Being a better adult, one baby step at a time.

babystepI’ve experienced two wake-up calls recently.

The first was the unavoidable and somewhat shocking realization that I am an adult. You would think at the ripe age of 34, I would have been smacked by this fact a bit sooner, but I wasn’t. Somehow, I was able to sustain a blissful state of youthful ignorance for most of my life. But eventually that son of a bitch named Reality will come stampeding up behind you and sling his lasso around your throat, yanking you from your proverbial hobby horse. It may be a relatively short fall to earth, but man does it sting.

Campbell County Annual Reality Wrangle, 2014.

Campbell County Annual Reality Wrangle, 2014.

But, as bad as wake-up call number one hurt, the second left an even bigger bruise:

I totally and completely SUCK at being an adult. Really and truly friends, I am not good at this shit AT ALL.

When it came to being a child, I freaking crushed it. Not to brag, but if I were ever going to have a kid, I would want to have myself. I was awesome. I shared my toys, rarely ever pitched any kind of fit; I was friendly and happy. I hit all my milestones ahead of schedule, I was smart and followed the rules. In summary, I was a dang delight. So what the hell happened?

My theory – adulthood snuck into my life like a thief in the night. It did not announce itself and it refused to make its presence known. Pretty jerk move, if you ask me. How am I supposed to win this game when I didn’t even know we started playing? Ironically, adulthood is kind of like that bratty kid we all played hide and seek with at least once in our younger years. The one who tells you to hide while he counts to 100, but only counts to 15 and acts like a damn playground champion when he grabs your shoulder proclaiming, “Got ya!” Big whoop, adulthood. You’re a shitty winner, I’m an equally lousy loser, and you don’t play fair.

“1, 2, 8, 59, 100. Ready or not, I’m coming for you, sucker!"

“1, 2, 8, 59, 100. Ready or not, I’m coming for you, sucker!”

Needless to say, these two startling revelations were the source of some serious lamenting. I talked to Red about my conundrum, and although he reassured me that in his eyes I was perfect, I knew beyond all reasonable doubt I was in dire need of self-improvement. For my age, I’m slightly too irresponsible. I seldom make plans; I don’t set goals as often as I should. I sometimes act without thinking things all the way through, I’m neurotic and I have a host of crappy habits. In short, when it comes to being  an adult, I’m kind of a dimwit.

Now don’t get me wrong. I think it’s wonderful to carry a healthy level of child-like exuberance into your mature years. But there is no dignity in being the sort of grown-up who can’t grasp a basic understanding of a 401K and can’t manage to ever muster the ambition required to fold and hang clean laundry in any sort of organized fashion.

But there are so many changes to tackle that as I continued soul-searching with Red, I became seriously overwhelmed. In my fledgling quest to become a better version of myself, the to-do list was rapidly growing, stretching longer than the coupon laden receipts you get at the grocery store.


And then the solution for which I was fervently searching illuminated my mind, like a light bulb being switched to the on position directly above my head.

Maybe, in order to be a better adult, one might be best served starting with baby steps.

As ironic as this logic may sound, I felt good about this idea and got started right away. I made a plan to begin chipping away at 5 specific goals. (See? I’m already planning and setting goals! Check two adulty things off my list.) While I won’t share each of these itsy bitsy improvements with you, I will divulge the first and most frivolous one, mainly because I’m kicking ass at it, and it’s quite appropriate for the theme of this post.

babystep1Goal #1 = To finally stop biting my damn nails.

Seriously, it’s about time I got around to breaking this terrible and super-embarrasing habit. In my defense however, I’m pretty sure I used my teeny tiny nails in place of teething rings, so I’ve been at this a while. Whether you chew tobacco or chew on finger tips, even gross habits are difficult to discontinue when they’ve been a part of your routine for so many years. However, I’ve been off the nail-noshing for 24 days now, and my fingers are already looking less like those of a nasty nine year old and more like those of a lady. Therefore, I am tentatively putting this one in the WIN column.

Screw you maturity. I have you in my sites and I’m toddling my child-like little ass straight towards you at lightning speed. As I mentioned earlier, I kicked booty at reaching milestones in my youth, and this time shall be no different. You may have got a head-start, but I’m a fast learner.

I’m coming for you adulthood, one baby step at a time.


Go on girls. Be a little delusional.


Mirror, mirror, full of lies.

Why didn’t you tell me about my thighs?

I’m pretty sure I have an eating disorder. Although, I don’t think there’s a name for it. In an attempt to share this with my husband a few days ago, the best way I could describe it was like anorexia – in reverse. I’m unsure if anyone will be able to relate to this, but I’ll try to explain.

At this point in my life, I’m overweight, and more so now than I’ve ever been. I know it, I confess it and I’m taking steps to fix it. I think we’ve all been there, and we know that it takes weeks, months, sometimes years before we wake up and smell the coffee. We live with ourselves every day, so sometimes it’s three bigger pant-sizes later before we realize we’ve let ourselves slip just a tad. It’s completely normal.

However, it occurred to me a while ago that my long journey to BigBootyVille might be a little less than completely normal.

When every gal out there finishes primping, she checks herself in the mirror before venturing out. We all do it. And, as I admitted before, I am totally aware of all those extra pounds I’ve packed on in recent years. But when I give myself the obligatory final check every day, for the life of me I can’t find that fat-ass anywhere. I look and look, but all I see is a thin little hotty peering back at me. Logic tells me I’m obese. My mirror tells me there must be something wrong with my scale, and that those jeans make my butt look super tiny.

My morning routine.

My morning routine.

It’s anorexia in reverse. Those suffering from that terrible disease find it impossible to see a thin body reflecting back towards them. I find it impossible to see a fat one. Either way you slice it, it’s delusional and it’s denial in its truest form.

I eat what I want, although I shouldn’t. I drink what I want, although I shouldn’t. I have an unhealthy, counterproductive lifestyle, and all because that lying bitch in the mirror this morning told me what a sexy beast I am. Her deception is a major contributor to my current state.f264b660620d4ed77773c47a787981fa.jpg

But, she is also a major contributor to my self-esteem. She’s a comfort and a friend and the reason I can face the world with my sass and confidence in tact. However, she’s not perfect. My super-hero of self-confidence most certainly has her kryptonite, and it comes in the form of a camera.

All it takes is one innocent picture of myself posted on a friend’s Facebook wall for that beautiful bubble to burst. In the flash of a camera bulb, I am snapped right back into reality. That heavy girl I was searching for in the mirror earlier that day finally reveals herself, and I’m left feeling confused and terribly betrayed. Where did that voluptuous vixon go? And who the hell replaced her with that heffer?


Turns out, ignorance really can be bliss.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe that a person’s size has anything to do with their actual beauty. I’m not superficial. I’m not lost to total vanity. But it is disconcerting when you truly do not recognize yourself in pictures. It’s also frustrating.

So, in a battle for my self-esteem, who wins? Is it the irrefutable photographic proof or the less-than-accurate delusional reflection? On one hand, it’s great to love the body you see when staring into the mirror. On the other hand, it’s not entirely healthy to possess a level of denial that can eventually be detrimental to your health. I’ve thought about this a long time, and I’ve come to a conclusion.

By unanimous decision, the mirror freaking wins.

That’s right folks, I voted in favor of delusion. The choice was easy. I figure if I’m rational enough to know that I need to get healthier and I’m aware logically that I need to shed some weight, then I’m emotionally savvy enough to handle the somewhat skewed reflection in my mirror. Just because I’m battling my inner donut-devourer doesn’t mean I have to hate myself in the process.

Believing that would would be believing the ultimate lie.

Maybe I have a form of eating disorder, maybe I don’t. But if I do, there are far worse kinds to have. And to be honest, I kind of wish my variety was contagious. I hope that other girls, other women can relate to how I feel. My desire is for all of you to have the type of mirror that tells you everyday that you’re the fairest of them all. And I pray that girls everywhere develop my particular strain of delusional disease.



I love myself like a fat kid loves cake, and I’m okay with that.


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