco, maybe? Neglecting to renew my driver's license in 2007, making both airport security and the CHP really ornery? Forgetting to floss? Believe it or not, all of this is on purpose. The homeless part, not the ornery CHP part. That was a grave tactical error on my part. But that bowling alley breakfast was pure genius. Bowling alleys in West LA make perfectly crisp hash browns.

Why a Person With a Death Grip on Stability and Routine Might Willingly Go Homeless

When I was younger, I did a lot of traveling. Dropping sunglasses in the Blue Grotto, chasing peacocks in Wales, losing beach towels over the side of a boat in the Antigua harbor, having staring contests with sheep in New Zealand. (Yeah, the sheep won. I don't want to talk about it.) But according to my passport,  I haven't been out of the country in a brutally long time. So I decided to abandon the idea that a permanent address is important and start going places.

When you stop paying rent, you kinda give yourself no choice but to go places. If you need a kick in the ass, you are obligated by life to give yourself one.

Ass summarily kicked, I wandered thirteen whole blocks to Drea's apartment where her robots and dinosaurs convinced me to never leave. But we had plans for Vegas and her couch had plans to not have me on it forever, so a hotel room at the Flamingo became my temporary home. After a weekend of mindless yet responsible debauchery, we drove home to California. I drove back to Nevada twelve hours later. 'Cause that makes sense.

But it meant my office looked at this for a week:

photo (47)

Then this, because Lake Tahoe doesn't understand May:

photo (48)

I've always enjoyed the word nomad. It calls up images of camels and tents and oases shimmering in the distance.

Camels continue to elude me, which is sad, but I've managed an oasis. I'm leaving for Costa Rica on Saturday, where I'll set up camp for the month of June, working and wandering and doing whatever people do in Costa Rica. Surf?* Eat fish? Get lost a lot? I guess I'll find out.

* I picture myself in a Blue Crush-like montage** where I skim effortlessly through rolling blue waves and stride up the beach carrying a board under my arm. This is unlikely for any number of reasons, starting with the distinct possibility that I couldn't even lift a surfboard, much less sling it under one arm. More likely, I'd give myself a concussion and be forced to add "shark hors d'oeuvre" to my Twitter bio.

** Why give more than a passing nod to reality when you can daydream instead? Daydreams have gotten me Olympic gold medals and Justin Timberlake asking me to perform Thriller with him. (What? Justin Timberlake asks you to do other things in your daydreams?)

Anyway. Summer of the Traveling Panda. A Summer That Probably Doesn't Include Justin Timberlake.

Now I'm in the Bay Area, because my mom is in Paris and I'm watching her cat until I leave for Costa Rica. That sentence makes us sound a lot more glamorous than we really are. We are not glamorous. My mom's attempts to use an iPad make her emails resemble spam, if the spammer was a drunk elephant in Zimbabwe whose first language was Portuguese. The majority of my wardrobe looks like it was chewed on by that same drunk elephant. But we've got passports and we're using them, damn it.

It feels good to be moving again. It even feels good to have no home - like life is stuffed with possibility and adventure and I just have to decide what that adventure is going to be. In the last few weeks, I've seen the desert, the snow, and soon the South American jungle. Because when adventure calls, a panda must answer.

Even if the panda soon wonders why taking a red-eye and then driving six hours through an unfamiliar country with no GPS and no measurable sense of direction constitutes a preferable adventure to, say, a nice apartment in Amsterdam.

The Good, The Bad, and The Biscuits

Last weekend, I went to Vegas where I danced like a muppet on a pogo stick, played rambunctious volleyball in the hotel pool, turned a brilliant shade of speechless vermilion as a room full of sixty people tried to find me a date, felt wretchedly insecure, shouted myself hoarse, cried a lot, and found many new people to adore. It's tempting to dump extra glitter on the already shiny pieces of a Vegas weekend and stuff the less pretty parts under the pillow and hope housekeeping doesn't find them until after you've checked out. But the not-so-pretty parts - like the time I couldn't walk into dinner because I felt like I was going to fly apart or sat under a restaurant table at 3 a.m. while everyone else ate pulled pork - were actually the most valuable.

Feeling your lowest and most vulnerable can help you find your people. People who will willingly forgo all the fun they could be having to sit with you while you regress twenty years and forget approximately 97 life lessons. Who will remind you that oxygen is a good thing and you should really help yourself to some of it. Who will sit there with you so you feel less alone.

People who will generally prove themselves the best human beings and not just because they are enthusiastic dancers and some of the funniest people to grace Twitter. So you will spend the next three days loudly informing them that they are your favorite and they are now required to be your best friend, other life plans notwithstanding.

HI, CARYN. HI, BRANDY. YOU'RE LOCKED IN NOW. SORRY IF YOU HAD OTHER THINGS TO DO.

Caryn, me, and Brandy. Please note Brandy's hair, hair that never fails to bring great joy to the world. 

It wasn't all sad panda. It wasn't even mostly sad panda. It was mostly this - wild dancing and pool lounging and buffet-attacking. Plus all the love - in me for everyone and flying at me from every direction. At least when I let myself notice it. But that was the difference, I think. When I feel vulnerable or unsafe, my usual response is to shut down completely. Throw up walls and lock everyone out. This time, I let people in.

It was tempting to get mad at myself for having all the feelings. I was in Vegas for three days with some of my favorite people in the world. What kind of a jerk feels sad and insecure when lounging by the pool and eating unlimited hash browns and having 60 people in a room briefly devoted to finding her true love? I MEAN, COME ON, SELF. GET YO SHIT TOGETHER.

But feelings are just feelings. They aren't good, they aren't bad. They just are. Until they aren't any more. Sometimes, especially when biology is working against you and you aren't sleeping well because you've just uprooted yourself in a dramatic way less than a week before, maybe you're allowed to be a little more prone to feelings.

Things I Re-Learned In The Midst of Having All The Fun. Fun Including Mostly Naked Women Because, Come On, This Is Vegas.

• You're allowed to feel insecure sometimes without actually being insecure.
• You don't have to be happy and shiny all the time. People won't shun you.
• You're allowed to not have fun in a place where everyone else is having fun. It's okay. Just sit there and breathe.
• You're allowed to flip the switch three minutes later and start having fun again. Your feelings don't own you.
• Just because you feel something doesn't make it true.
• Letting yourself have the bad feelings allows you to have the good feelings again. Only bigger this time.

It's easy to ignore the bad in favor of the good. I really wanted to do that this weekend. Concentrate on the joy of dancing like a frog on crack and playing volleyball in the pool and watching topless women bending themselves in half and laughing so hard my mouth stopped making sound. I wanted to forget about the crying, the feeling insecure for no good reason, the sitting under a table at 3 a.m. because I wanted to be a part of things but felt so awful I couldn't sit in a chair like a real human.

But spackling cement over the one to concentrate on the other would rob me of something. Like new friends. And the feeling of falling so far down only to rebound even higher. And the knowledge, sinking deeper this time, that things don't have to be perfect to be amazing.

The $100 Startup and Why I Tried To Build a Time Machine Out of Cocktail Napkins

If you're on the internet and you read things, you've probably heard of Chris Guillebeau. A few months ago, I had the profound honor of proving myself completely incapable of understanding clocks and/or Los Angeles traffic patterns when we were supposed to meet up for dinner. He was patiently waiting at 6 on the dot. I came racing in at 6:50, a new personal record for inconsiderate. I was also tripping over things and praying for a small yet fiesty earthquake to wrench open a pit in the center of the room so I could conveniently fall in. Or maybe a time machine so I could rewind 55 minutes and stroll in like a person who plans well. But Chris was unfailingly gracious and kind and put my flustered, horrified self at ease so quickly that he jumped straight into the ranks of my favorite people in about forty-five seconds.

Note: Every time you make a horrible impression on someone you just met, you offer the other person an opportunity to make an inversely proportionate positive impression. Way to roll with circumstance, Chris.

My Point. And I Do Have One, Besides Sharing The Worst Episode of Amber Standard Time Yet, the One That Made My Mom Close Her Eyes In Despair When I Told Her About It.

Chris will have visited every country in the world by the time he's 35. He writes lots of really helpful things for people who like avoiding cubicles. He has a team of trained monkeys to do his bidding.* He also has a new book out, The $100 Startup: Reinvent The Way You Make a Living, Do What You Love, and Create a New Future. You should totally read it.

* Unconfirmed.

Luckily for you, I somehow ended up with five copies. So I'm keeping the paperback (I've already made notes in the margins and spilled coffee on it) and giving away the four pretty hardcovers.

I look like I robbed a Barnes and Noble. I did not rob a Barnes and Noble. I'm late, not felonious. 

I'm sure I could say a lot about the book, but here's the thing: Chris is smart. He's inspiring. He's done amazing things and, judging by our conversation and the fact that his World Domination Summit sells out in less time than I kept him waiting at a hotel bar, he's really good at inspiring other people to do the same. I left that evening and went home and kicked 78 percent more ass than I did before our conversation. If I got so much out of a quick dinner, how much could you get from a book he poured so much time and effort into? A LOT, I IMAGINE.

So read the book, become more awesome, and help me embark on my nomadic summer with four fewer possessions. If you want a copy, just leave a comment or send me a pandagram with your address and a book will head your way.

[Update: Whoa, those went fast! Facebook people are on the free books, man. But if you're interested, you should head to Amazon and grab one. Panda thumbs up.]

On Stubbornly Defying Death in Really High Heels

I've been taking pole dancing classes. Because learning how to climb a fireman's pole in six-inch heels is absolutely a life skill I need. My first class was jaw-dropping, mainly because of how amazing the instructor's ass looked and how tiny her outfit was. Learning to do "sexy pushups" was questionable, but spinning around that pole made me grin like a loon. So I keep going back because I like fun things.

The seductive part feels weirdly artificial to me,* but I'm fascinated by the athleticism. Have you seen what those women can do? Sweet baby Buddha on a biscuit, people. The strength and flexibility and sheer bravery of hanging from a pole seven feet above the ground. It's terrifying. I can state this with absolute certainty because I accidentally signed up for the wrong time yesterday and ended up in an advanced class where they do things like climb to the top of the pole, take all their limbs off said pole, suspend from it by what I can only assume is witchcraft, and then LET GO AND DROP SIX FEET, CATCHING THEMSELVES WITH ONLY A KNEE OH MY GOD.

No, thanks. I'm fine down here on the ground.

* Things instructors yell in class to enforce the sultry: BE SEXIER! PLAY WITH YOUR SHIRT! DON'T LET YOUR ARMS HANG THERE LIKE DEAD FISH! Really? Playing with a roomy green t-shirt that says "Future Adult" is going to make me sexy? I don't believe you for a second, teacher, but your upper arm strength is intimidating so I'm game.

In last week's class, I had just climbed the pole for the first time and still had the oddly-placed bruises on my feet to show for it. And now I'm suddenly forced to mimic all these slender women who surgically removed their amygdala so risking death in bikini bottoms sounds like a good idea.

My amygdala is functioning at top volume, my cotton gym shorts say hell no, and my bruises would prefer not to come in contact with that pole ever again. I was all set to walk out, on grounds of concussion avoidance.

But then my stubbornness kicked in. Apparently, stubborn trumps fear. So I started climbing that pole like I had any idea what I was doing. Forcing my not-terribly-flexible-at-the-best-of-times-and-certainly-not-when-contemplating-death 33-year-old self to do the splits suspended from a pole attached only by the curve of my waist and an arm hooked over a leg was a triumph of the human spirit.

I triumphed, people. Me and that pole are war buddies.

Kicking fear in the balls apparently means you get your game back. The instructor had everyone doing something she called a dead man spiral. You jump into a spin holding your body perpendicular to the pole as you spin to the floor. It looks really effing cool. Most of the girls already knew how to do it, so she came over and showed me the basics. "Most people take three or four classes to get this one, but I think you've got this. Repeat after me, 'The dead man spiral is not that hard and I have totally got this shit.'" I dutifully parroted it back and then I stepped up to that pole and swung into a dead man spiral on the first try.

FIST PUMP FOR ME.

The insides of my thighs are sore, my right wrist is still red and the tops of my feet are bruised, but spinning around a metal death trap is the best. So is stubbornly refusing to walk out just because you're in over your head.

---

I couldn't find a video of the dead man spiral, so watch this instead. For the cool stuff, start at 1:10. That thing she does at 2:45? We learned the inverse version and I can almost do it. I mean, almost. You certainly wouldn't want to watch me, because it's not pretty. BUT STILL. TRIUMPH. OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT.

The Day We Figured Out the Meaning of Life Before 8 a.m. and Then Turned Hot Pink In Very Odd Places

My armpits are bright pink and my toes are green. Showering has no effect, even though I scandalized the dog walker by bursting into the house covered in splatters of color and declaring that I was headed straight to the washing machine, where I planned to strip and then bolt to the shower as is. I've never seen anyone stumble out a door so fast. Turns out The Color Run is my happy place. You step onto the starting line all proud and pristine in your new white shirt. Then some random guy takes your color virginity by slapping your back with a green handprint. He asks first, which you give him credit for, but then he does it to your friend too and you have to feel a little betrayed, because didn't we just have a moment? No? You just go around leaving green handprints on everyone? I guess it's just that kind of colored love fest. Then you run the rainbow gauntlet. By the time the dust settles, your white shirt is a mere memory and you look like this.

I don't mind telling you that I had my sloth moment. The whole thing just made me so darn happy. Also, I had a whole lot of pink dust in my contacts. The crying was mostly because of the dust but also because the sheer joy of that crowd was a thing to behold.

Less of a joy was how the combined genius of Drea and I turned a simple 5k into an eight mile odyssey. This post could also be titled That Time I Thought I Could Bend The Time Space Continuum and Was Wrong (Again) because we were supposed to be running with a whole bunch of people but underestimated what was needed to get to the starting point by a factor of about ten thousand cars. So we parked at a strip mall, trudged two and a half miles to the starting line, ran a 5k, danced with a whole bunch of color-drenched college students who convinced me I did college wrong, and then trudged two and a half miles back. I don't know what she did after that, but I showered until I realized the pink was never coming off and then I climbed into bed and died.

Wherein I Remember (Again) That It's Not The Situation, It's How I Feel About The Situation

Jogging with a whole bunch of bright purple people reminded me of a date I once went on. He took me to an airfield in Moss Beach where one of his friends stored a two-seater red Piper Cub. He took me flying over one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in California in a little red plane and when you do that, you automatically get awarded Best Date Ever. The sky was blue and perfectly clear and I saw all that gorgeous crashing water and dramatic cliff line from the air. It was one of those experiences you remember your whole life. The feeling of freedom and happiness and sailing through all that beauty stuck with me. For a long time, I attached it to the person and the little red plane and that great blue sky.

Turns out you don't need a plane to fly. I felt the exact same exhilaration running through all that color. And yeah, it wasn't about a bunch of pink powder either.

Sure it's easier to be happy when the world goes technicolor or you're doing barrel rolls over the Pacific Ocean, but it's just as easy when you're sitting in a coffee shop typing or riding the subway or doing your taxes.

Fine, maybe not doing your taxes. But you take my point.

But getting to the place where you can consistently feel that way without the color takes some work, as evolution hasn't quite caught up to the fact that we all need to enter this world with our own personalized instruction manual attached to our umbilical cord. What we should eat, how we should exercise, our best personal organizational system, and our life purpose so can all live to our maximum potential with a minimum of fuss.

As we sat in traffic, I said, "Well, maybe that's the point of living. To learn all that stuff."

Drea, ever smart and ever concise: "Is it?"

Yeah, that would be a depressing point. If the best you could do in life was figure out that you needed to go to the gym a lot and hire an accountant. We decided that you needed to do these things so you could do the other things, the other things summed up in the meaning of life we really did figure out by 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning, mostly by blatantly stealing Chris Guillebeau's line: "What is life, but to love and create?"

You have to learn how to do all the things - the food, the exercise, the organization, the life purpose - so you can love and create. So you can love each moment for what it is. So you have a firm base off which to fly. Yep, it keeps coming down to being happy exactly where you are.

And yes, it's very easy to be happy when clouds of color rise in pink and yellow and green and blue and lavender. When the air smells like pixie sticks and you race through it, not even caring that your eyes are stinging and you can taste purple at the back of your throat. Because it's a color-flinging madhouse and it's downright thrilling to be in the middle of it. But it took a lot to get here too.

Happy.

...Of The World

If my life were a movie and and whoever chooses the music for those things had to find a song that perfectly encapsulates my love life, it would be Another One Bites the Dust. Which would explain why I can't stop humming it. Sorry, anyone who hangs out with me ever. I'd file a request for We Are The Champions - or at least a rousing round of Bohemian Rhapsody - but the musical powers that be would just laugh at me and then I'd have to hate them. My seething bile would inspire them to fill the soundtrack of my life with John Denver and the Oklahoma soundtrack and then I'd have bigger problems.

Love Life Reframe Because, Queen's Genius Aside, No More Dust Biting For Me

Things happen as they should and at the right time. I literally have to believe that or I would go crazy. Isn't that what beliefs are for? To keep us from going crazy? I think you should believe anything you want, if it will make your brain calmer and help you live a nicer life.

Zombie apocalypse? Start stockpiling canned chili and slingshots! Military-induced armageddon? Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we dive into randomly appearing bunkers with really hot guys who have just the perfect amount of stubble! Flying Spaghetti monster? You know I support any activity with pasta monsters.

Not that you need my permission, but consider it hereby granted: BELIEVE ANYTHING YOU WANT.

I can continue to think about how and why I haven't found anyone and why I wouldn't be good at a relationship anyway so I just shouldn't have one, but that really doesn't get me where I want to go.

I want to be happy whether I'm walking down the street humming Another One Bites The Dust or I'm still asleep and that guy coming out of the coffee shop bought that second coffee for me. The bagel was a nice touch, dude.

Besides, I have control over my thoughts and my actions, but I have literally no control over my romantic timeline. Sorry, self. I know you'd like to think that if you implement systems and create spreadsheets and do the work that you'll gain some measure of control, but you really just don't.

So revel in the fact that it might not be the right time. And how that allows me to merrily plot a summer in Paris or somewhere tropical, when I probably wouldn't be planning this if there was someone in LA that I didn't want to leave. Doors open when you're in a relationship, but other doors close. Like the doors labeled Now You Get To Have a Hot Fling On An Island With Palm Trees, Enjoy. I can buy plane tickets and get visas without taking anyone else into consideration, a blazing and delightful sort of selfishness that I won't always be able to indulge.

Really, I just want to look at what is, rather than what isn't.

What is: I can go anywhere I want. I have work I love, people I love, and I always end up in the perfect place for me. Sure, I'm lonely sometimes. But being in a relationship doesn't mean you're never lonely ever again. The loneliest I've ever been in my life was sitting on a couch with a boyfriend. The fullest and happiest I've ever been has been sitting in a car by myself. Probably singing. The person I will sing in front of is a rare specimen indeed.

So I'm totally giving myself rousing round of We Are the Champions. Then I'm going to look at plane fares. I can buy my own damn bagel.

I Think My Nomad Is Showing

I'm feeling a deep, dark urge to remain as unencumbered as humanly possible. Which is a nice way of saying that I can't even commit to a bed. Seriously, people. I've been sleeping on an air mattress for the last eight months. And not for lack of options. They do have furniture stores in LA. A friend even offered to sell me a bed, a beautiful bed, the kind of bed I would really like to own someday, for seventy-five bucks. I didn't take her up on it. Because what would I do with it if I decided to leave? I'd be tied down by a bed! It would be one more thing to deal with! CUE FURNITURE-RELATED PANIC AND THE INTERNAL SQUAWKING OF MANY BRAIN CHICKENS.

I don't need that kind of mayhem. So no bed for me.

Guess I'm just feeling squirrelly about permanence right now. I mean, I'm fond of having a place to live. It's convenient to have somewhere to put my stuff. I like having a mailing address and knowing where to buy the cheap popcorn. But you trade a certain amount of freedom when you sign a lease. At least, you do if you aren't Mark Zuckerberg or Scrooge McDuck.

Part of me clings to my routine. Part of me craves motion and adventure and believes that my strength doesn't come from daily stability.

I have one more month in my current place. It's lovely - a beautiful little house with sun and a backyard sculpture garden and a hammock. My bedroom has hot pink walls and a tree that taps the window. But it's time to leave.

I've gotten pretty good at recognizing when things are finished. But just because I know it's time to go doesn't mean I know what's next. Diving into the great unknown every six months is fun and exciting and good for me, the me who really likes stability. It's also a little scary.

So I get to choose. The stability of a lease or the general flightiness of summer adventure with sublets, plane tickets, languages I don't understand, and dashing home just in time for weddings.

You can be stable without roots. I'm learning, over and over again, that everything I need I already have. My peace of mind does not depend on having a bedroom somewhere. If I say it over and over again for long enough, maybe I'll even believe it.

And it's not like I'd be totally adrift. The Bay Area remains my home - it's where my family and most of my friends are, where I can always go and live pretty easily for at least a couple of weeks without taxing anyone's hospitality. There's comfort in that.

I don't know what my plan is yet, but I'm pretty sure it involves digging out my passport and finally putting it to use after a longer hiatus than I ever intended. Sometimes you need your cocoon - I did. Sometimes you need to say to hell with the details and make it work.

Hi, unknown. Let's be friends.

On Hitting a Rough Patch

I recently hit a rough patch. Maybe it was the milkshake, maybe it was the skipping of the gym, maybe it was the stars crossing through Mercury and sending latent bits of werewolf howler monkey into my DNA. (That's what astrology does, right?) Who knows. Whatever it was, it was a rough time. Especially when I started to beat myself up about having a rough time. This is exactly as helpful as you'd suspect.

What To Do When You're Having a Rough Time and Beating Yourself Up About It

Maybe you're beating yourself up about something right now - a work project, a problematic relationship, unwashed dishes, a thought pattern that you just can't shake even though you know it's not doing you any good.

I'm asking you to stop. Stop beating yourself up. Gently let go of that keen desire to flog yourself like a medieval monk who misspelled Ezekiel in his illuminated manuscript. Remind yourself that you're doing the best you can in each moment and, since this is life and we're in the middle of it, some moments are just better than others.

A Handy List of Ways To Stop Beating Yourself Up

1. Take a deep breath.
2. Imagine yourself letting go of whatever is inside that deep, dark need to bop yourself over the head.
3. Or imagine yourself stepping into it. Sometimes I imagine stepping into whatever feeling or emotion I'm having - especially the scary ones. I step into the dark ball and feel something or cry or be dramatic for a few minutes, but ultimately I realize it's just not that bad. And it dissipates.
4. Take another deep breath.
5. Think about an action you can take right now that would make whatever you're beating yourself up about a little better.
6. Now do that thing. Yes, now.
7. Make a list of all the things you're beating yourself up about. Now write your rebuttals, from that nice gentle place. Or send it to a dear (and gentle) friend for a list of outside rebuttals.
8. Or take your list and set it on fire over the sink.
9. Take another deep breath.

(GASP.)

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For those of you who already subscribe to the newsletter, you've probably already stopped reading because this looks reaaaally familiar, so I won't even bother to apologize. For those of you who don't, I send something like this out every Tuesday. If you want it, sign up here.

My Own Personal Hunger Games

There comes a time in every self-employed person's life when you realize all that pretty, pretty money isn't really yours to keep forever. Because the government wants its cut and, come April, it will collect. This brutal revelation should have hit me sometime in late 2010 but, since I'm the first to admit that I don't understand money, especially the way that it can just sit there in a bank vault and magically become more money, my realization was delayed until about two weeks ago. When my accountant told me what quarterly taxes really meant and how much cash I should have on hand, just in case.

"Quarterly taxes" and "just in case" are now officially my two least favorite phrases in the English language. Trailed by "Sorry, we're out of salted caramel" and "We need to talk." Hey, at least talk is cheap.

Anyway, my accountant mentioned a number and I died, people. Collapsed on the cold floor, sightless eyes trained on an unfeeling ceiling. Dead. I didn't stay dead because the dog informed me in no uncertain terms that my death interfered with his dinner. So I fed the dog. Then I created a rigid budget spreadsheet I lovingly labeled Dear IRS: Please Don't Break My Legs.

Despite totally blowing my budget on the very first day (sheriff rooster was worth it) and deciding to move at the same time I'm paying the government, I should be okay. I won't even be that hungry because beans are cheap and, let's be real here, I eat too much anyway.

Another thing I don't understand about money: Whenever I realize I need a certain sum by a certain time, I always manage to have it. Next goal: utilize this talent for things like trips to tropical islands. Don't waste your financial superpowers on the government, Amber.

So I have a plan and a budget and things should sort themselves out nicely as long as I don't need a root canal or suddenly remember an old mafia debt when a ham-shaped man named Frankie pounds on my front door with a wrench to remind me.

No Frankies or root canals have appeared, so I let myself be lulled into complacency.

Until last weekend, when I spent a day in the hammock plowing through The Hunger Games. Suddenly all I wanted in life - more than the smugness that follows being a real adult with a real budget, more than easily handing the IRS a check for thousands of dollars, more than moving into an apartment by the beach - is to go see the movie.

BUT THERE'S NO DESIGNATED HUNGER GAMES COLUMN IN MY SPREADSHEET.

I can't stray from the budget because that would be admitting defeat. And I get so much joy out of seeing how I can shift my habits to make those numbers add up. Yet I must see this movie on the big screen. Oh, how cruel life can be.

While pacing dramatically, I noticed a small bowl. A bowl I never gave a second thought until it suddenly becomes the gateway to fulfilling my deep, dark longing to watch teenagers fight to the death in an arena while I eat popcorn and wonder if I should take up archery.

This?

Equals This:

Plus popcorn.

WHO WINS THE HUNGER GAMES NOW, SPREADSHEET?

So Here I Am

People who talk about writing - uh, writers mostly - really like the idea of the muse. Specifically, how to pluck her flighty ass out of the ether and ground her into whatever you're doing. Most writerly sorts agree that you need to give her a space to land. She may or may not appear, but you need to be there to meet her. Sitting down at your desk doesn't guarantee that you'll write anything worthwhile, but letting your chair stay empty guarantees you won't. I've been real tempted to let that chair stay empty this week. Milkshakes instead of yoga, bed instead of writing, leaving instead of talking.

My experience with communication - especially in a romantic anything - is that, at best, it spackles a thick layer of soul-sucking awful to my life for days. At worst, it marks the end.

So instead of fighting, I've become a creature of pure flight. In the depths of my subconscious lizard brain, I decide to save everyone the trouble of talking and jump straight to the part where we all leave mad. This strategy has exactly the success rate you would expect.

I've been poised to fly out of two relationships this week. Something happens, my walls shoot up and I prepare to bail. I tend to live in fear of not doing things right, especially uncomfortable conversations. It's the sad plight of the perfectionist. And when you're learning how to set boundaries, it can be unclear whether you're doing the healthy thing by leaving or if you're abandoning something right before it has a chance to grow stronger.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is just show up.

Wherein I Learn How Hard It Is To Say "Nipple Tassles" Without Slurring

Slurring isn't a problem I run into in the normal course of blogging. Egregious word repetition, emotional overshare and the occasional typo, yes. Slurring, not so much. Turns out, saying nipple tassles aloud is harder than I realized. When deciding which post to read aloud for Spoken Word Bloggery, my concern was more in finding something short than in how drunk I might accidentally sound as I read it. My recording needed a few takes anyway, because the dog decided Spoken Word Bloggery translated to Pup Barkery and Frantic Canine Collar Shakery.

As much as I adore blogging, it's oddly flat. You stare at words on a screen and you probably have a picture of the person whose words you're reading, but you don't have much sense of them as a living, breathing entity. Sometimes it's easy to think these words spring from nowhere, like the internet is a vast word machine that assigns different personalities to different urls and churns out reams of text, sometimes on a schedule, sometimes at random. There's an oddly dehumanizing aspect to it, even as many of us get so comfortable pulling out our insides and splashing them all over Wordpress.

You probably have no idea what my voice sounds like. If you called me right right now, I probably wouldn't recognize you unless you gave me your url, like some odd blogger recognition code. There are people I've read for years whose speaking voice would sound foreign to me.

Hence, Spoken Word Bloggery. If you're so inclined, choose one of your posts and read it out loud. Then tell me about it, so I can listen.

If you're curious about how I might sound when I'm telling you a nice little bedtime story about strippers, here's a post pulled from the depths of the archives. It's full of useful hints, should you ever find yourself in a burlesque club in Manhattan after four martinis.

How to Put a Dollar Bill in a Go-Go Dancer's G-String by amberadrian

On Brain Hamsters and Self-Worth

I've spent a fair portion of my life struggling with self-worth. Even admitting that I feel this way makes me feel like a failure, like I'm somehow less. Less powerful, less in control, less capable, less valuable. Because if I question my self-worth, how can anyone else see me as worthy?  That, my friends, is a buttered slide straight into a hell of your own making. I always laughed at the concept of hell because no religious construct of the afterlife could possibly be worse than the inside of my brain when I'm in a bad place. For awhile, I thought that I must be the only one who felt this way. You don't really hear people question whether or not they're lovable because they got dumped or ignored or treated badly. Or wonder if they have anything of value to contribute because they were fired or laid off or turned down for a job. Eventually, it occurred to me that I didn't invent feelings. Of course I'm not the only one. If I feel this, other people must too.

I think we all - at least occasionally - question our self-worth. Every time we do, we open the door for the Brain Hamsters to tromp through our self-esteem, dragging behind them a long, carefully compiled list of ways we've failed ourselves and others. My Brain Hamsters tack on a twelve-page addendum listing all the reasons I'm not lovable. My Brain Hamsters are jerks. They have ammo and they love stuffing it in their mini-slingshots and shooting me right between the eyes.

Dear Brain Hamsters,

I'm taking away your weapons. Consider all rifles, cannons, slingshots, and extra-pointy paper airplanes confiscated.

Love, Me

All the churning and angsting over self-worth - those are just thoughts. Thoughts I don't need to pay attention to or give any credence. Questioning my self-worth can only damage me if I let myself get caught up in the sticky web. Everyone questions themselves sometimes. Everyone feels bad about themselves sometimes. Everyone gets knocked back sometimes. What matters is that we don't let it stop us.

I'm learning not to let the Brain Hamsters stop me. Sure, I still question my worth - especially as I stay single, bang my head against the wall of what-to-charge, and conveniently forget all these things I've learned so I can compare myself to someone else, even though I can't begin to know what their life is really like or what their struggles are.

The good news about years of struggling with self-worth is they gave me a whole arsenal of tools to wrangle the Brain Hamsters and keep going. Motion is soothing. Move fast enough and the Brain Hamsters can't keep up.

On Running Into Ex-Boyfriends, Coming Full Circle, and How San Francisco is My Crack and My Kryptonite

I don't drink alcohol or eat meat or sugar or sugar doused in alcohol. Until I visit San Francisco. Then I eat all of the above, chased with half a bottle of port and a pint of Three Twins ice cream. One of the reasons I moved to LA was to develop healthy habits. I absolutely don't have the self-discipline to completely shift the momentum of ten years - and my social life - without major change. It's hard to give up eating and drinking delicious things when you spend six nights a week eating and drinking delicious things. So I drove six hours south and set up camp.

But then I come back to visit all the people with whom I did all that eating and drinking.

I always start with the best of intentions, intentions that begin evaporating as soon as my wheels hit the Bay Bridge. By Sunday night, I'm eating rare roast and sitting on the couch surrounded by friends and three empty bottles of wine and one empty bottle of port, stomach hurting from laughing, and wondering why I ever left, because surely health isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Then I wake up the next morning and wonder why my heart is racing and why my tongue feels like a corn husk and who gave the brain hamsters jackhammers.

San Francisco is my crack and my kryptonite and abandoning myself to both like a junkie locked in a hospital supply closet is totally worth it.

Another Reason I Left San Francisco

San Francisco is full of ghosts. Ghosts of past relationships, ghosts that are less ghosts and more totally alive and walking around the same neighborhoods I am. This is rarely a problem - one of my superpowers is never running into exes. I mentally send them off to the Island of Lost Men and, conveniently, there they tend to stay.

But occasionally one strays.

And, occasionally, I'll be helping a friend find a new apartment - where helping = twirling my yellow hat on my finger and suggesting we ditch the hunt and go eat burritos - and end up accidentally across the street from the house where I lived with an ex as said ex is pulling out of his driveway while I stand there staring. After seeing him half an hour earlier in the park and now it totally looks like I'm stalking him.

Note to self: If you ever do decide to legitimately stalk someone, don't wear a purple puffy jacket and a yellow hat. Because 1) you're totally proving your brother right when he claims your sartorial sense is best described as colorblind clown and 2) YOU REALLY STICK OUT. ESPECIALLY WITH ALL THE GAPING AND HAT TWIRLING.

I bring this up because this particular ex once accused me of being too sensitive. Fair enough, I accuse myself of being too sensitive all the time. But if you want any tips on how to have the most useless fight in the history of the world, try berating an overly sensitive person about being overly sensitive. Go on. See how happy that makes everyone.

In sheer self-defense, I said there were good things about being sensitive. When he asked what, exactly, those things were, I didn't have an answer.

I continued not having an answer for about six years.

This weekend, as I watched him walk away, I realized I had my answer.

Why It's Good to Be Sensitive

Emotions are a powerful guide, once you learn how to interpret them properly. Learning your feelings is like learning another language, one they don't teach in school. But once you slog through the new syntax and past participles and random punctuation, you start to understand how you operate. Your feelings are your instruction manual.

Feelings always have something important to tell you. Maybe you need to set a boundary. Or be kinder to yourself. Or be kinder to someone else. Maybe you need to apologize or tell someone you love them. Maybe you need a nap.

Emotions point the way to your most profound to-do list. They gently take you by the shoulders and turn you toward something you need, a need you may not consciously know you have. Learning to interpret your emotions can dramatically alter your life.

Being sensitive and feeling a lot of feelings means you get a whole lot of guidance, guidance that leads you to a better place.

It took me half a decade, but I finally have an answer. My sensitivity is a guide. The more I learn to follow it, the faster it takes me to a good place. To a happy place. To a place where I can show up fully for myself and others.

I would have chased down my ex to tell him this, but that seemed like a lot of work. And I had friends to see and yoga to do and burritos to eat and yellow hats to twirl.

One more ghost, laid to rest.

Today Needs a Shot of Klonopin

Yesterday morning, I was sitting with a friend in his San Francisco kitchen as we drank way too much coffee and talked and talked and talked some more until he said, "You know, you can leave any time. You don't need to sit in my kitchen and give me a two-hour therapy session." "Are you kidding? I LOVE THIS STUFF. LET'S KEEP TALKING ABOUT OUR FEEEEEEEELLLLIINNNNGS FOREVER."

He took my coffee away.

How This Was Going To Be a Real Blog Post But Now It's Not

I was going to talk about my trip to San Francisco and all the strange and delightful things that happened there - ex hauntings! freak hailstorms! port-guzzling dinner parties! 6 a.m. meditation in a room full of candles and cute men! adorable children in robot sweaters counting in Japanese! - but this day has decided to completely elude my grasp and now I must go chase it down and stuff it in my big ol' bag of Behave.

Wishing you a lovely Tuesday where nothing eludes your grasp. Or, if it does, you nimbly chase it down with your superhero cape flapping behind you.

Finding a New Empire

I am the self-proclaimed Queen of Accomplishment Belittlement. If I run my first official 5K, I think, "Well, it's just a 5K." Or if I do a new work project, I think, "Well, it's just an essay series."

You see the problem here. (For you are a keen problem seer.) When I run my first 10K, I'll think, "Well, it's not a marathon." When I run a marathon, I'll think, "Well, it's not Badwater." When I run Badwater, I'll think, "Well, it's not flapping my arms and flying to the moon."

Note to self: Find a new kingdom. One with more lap giraffes and self recognition.

Just because something has been done before by lots of other people doesn't mean it isn't scary or a worthy accomplishment or a huge step for me.

So, yeah. I ran my first official race this weekend.

Now, I've done a lot of unofficial running. I've even run a 12K by accident. How does one accidentally run that many miles, you ask?

WELL, I'LL TELL YOU.

About ten years ago, my friend Nora and I wanted to do Bay-to-Breakers. I was thinking the booze fest version, the kind that wears glitter and weaves down the course in the early afternoon. She was thinking the version that gets up at 6 and moves faster than an inebriated shuffle. In retrospect, there may have been some miscommunication. And that's how I ended up running a 12K in the rain at 8 a.m. while wearing jeans. We ran the whole way, something that would kill me dead today, but was manageable when I was 22 and made of titanium.

But running this 5K on Saturday and crossing the finish line of a race that I planned and trained for was an incredible rush. It wasn't my best run, by any means. My contact decided to capture a speck of dust and hold it hostage against my eyeball and I got the first cramp of my running life at mile two, but I still ran the whole way - just like I told myself I would. And when I saw that finish line and started picking up my pace to cross it.... Yeah. I wanna do that again. Any activity where people applaud and offer me fruit is an activity I want to do as often as possible.

Noting My Accomplishments, Even If They Don't Feel As Impressive as Badwater or Bestsellers

I ran my first 5K on Saturday. I'm launching an essay series in a few weeks. I'm even braving newsletter territory.

This doesn't mean I won't ever have a bad run again. (Hi, yesterday!) This doesn't mean I won't be riding the Scary Essay Rollercoaster for awhile. (Hi, baffling emotions and nausea!) But that doesn't matter. Because doing it perfectly isn't the point. Doing the things and moving the hell on - that is the point.

Especially if the next thing looks anything like this:

Jenna, me, and Nicole. Oh, you know. Just that time we ruled the world.

Exclamatory Notes From a Panda

Pole dancing is actually the most fun ever! Hooray for getting to swing wildly around a giant pole without enraging firemen or accidentally breaking a stop sign!

Where does one find a wealthy patron for ridiculous ideas? I have a cuddle zoo that needs funding,* a hot air balloon that needs buying, and a lollipop forest that needs building. Have pen! Will fill out application!

* Hi, Brandy! Our dreams of llama-snuggling are close.

I've been adventuring! Two weekends ago was Point Dume and last weekend was biking through Venice Beach, past the television ninjas and acrobats in tutus and 60-something men poling their skateboards down the boardwalk like Huckleberry Finn down the Mississippi river.

Point Dume. Not Mount Doom, though I would completely understand your confusion. I was a little disappointed myself.

March is officially the month with all the productivity and all the endorphins, two things which equal all the happy. That also deserves an exclamation point.

Pandafesto

Have late night dance parties, iPod in pocket and dog under foot. Send love notes. Wear panda ears for the hell of it. Cultivate joy, the way you’d cultivate a tomato plant or a caffeine habit.

People are doing amazing things in the world, but no good comes from comparing yourself. They have their contribution, you have yours. Focus on yours. Allow yourself to do that thing however you feel it needs to be done. Trust yourself to know the right way.

Love yourself. Every last piece of yourself, even the bits you desperately want to lock away or hurl into the nearest smoking volcano.

Loving yourself doesn’t have to be the warm, fuzzy glow of some mysterious and elusive feeling. It can be as simple as doing the things you know make you healthy - mentally, emotionally, physically. Even if you don’t want to. Especially if you don’t want to. Because caring for yourself in a deep, true way can open up the world in a way you never imagined.

Take care of yourself the way you would a toddler. With naps, fresh fruit, an hour with a purple crayon, and time in the trees to marvel at their height. Marveling at the trees reminds you that the world is magic. It’s your attention that makes it so. Your focus is valuable and downright spellbinding. Send it where you want it.

See other parts of the world. See other parts of your world - a corner store you’ve never stepped into or a small street you've never visited.

See the best in people. This brings out their best. Believe someone is amazing and they become amazing.

If that amazing eludes you, no matter how hard you try, remember that life always works out. With enough time, even the most devastating event can become the best thing that ever happened to you. If you keep moving, things get better.

But it's okay to be lost.

Whirling with the grief and anger for awhile paves the way for peace. Holding love in the midst of pain gives you just enough space to breathe again. When you crawl through the layers of hurt, that’s when you find the sweet stuff.

Do what you love, every day.

Here’s What I Believe, Deep In The Depths of My Panda-Affiliated Soul

I believe that we are all bright pieces of a big, bright whole. We are all connected in some inexplicable but crucial way. I believe that when we start to feel connected, like our own bright piece of that glowing whole, that’s when we can love the best and do our best work.

I believe that I sound like a glitter-dust-sprinkling, tofu-chomping flower child when I say that, but I also know that I am the most responsible adult and best human I can be when I’m thinking that way. Feet on the ground, meet airy-fucking-fairy.

I believe that music sinks deep down into my gut and transports me somewhere better, happier, somewhere my brain can unhook from reality and fly.

I believe life really is a playground.

I believe in looking stupid, especially when it comes to laying your feelings on the table or jumping up and down like cocaine-addled kangaroo on the dance floor.

I believe we have all the answers we need inside of us, we just have to learn how to hear them.

I believe, finally, that it’s okay if I’m not funny every single minute of every single day. Relax. It’s okay to sit back and enjoy everyone else’s funny.

I believe, finally, that I am enough.

I believe in leprechauns and lap giraffes and that one day a unicorn really will pull me around in a red Radio Flyer wagon.

I believe we all have an astonishing capacity for love and joy and greatness.

I believe that if you can be the person who reaches out with love, even when it’s hard, even when you don’t know if it will be reciprocated, you have succeeded. Always. And that love will flow back to you in ways you never could have imagined.

I believe that love is everywhere. You just have to tilt yourself toward it.

I believe that the best is yet to come.

An Open Letter To My Future Husband

Dear Future Husband:* I will love you a lot and I will love you well, but there's something you should know:

I'm way too weird for most people. People who will probably include your parents and at least some of your friends.

A Limited and Highly Incomplete List of My Weirdness

I drink green juice in the morning. It's noisy to make and full of kale and spinach and other things that have no earthly business in juice. It's also a little alarming how deeply I enjoy mutilating perfectly innocent produce with a loudly-whirring motor.

I had hippie parents and the hippie does not skip a generation. I will talk a lot about meditation and life purpose and love for all things and will probably be really damn annoying about it.

Alcohol and sugar and dairy and meat are slowly making their way out of my life. Apparently, being the high-maintenance vegan girl who asks about almond milk makes me feel better. My days as a ravening sugar beast are winding to a close. This doesn't mean I won't turn around and demand bacon and coffee and blueberry pancakes on a sunny Sunday morning. You've been warned.

I can be a lot of fun. I can be very quiet. You'll never know which it's going to be, but if we're together we'll probably be having lots of fun.

You're the one I want to tell things when they happen, the big things and the little ones. You probably have smart, kind, insightful things to say on most topics and I will really appreciate that about you.

I laugh a little too loudly sometimes and get really excited about things that confuse people, like random architectural details or leaves in heart shapes or monsters in kilts or the fact that I just saw a frog face in a grate. You will have to stop and wait as I take pictures of all these things and you'll have to keep waiting as I post them on Twitter, because that's what I do.

You don't have to be on Twitter.

We will have conversations where I claim I'm a superhero. When you ask what my superpowers are, I'll reply, "I'm armed with the power of whimsy, yo." You need to find this endearing or it'll be a really long life.

My quirks make you happy. Your quirks make me happy.

I'm very sensitive. This is now officially your problem. I'm pretty good at managing it on my own, but help is almost always appreciated. I accept help in the forms of listening, dinner made, dishes done, hugs given, back rubs offered, and sex-based distraction.

I reciprocate. When your things crop up, I will be the most supportive ever. Dinners made, back rubs given, sex-based distraction offered. You're welcome.

I will love you a lot, but sometimes my head gets muddled by life or emotions and I forget how to show it. Or you might think that I don't for a few days because forgetting happens. But I do. Always.

I love best when I feel safe. I feel safe with you.

Love,

Me

* Note: We don't have to get married. But I'm way past wanting more boyfriends and whenever I say partner, people think I'm gay. I guess I'll just go ahead and keep calling you My Person. We will be best friends and lovers and companions in whacked-out adventure and all of the words, but none of them capture exactly what I want that relationship to be. Because I want it to be everything. But in a healthy, independent, happy-as-long-as-you're-happy, content-to-wander-off-and-do-our-own-thing-when-occasion calls sort of way. Yeah. That.

Modern Love. Or, What Happens When You've Been Dating For a Really Long Time.

Modern love is tricky, yo. You want to find your person. The one who will see the best of you and adore it, and the worst of you and love that too. The one you can't wait to pick up at the airport because you missed them while they were gone. The one you'd follow across the country if they got a new job, because your home is where they are. The one you want to sit in traffic with, buy bell peppers with, the first person you want to tell when you see a fire hydrant that looks like a drunk leprechaun. But at some point, you look around and realize you're 33 and, nope, your person is still nowhere in sight.

So now what?

In constantly beating the one-note bongo drum of Finding My Person, I've been missing a lot of awesome things right under my nose.

Maybe it's okay to enjoy someone and go on adventures with them and love them for a time. Maybe not everything has to be in pursuit of this one, exhausting goal.

1) Wanting to find your person puts a whole lot of pressure on things that are probably just supposed to be fun.

2) Forever is kind of a fucked up concept anyway. You can love the same person until the day you die, but you're still going to die. Love does not equal immortality unless you're Bella Swan.

3) For those of us who have had, um, a lot of loves, we start to feel like we're doing it wrong because our person still eludes us.

Oh, The Sticky Question Of That Dreaded Word

...Soulmate (Blech)

I believe a soulmate is anyone who gets you to a better place. Even if your entire experience with that person was a no good, horrible, very bad day. (And it rarely is, there are always incredible things - otherwise, why are you there?) If you're better for having been with them, they're a soulmate.

I have a few people who would be considered massive relationship failures by any standard, much less Disney's or the wedding industry's. But I consider them soulmates because, damn, did I grow. Grew in ways that allow me to love better, to show up better, to be better for the next person. No matter how it felt at the time, they made my life more. I'm better for having been with them. That's amazing stuff, no matter what the happy ending is supposed to look like.

Convenient But Highly Affirming Conclusion:

It's better to love for awhile than not love at all. Definitely better than sitting around and fretting about white horses and whether or not I really need the unicorn horn. I absolutely want to find my person. And I will. But I'm giving up any illusions of having control of the timeline.

Just because you won't be with someone forever doesn't mean you're wasting your time with them. If you care about them and enjoy them, it's never wasted time. Sweet baby Buddha on a toast point, no.

In the end, everything is just a choice. I choose to love whoever I have for as long as I have them. Just because we won't be celebrating our 50-year anniversary together in some far-off park surrounded by dogs and grandchildren doesn't make it in any way less. You can only ever work from - and love from - where you are. And where I am is transient, work-focused, flawed, and pretty damn great.

He's coming. In the mean time, I'll love everyone in my path.

A Story For Tomorrow

Yesterday morning I watched a video of a couple venturing boldly into the wilds of Patagonia toting backpacks and trailed by the voice of Don Quixote. Because my wanderlust has been fiercely rattling its little cage, the brain hamsters decided this was a fine time to make me feel like a failure of a human for not owning a backpack or having a nice Spanish man to narrate my life. Long story short, I got really upset. Since I'm a thought-based life form, my usual plan is to stifle upset and mull fruitlessly. For some reason, fruitless mulling never does me much good. So, in what I've decided to call a major step forward in the world of feeling your feelings, I let myself get really upset. Sometimes crying on a Wednesday morning when you should be doing your work really is an improvement.

When I got to Nicole's, she inquired about the suspicious redness of my nose. I had to flail for a few minutes before I could get a handle on what the hell was going through my head. Because Nicole is a genius at sifting through the Flotsam of Crazy, she asked two very helpful questions: "What do you want your life to be? What would help you get there?"

Turns out, I already knew exactly what I needed. It had been floating around my head like wrackspurts for months. I need to have more fun. There are Fun Things I've been meaning to do, but haven't taken any steps toward because More Important Things kept taking precedence. Guess what? When you spend a morning crying about something, it officially becomes the Most Important Thing.

(I mean, yeah. I was crying about not having enough fun. I fully recognize and appreciate my very first-world problems. Thanks, first world! You're pretty swell.)

So I scheduled a Fun Thing for this weekend. I scheduled a more involved Fun Thing for March. I've committed to do a Big Fun Thing, a Fun Thing I Have Been Pondering For a Long Damn Time, in April. I spent half an hour emailing people to coerce them into my plans, and then I felt better. Peaceful. Calm. Like the brain hamsters were snoozing happily in the back seat and all was right with the world again.

Realization That I Should Have Had a Long Damn Time Ago

Feelings have a purpose.

Another Realization I Should Have Had a Long Damn Time Ago. Or Not. Because These Things Appear At Their Own Pace and Trying To Rush Them Never Works.

Action toward that purpose is very soothing.

Identify your feelings, figure out where they're pointing you, head in that direction - and you feel better. Almost immediately.

Motion is fun. I was concerned for a long time about taking the wrong motion, but there's no such thing. Sometimes you just have to get up and start swinging wildly at the first pinata you find. Maybe you'll bash at it for awhile until you decide this is someone else's pinata and move on or maybe you'll get lucky and score a few mini-Snickers bars and a turquoise plastic dinosaur.

The idea that all my feelings exist for a reason still feels revolutionary to me. I really thought their sole purpose in life was to make me miserable. But, no. They just want to help. They want to direct me toward the action I need to take to feel better.

So fun things are afoot. Now when I watch the video, I just feel really happy. Excited. Because my own journey has been set in motion again. I like my story a whole lot better when I'm moving with it.

a story for tomorrow. from gnarly bay productions, Inc. on Vimeo.