How many of you have quiet days when your brain will simply not shut up? My brain has a mind of its own (yes, I know that’s redundant). It sometimes does not listen to reason, pleas, or threats.
 
And unlike my body, it also does not respond to chips, ice cream, or Snickers bars.
 
I think the hardest part of being alone is battling your inner demons. And you have to know those demons are not always angry and nasty. But they are incessant. For me, they always second-guess my every action.
 
It is this voice that nags and nags and nags. It is reminiscent of those days when my Mom would repeatedly remind me to clean my room. And in my mind, it was clean. I mean, why chase away dust bunnies when they just come back?
 
But as an adult, these voices are more antagonistic. Why are you being so lazy? Why are you crying over spilt milk? Why can’t you lose those last five pounds? Get off your Cinnabons and do something.
 
Every once in a while, though, I do hear, “You’ve got this girl. You’ve earned a break. Take four and a half minutes but no more than five!”
 
So, in the last five minutes I was awarded I found myself yet again lost in yesteryear remembering a magical time when I was starstruck by a certain young man.
 
I remember attending a junior high track team pool party and holding hands for the first time. In reality, I was probably petrified, but in my memory, I grinned like a mischievous Cheshire cat. I felt like the luckiest girl there. Even though we were two of the least likely kids to be envied for our connection.
 
Oh geez, I loved the innocence of my adolescence. Memories often serve us well, don’t they? If we manage them efficiently, they can melt away all of the day’s misgivings. And I have become a master of memory management.
 
But then, the break is over, and life dangles its challenges again ever so relentlessly. You stand up, listen to your knees whine, and hope that soon the touch of a loving hand will give you new memories for future breaks.
 
And you smile. No matter the hardships we endure, life is an angelic gift. If you ever forget that, just look around you. As soon as you learn to kick the voices to the curb, I am confident blessings will abound. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Okay, here I go, back down the yellow brick rage road. What is wrong with people? When did we become a culture of, “get out of my way, I am more important than you?”
 
Last week I was on my way to a much-needed haircut. I entered the left-hand turn lane and was sitting behind another car waiting for a green light.
 
The turn arrow lights green. Nothing happens. The car in front of me just sits there.
 
The windows are tinted so dark I cannot see who is in this car or what they are doing. Sadly, my first thought was, “Isn’t that illegal?” instead of “Are they okay?”
 
Now, I am not a honker. I give myself plenty of time to get where I’m going. But I admit that I was nanoseconds away from tapping my horn when the car behind me decided to play a rock concert on his.
 
As my life flashed before me, the driver in front opens his door, slowly gets out, and turned toward us. My first thought? I am dead meat.
 
Thankfully, he merely proceeded to delight us with a double-fisted middle-finger bird salute.
 
This is why I don’t honk. Too many people these days are two tacos short of a combo plate. As their door opened, I expected an AK47 to be pointed at my head. And I wasn’t the person who honked. How unbelievably sad is that?
 
Do any of you remember Sunday drives as a kid? After church and Sunday dinner, we would often hop in the old Bonneville boat and just go for a ride around town or through the country. My parents were anxious to see new housing developments, wave to neighbors enjoying their yards, and would most likely end with an ice cream cone from Bert T. Owens – the best ice cream ever.
 
Sometimes that drive would take us to a local park, Shadyside, or Mounds State Park for some hiking fun. Never, not ever, did I have a concern that being in public or waving to people might put us in harm. Never, not ever, did I dream that someday I would have to be cautious in my interactions with others.
 
On that haircut day, I told my stylist that I was glad I was old. Watching us implode as a society is gut-wrenching. He started to belly laugh saying he had never heard someone say they were happy to be old. But, in many ways, it is true.
 
I am old and please, no lectures. I value every moment I have left in this lifetime. I have loved and lost, laughed and cried, and worked hard and played hard. And until now, I have never lived in fear. It is frightfully sad this is a reality for those who will continue on.
 
But we have to keep smiling, right? And no, do not think I’m a little Miss Goody Two-shoes. I just wait for the right time to blow my cork. Once home, door closed and locked, I gave my own expletive deleted concert in honor of that jackass. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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So, I was finishing my new blog a few days ago when notifications started blowing up my laptop. And that is when my weekend unraveled. Let me tell you about it.
 
On July 8th, a mere two days ago, my follower count was 9822 – a number I was ridiculously proud of. And then, the post for my most recent blog, Kiss My Grits, hit my page. Who could have known that Polly Holliday’s (aka Flo from the sitcom “Alice”) famous quip would upend my world?
 
Every two seconds ding, ding, ding, ding. I could not even type a single word without a ding. This had never happened before, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t unnerved. “I must have been hacked,” I thought.
 
I shut my laptop and grabbed my phone. While it notifies me differently, I had 207 notifications on my Sassy Sentiments Facebook account in a matter of minutes.
 
The cartoon I used to announce that blog hit a funny bone for many. I had thousands of reactions (likes, laughs, loves, and a few dislikes) with a matching number of comments. Can you spell stupefied?
 
As of this morning, I have 10,635 followers. That particular post has garnered 210,000 reactions and 10,000+ comments. So why did I unravel?
 
I have prided myself on reacting to every comment on all my posts. I am so thrilled that readers buy into my lunacy that I want to acknowledge all of them, always. But at 10,000 comments, it’s impossible. I, alone, am Sassy Sentiments. But Lord knows I tried!
 
So, thank you, faithful followers, for supporting a 70-year-old wannabe has-been. It simply cannot get any better than this! Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Okay people, time to fess up. How many of you admit to fixing something – anything – by watching a YouTube “How To” video?
 
Seriously, how did we ever survive without them? I have hard-wired and installed a ceiling fan, restored a wood table, added RAM storage to my desktop PC, and replaced my car battery. And I did it successfully, I might add, all because some nerd king posted a video.
 
Remember my last blog when I admitted to an uneventful week? Well, uneventful segued into chaos practically overnight. My life is just like the weather in Indiana. If you don’t like it, wait a minute and it will change.
 
My laptop is my lifeline to reality. It was gifted to me by a faithful friend when it was greatly needed and has kept me focused on the task at hand – my blog. For the last year, it has not been holding a charge. It had to be plugged in to use. This week, the charging post suddenly broke off in the port leaving half of it deeply embedded. Panic ensued. All I could think is “I’m screwed.”
 
Once I calmed down, I turned to YouTube. Sure enough, I found an abundance of videos addressing my problem. And, of course, the first one made it look really easy IF you had the right tools.
 
So, I frantically scrambled to find the tools on Amazon with the YouTube videos on autoplay in the background. All of them said the same thing until video number five. This blessed angel said that because the tools are so expensive you might try another quick tip before investing.
 
Well, Kiss My Grits. It worked in an instant.
 
I felt like the King of the World, again! We all can do anything we want if we only try, right? Well, I won’t be attempting heart transplant surgery anytime soon, but you get the drift. And if you are truly paying attention, you will know my next action.
 
Did you guess it? Yes, I searched for laptop battery replacement on YouTube, gave myself a thumbs up, and ordered the parts. Self-confidence is a powerful thing.
 
And literally 30 minutes after I started the replacement, it was done. It cost me just under $35.00. And the best part? I’ve been working on the laptop for over three hours without power issues, and still have 50% battery remaining. Don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m brilliant.
 
Okay, so it wasn’t brain surgery. But it just goes to prove that everyone needs to take chances. You need to believe in yourself and believe in magic. If you don’t, that one miracle that you desperately need might never materialize. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Okay, gang. You had better sit down because I have an announcement that could change life as we know it. Are you ready? This crazy, ridiculously fickle blogger had an uneventful week. Yes. Really! Uneventful. I know – it is shocking.
 
This morning, I was awakened by the theme song from the Broadway musical Rent, “Seasons of Love,” which asks, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?”
 
Poetically, it continues “In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.” And finishes with “Measure your life in love.”
 
Whew. Profound, huh? I have heard that song thousands of times yet this morning it struck a chord in my head that echoes softly in my heart.
 
Life is just a bitch, right? It is a struggle. And sometimes that struggle is unbearable; other times it is energizing. But when I think about the inevitability of it all I am sad that we become wise to its lessons so late in the blink of an eye we call our existence.
 
So, like the weirdo nerd that I am, every single song this morning is slapping me silly. I think I relate to every composer and lyricist on the planet that has captured the human condition through music. They are poets that make my heart pound, and my tears fall. What I wouldn’t give for that talent.
 
As I listen to formidable ballads like “On My Own” (Les Misérables), “She Used to Be Mine” (Waitress), “Defying Gravity” (Wicked), and “Waving Through a Window” (Dear Evan Hanson) I ponder how my week could have been uneventful. Since when is any aspect of life uneventful?
 
Maybe it was because I was an idiot the week before. I tackled impossible tasks like a naïve youngster. And since recovery from stupidity takes a lot longer these days, my brain graciously went on hiatus as well. It was cleansing and confusing all at the same time.  
 
Rest assured, however, my command of the rules of common sense will falter again soon. My adventures as a bumbling dimwit will no doubt blossom as sure as tulips in spring. Something will itch my curiosity and I’ll scratch it with blind ambition.
 
I have noticed that my awnings need to be refreshed. I wonder…Can I do that myself? Does anyone have a 10-foot ladder and a belt sander I can borrow? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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It will be short and sweet this week, readers. Let’s just say I pushed the limit on my capabilities this past weekend and my joints are still popping and snapping with every movement. Even typing hurts like a son of a b…each bunny.
 
Have you ever done that? See something that needs to be done, get a bee in your bonnet, and just do it -  all at once. I am an idiot when it comes to common sense. Age and wisdom are not necessarily synonymous.
 
So, my shrubs needed trimming. No, that is not really accurate. They needed trimming about three years ago. Now they needed an entire landscaping crew boasting big guns with nuclear-capable power tools.
 
Instead, they got a bony little old lady with a kid-sized Black and Decker hedge trimmer trying to remove over a foot of woody limbs. And by gosh, I was going to do it, no matter what. I think I had a death wish.
 
The back of the shrubs had overgrown so badly they were creeping under the railing onto my porch. My reach could not stretch that far. So, I decided to pull a “Nike” gig and “Just Do It.”
 
The length of these shrubs stretches for about 15 feet. Starting at one end, I was hell-bent on removing at least eight inches from the back.
 
It was like cutting through the jungles of the Amazon rainforest and needed a caption like, “Do not try this at home.”
 
I cut through it all crawling through the trenches until I exited on the other side. I did not stop until it was done. While I was smart enough to wear long pants, I somehow believed short sleeves would be just fine. Duh. I have battle scars all over my arms. I honestly think the limbs came alive and were out to kill me.
 
But here I sit, alive and well even though I am not sure I can lift my arms above my head. I feel like the Terminator who needs a serious lube job. Yet, in all my battle glory, I take pride that I faced my fears head-on and declared to those sucker shrubs, “Hasta la Vista, Baby.” Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Do you ever find yourself smack dab up against a wall and hear yourself saying, “Shut up, stop whining, and get over it?” I do and that wall is made of brick and about 15 feet thick. Thank goodness I am not a headbanger because it would accomplish nothing but a bruised forehead.
 
I am a firm believer that we (aka me) are in full control of our destiny. Our predicaments are almost always of our own making. It is easier to place blame than to accept responsibility, fix the problem, and move on.
 
Sure, some people seem to walk on a primrose path and have the world handed to them on a golden platter. But if you ask them about their life, I will bet that most would lament about one thing or another. There is no such thing as a perfect life.
 
Ah, but isn’t it fun to get lost in a book, movie, or song for a moment and find peaceful perfection? One of my favorite sayings is, “Worry is a Misuse of Imagination.” Getting lost in the moment is a daily requirement these days.
 
To that end, I have become a diehard fan of the Korean Broadcasting Company through Netflix. Their programming sends me back to a time of innocence when features weren’t plagued with flagrant violence, gratuitous sex, and God-awful language.
 
I only watch those shows that are dubbed in English. Go ahead, say it – I admit I am lazy. But I am more interested in not only the sweet, carefree stories but watching the scenery from Seoul and the surrounding countryside. It is culturally illuminating and morally refreshing.
 
All my life I have heard “You are what you eat” and who can argue that truth? Now I find myself thinking will the new age bring forth a “You become what you watch” civilization? Who can convince me that we are not migrating to a mentality without work ethic, social conscience, or common courtesy? Whew. What a scary thought.
 
Yet I still beat myself up about almost everything and bellyache about people who have seemingly lost sight of the difference between good and bad, right and wrong, and righteous and evil. Has it always been like this? Probably. Is it worse? Absolutely.
 
So, without sounding like a pathetic purveyor of gloom and doom, get out of your own shadow and pay attention. Amid all the destruction and disappointment, we, each of us, can make a difference.  

Watch what your children and grandchildren are doing. Set the example. Start the dialogue. Maybe life is not as wholesome as it once was, but it is still what we make it.
 
I need to get off my duff too. Worrying about what the future holds is wasted time. Use those precious minutes instead to lay a foundation of peace, civility, love, and understanding.

​I know we will never bow in respect like our Korean counterparts, but a simple “Please” and Thank You” without the fear of guns blazing could move mountains. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
                                                                                                           

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Wow. It has been a wild week. Not only have I gotten heartwarming accolades, but I actually had one day when I rolled out of bed and didn’t sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies (snap, crackle, pop). High five for me!
 
My life is such a rollercoaster – not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. I cannot even imagine living without these highs and lows. It is part of what nourishes my soul and keeps me whole. Yet it is also what drives me to drink. Bartender, keep ‘em coming.
 
An 80-year-old friend, one of the feistiest old broads I have ever known, fell last week and broke her left arm. This fracture completely dislocated her upper left arm from the shoulder. At her age, it is a break that cannot be fixed and will not heal.
 
Let that sink in. Envision your left arm dangling from the shoulder, held together only by skin and torn muscle. You can use your hand and fingers without issue and maneuver your arm from the elbow, but that’s it. It is still there, but you will never raise it above your head again. Humbling thought, isn’t it?
 
So off I fled into unintelligible psycho-babble oblivion again. I am probably the only idiot on the planet to contemplate the movements of a boneless jellyfish while lost in awe of the divine wonder of the human skeletal system.
 
Although we are born with 270 bones, some fuse together and reach maximum mass usually by ages 25-30. So, we are left with 206 bones, and it only takes the ruin of one to dramatically impact our existence.
 
Yes, for you naysayers, life goes on. This is nothing compared to those who have suffered amputations and/or paralysis – that is purely heartbreaking. But just one bone – one single bone – can change life as we know it. Mind-blowing…
 
But something good always accompanies the bad. Well, almost always, if you look for it. Not only am I well on my way to 9,000 followers, but you also all surely saw my congrats from Facebook for earning a spot in the top 3% of rising creators last week. Never in a million years…
 
When I started this journey in the fall of 2020, I was simply appeasing lifelong friends who guilted me into writing. I made the mistake of telling them that I had once dreamed of becoming the Erma Bombeck of my generation because I thrived on her raw talent and incomparable ability to make me think and laugh at the same time.
 
Now, I didn’t, don’t, could never fulfill that dream because Erma was absolutely brilliant, and I am a wandering nomad in search of my true voice. But since that time, it has genuinely stabilized my sanity. This process makes me focus; it makes me look for the good with the bad and find value in both.
 
So, thank you, readers! Thank you, friends! Thanks to God and my celestial Angels who lift me daily! And for those who think my sanity has not been stabilized? Oh, whatever… Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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So, would you do anything for your job? If your boss asked you to do something totally unimaginable, would you drop everything and say “Yep, where do I sign up?”
 
I suppose many would say, “Well, what does it pay?” That’s a legitimate question. But honestly. How far would you go?
 
I was on my way to a matinee performance of “Beauty and the Beast” at my local dinner theatre when the radio station I always listen to announced the answers to their daily contest. I had missed the initial question, but the answer was “The Wizard of Oz.”
 
The radio DJ continued providing trivia about that award-winning movie. Suddenly, I was inattentive to my driving. Not a brilliant move, I know, but I was instantly transported back to that classic film.
 
I was today-years-old to learn that the Lion costume worn by Bert Lahr in the 1939 movie was made from actual lion skin and fur. Wow. Kinda creepy, huh?
 
The original Scarecrow, Buddy Epsen (of Beverly Hillbillies fame), was recast to play the Tin Man and actually ended up in the hospital in critical care with a toxic reaction to the aluminum powder used in his make-up. He was subsequently forced to leave the film and was replaced by Jack Haley.
 
All masks were made of foam latex makeup, and it took over an hour every day to slowly peel off Ray Bolger’s glued-on Scarecrow mask, a process that left permanent lines around his mouth and chin.
 
And grab this. The “fake snow” that covered Dorothy during the poppy field segment was made of Asbestos (gasp!). Who knew?
 
Can you even fathom the dedication to your craft needed to complete the task? The cast worked six days a week from as early as 4 a.m. to 7 p.m. or later. The lighting needed for the newly developed daylight-bright Technicolor filming process often heated the set to over 100⁰.
 
OK. They got worldwide notoriety which fueled their acting careers. But would you have done it? What risk is acceptable risk? Of course, they did not know the dangers of asbestos at that time, but the work conditions still presented obvious health concerns.
 
This bit of trivia fascinated me and started my relentless brain to plummet out of control. I am a bona fide workaholic. But I cannot say for certain that I could or would have endured it.
 
I know our military is expected to do the impossible. They put their lives above all others. Law enforcement and fire professionals risk life and limb every day. Even my grandfather worked in a paint factory and inhaled toxic fumes for many years which most likely contributed to his lung cancer.
 
So where do you draw the line? What was your most challenging employment task? Please – tell me in the comments. Geez, I am not sure I would even work in a place without air conditioning. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Oh my gosh, gee whiz, son of a buck, grrrr. It is Wednesday and I have no blog. First of all, how could it possibly be Wednesday already? Secondly, how can a die-hard blowhard not have something to say? It is one of the top unsolved mysteries of the world.
 
I do have an idea, but I have to give you a little backstory.
 
My lot in life these days is waiting for the Federal Government to clear my background and allow my employer to provide certified access to proprietary systems. This journey started back in February and has yet to be resolved. Yes, it is May and nearly June. A full quarter of the work year has been spent waiting. For the record… waiting eight hours a day is more exhausting than working.
 
To fill my time while I wait, and after obligatory courses, I am expected to access the company’s learning library, stay busy, and get smart. Sounds like a dream job, huh? Initially, it actually was! I found content in this library that was educational, motivating, thought-provoking, and useful. It was kind of fun.
 
However, these past couple of weeks, I discovered specific audiobooks that have nailed my inadequacies. Oh, joy. These much younger entrepreneurial visionaries have insight that could cut holes through steel. It is illuminating and frightful at the same time.
 
One book I could not stop listening to was “Soundtracks: The Surprising Solution to Overthinking,” by Jon Acuff (#soundtracks; @JonAcuff). Jon doesn’t realize it – geez, he’s never even met me – but he wrote this book about me. I am the epitome of that person who cannot get out of their own way. And the worst part? I am 100% aware that I do it. Isn’t that a hoot?
 
Jon reiterates that overthinking runs on soundtracks – and a broken soundtrack is the worst kind of fear. My soundtracks: “I can’t do it. I’m not good enough. I’m too old. I don’t have time.” He instructs us to ask three simple questions about each soundtrack: Is it true? Does it help or hinder? Is it kind to you?
 
Are the answers to those questions not the absolute “Duh?” Of course, it isn’t true. Of course, it doesn’t help. And double duh, it is not even remotely kind to me. So, I listened and listened intently.
 
I was exceptionally drawn to one of his childhood memories. As a kid, while watching what he deemed to be one the scariest movies ever, Jaws, he found himself lifting his feet off the floor so “sharks” couldn’t find him. That action derived from the thought that he would be safe if he lifted his feet. And that action continued into adulthood when life got scary.
 
Now, Jaws came out in 1975. I was drawn to that analogy because even though I was an adult by that time, after watching the movie, I found myself walking around puddles for the same reason. Who knows what lurks below the water? Overthinking results when thoughts impact actions.
 
So, I am on a mission – to replace my soundtracks with positivity. I read once that change is hard. But the follow-up to that declaration is that change is not hard – it is just a decision to be made. It is implementing and maintaining change that is hard.

But I will learn that I can do it, I am good enough, I am not too old, and I will find the time.

That sounds like a Saturday Night Live skit to me.  Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Am I the only person who rallies between emotional highs and lows so expansive that I get dizzy and disoriented? I swear it is like riding a bobsled from the tip of Mt. Everest to Death Valley sometimes in the blink of an eye. It’s amazing I don’t toss my cookies every time.
 
Now, my vacays on Mt. Everest far outweigh the trips to Death Valley, but the emotional rollercoaster of the journey is nevertheless brutal. Even though I am acutely aware of the reasoning behind all these maladies, I seem to be blind to understanding, and immune to acceptance.
 
Being an adult is sometimes just a royal pain, right? And why do people call it a “royal” pain? I would be unbelievably unhappy if I had to indulge in the pomp and circumstance of life as royalty every waking moment of every day, not to mention the complete lack of privacy. But I am not sure I would refer to it as painful.
 
Why do we hold ourselves accountable for responsibilities that are not really our own? Like a mother hen, I sometimes spread my wings to include those around me who ask for help or are less fortunate. I know that is not a bad trait, yet it still contributes dramatically to my lack of energy.
 
And the weight of the guilt felt when you are physically and emotionally unavailable is staggering.
 
Here I am at the time in my life when I believed I would be lacking in fiscal worry and enjoying total freedom of action. Is that not what we were told in our youth? The “Golden Years” would bathe us in worry-free exultation. I am sure many do. I was just not proactive enough to make certain that would be my endgame.
 
But I still thank my maker every day for far more blessings than many. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are just difficult holidays for me. I never wanted anything more than to be a mother but was never blessed.
 
And while my dad has been gone for 52 years, I still succumb to that childish dream that my life would be very different had I been gifted with his love and guidance for more than 18 years.
 
And so, the bobsled leaves Mt. Everest again. All aboard! Smart people know you cannot live in the past. I am smart; I do know that. But memories reside in that part of our head and heart that is protected from deletion. They are sometimes the key that engages the bobsled.
 
But onward we march, dodging the alternative with exuberance. Dad always said, “Life’s great if you don’t weaken,” and I toast that sentiment at the top of Mt. Everest every time I am there.
 
So, grab a glass and find your own personal toast to life. If you are a parent, love your children unconditionally. And kids? Praise your parents for the miracles that they are. You will miss them when they are gone. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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After what seems like weeks and weeks, and then more weeks, of rain, sunshine has finally burst through the grunge. The difference a few warm rays can make in a person’s attitude is truly remarkable. It is almost as if a smothering pillow has been lifted off my face and I can breathe again.
 
So why does my brain still feel like it is in hibernation? I really do feel better, smile more, and look forward to the days ahead. Vitamin D is indeed a miracle drug, but I obviously still need some kind of magical motivation.
 
It is fair to say that if you look up “sloth” in the dictionary during winter, you will no doubt see my picture. Not that I am all that lazy, I just hate the cold.
 
And much like a kid after summer vacation, when Mother Nature wakes her beloved children in the spring and invites me back into the fray, I move like a pig in mud. Seasonal habits die hard.
 
So, I started thinking about how all walks of life react to seasonal changes. We all know that bears are notorious for long winter naps, and it made me wonder if they too have a slow recovery after hibernation. As usual, it was a fascinating trip down the rabbit hole.
 
First of all, did you know there are over 20 animal species that hibernate? I knew that many disappear from view during the winter months, but I attributed that to just finding warmth somewhere else.
 
In addition to bears, bats, bumblebees, hummingbirds, ladybugs, box turtles, ground squirrels, chipmunks, garter snakes, raccoons, and lizards all hibernate – meaning they self-regulate certain bodily functions (body temperature, slow breathing/heart rate, metabolic rate) to survive when climate presents danger and lack of food.
 
Think about it. How cool would that be? To “bulk up” in the fall by eating anything you want, sleep through the worst of winter days, and wake up losing about one-third of your body weight? Dairy Queen and I would be on a first-name basis.
 
Sadly, of course, humans could not survive this function. Only members of the animal kingdom can fast for long periods without losing muscle and bone composition.

​Bears mysteriously convert their metabolic waste/excrement into protein which allows them to maintain muscle tone and strength during hibernation. I find that absolutely amazing.
 
And, to answer my initial question, no, bears do not wake up with a spring in their step. They are groggy, cranky, and in a state of walking hibernation for 2-3 weeks while returning to their summer metabolic state. Sounds just like me. It must be true…don’t poke a sleeping bear.
 
So, I guess there is hope. I wish I could be hooked up to a high-powered battery and jump-started overnight into a productive existence. But if Yogi “Smarter Than the Average” Bear has to waddle his way back into civilization after a cold winter’s nap, I can too.
 
Quoting French playwright, actor, and poet, Moliere, “Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” Does that mean my summer will be fruitful? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Ugh. Double ugh. Monday mornings. Just thinking about it makes me cringe. The weekends are never long enough anymore, are they?
 
Sadly, I hear my alarm start to wail. I hate that sound. I hit the snooze button knowing I give myself at least fifteen minutes of hide-and-seek time before I have to admit it is time to get out of bed.
 
Oh, but something is strange. It is very quiet. I also wake up to music every morning and there is no music today. I glance at my phone and realize I have overslept for an hour and a half. Shit, shit, double shit. I never do this.
 
You have never seen a grown woman jump out of bed so fast. Although I work remotely from a home office, I never allow myself to arrive at my desk anytime I please. I am a schedule-aholic and suddenly move like a bat out of Hades. I grab my jeans hung conveniently over my vanity chair, stub my toe, and scream like a banshee.
 
And no, to answer your obvious question, I also never allow myself to start my day at my desk in my pajamas. OK, so judge me. I am an anal old idiot drowned by ancient rhetoric.
 
I scramble to get into my jeans without losing my balance mumbling obscenities under my breath the entire time. Although Mondays just suck, I am actually impressed with myself. I did this in record time today. Yay me! What a trooper.
 
I whisk my way from one end of the house to the other and decide that coffee will have to wait for a few minutes. I fall into my desk chair, turn on my monitors, and move my mouse knowing I am still going to be about six minutes late.
 
And then it happens. My system wakes up and the screen tells me it is 7:06 AM on Sunday – yes, you read that right. Sunday. You bleeping blippity bleep mother fork truck son of a biscuit maker a**wipe.
 
I not only dang near broke my toe, but I delayed coffee for this. It is a good thing I live alone because someone other than me should take the blame. That’s only fair, right? After all, why was a 5:30 AM alarm activated on a Sunday? And how many bloody times did I hit that snooze button?
 
OK, so there is no chance of reclaiming my Sunday morning sleep fest. Zero. Zilch. I am in a repugnantly demented rage. The only good thing about this event is that I am 99.9% certain it will never happen again. Ah, the pathetic pitfalls of a hope-indoctrinated Type-A overachiever.
 
Now, if it was a beautiful sun-filled Sunday morning, I would don my best sneakers and go on a glorious jaunt through the park to commiserate with the butterflies. But it is cold, rainy, and one of the dreariest days in April history.
 
Time for one of my delicious, dietary-challenging chorizo, egg, and cheese omelets. Don’t you love the redeeming value of good food? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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The weight of the world is just heavy, isn't it? I don't know why anybody, especially me, feels like they need to carry it on their shoulders. Who am I to think I am that important?
 
So, I have been working on this particular blog for over a week. My thoughts just would not jell. And that by itself is a tremendous burden. Can anyone explain to me where a normal brain goes when it is unproductive?
 
No one on this planet would ever deem my brain as normal, but whenever I am completely unfocused, I am like a snail in a jitterbug contest. The world around me spins out of control and I am stuck watching a really bad “B” movie on repeat, and in slow motion.
 
Do you remember when school was out on a Friday afternoon as a kid? The bus ride home was the best feeling of freedom ever. Once home, you would change your clothes, jump on your bike, and ride like the wind wherever you wanted to go. That freedom was exhilarating – not a care in the world.
 
At my house, we knew that dinner would be on the table when Dad arrived home from work. We also knew we had better hightail it home when his car hit the driveway to eat or suffer Mom’s wrath.
 
Once dinner was finished, and our kitchen chores complete, we would head back outside to conquer the world yet again. Our only rule was to be home by the time the streetlights came on.
 
And all the while, we could not wait until we grew up. We, by gosh, would eat dinner anytime we wanted to. We wouldn’t have to abide by all the crappy rules of crabby old people. That, we thought, would be real freedom.
 
That purely naive innocence still makes me smile. I know you have all said, “Oh to be that young again.” If I could somehow find that sense of freedom as an adult, I really doubt that writing would be such a chore.
 
So why do I love it so much? Why does anyone thrive on something that can make them uncomfortable?  I am guessing because, if only for a minute, it stops the insanity. It halts time in its tracks and allows the never-ending jumble of unequivocal personal doubt to waiver in limbo for a bit. And that, my friends, is bliss for me.
 
The funniest part of all of this is that these old bones couldn’t ride a bike like the wind if they tried. They hardly walk at a brisk pace. But the moral of this story is never forgotten – find peace of mind when and wherever it presents itself. Find the time for a chill pill and take refuge in its simplicity. Perhaps you too will find a story to write. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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​Alas, Spring has finally sprung. Is it just me, or does that first sip of coffee do a much better job when the sun is starting to shine? I am convinced caffeine is light-activated - it does not spring-load energy as effectively in the dark.
 
There are so many good things about this time of year. The flowers are starting to peek through sleepy soil, the warmth of the sun delivers long-awaited celestial hugs, and daily walks can be enjoyed without bulky Eskimo armor.
 
The trees are also starting to bud. Before we know it that delicious sound of a soft wind rustling through leaves will provide a therapy not found in any doctor’s office.

​It is merely a matter of time before a cold beer on the porch after work is mandatory for mitigated insanity and borderline good judgment. Deep breaths of fresh air are compulsory.  Life is good.
 
Did you know that it takes seven to eight trees to provide enough oxygen for just one person per year? At exactly 11:40 a.m. today, the world population clock via screenshot hit 8,026,816,276. Eight Billion People... and growing exponentially. You do the math. That is a boatload of trees needed for the masses just to breathe.
 
Have you ever really taken the time to consider that reality? I would lie bare-faced if I said I did and am not proud of that admission.  Our cities have become concrete jungles. Hundreds of acres of stunning mature forests have been destroyed for the sake of “progress.”
 
I guess our concrete jungles need more concrete. Our amassing population needs more housing. Real estate moguls need more of . . . everything.
 
A few years ago, a cornfield up the road from me was plowed under and I feared the ruination of an iconic Norman Rockwell vision of the perfect country road with rows of huge, boxy houses built, metaphorically speaking, on top of each other – not a tree in sight. It genuinely made me gag.
 
But my faith in humanity was restored. That spot now houses a large tree farm providing a home for thousands of new saplings. I almost want to adopt eight of those trees for my own self-preservation.
 
But amid the fears of our declining civilization, Spring still reigns King. It is symbolic of how you can rebirth your life by simply enduring the cold and believing that warm sunshine will renew an insatiable hunger for survival. Sounds ridiculously easy, doesn’t it?
 
But no, life is still hard – no matter the weather. Murphy’s Law often trumps Mother Nature’s perfection. It is the resilience of the human spirit that makes us just grin and bear it.
 
So go out there and enjoy this glorious season as it only comes once a year. Walk in the rain, embrace the newborn flora, and download the Dairy Queen app for an 85-cent Blizzard for the next two weeks. I dare Murphy to trump that miracle. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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So, Saturday was just a bitch. Do you ever have days that are bad just…because? Uh, hands down. That was a rhetorical question – I don’t need an answer. We all have those days. And if you are one of those Little Mary Sunshines arguing that every day is beautiful, I’ll meet you in the alley after dark. Every day is only beautiful in hindsight.
 
Now, I could not put my finger on it. I had nothing to blame. It did not matter what I saw, heard, read, watched, thought, or drank, I was just agitated. My intellectual persona, you see, loves to stir the pot and push my buttons. And my overactive brain cannot just sit quietly like a well-disciplined little angel. Oh no. It has to jump into the fire pit and kick the coals.
 
I have learned over the years that sometimes I just have to pop the cork and let the steam escape. My pent-up steam is stored in tears so there is nothing like a torrential cry to clear the cobwebs.
 
To my faithful male followers, keep reading. I am certain you believe this is a female thing and maybe you have a point. But the mere fact that I always feel like “King of the World” after a good cry sent me spiraling down yet another rabbit hole to find out why.
 
In 1692, Danish scientist Niels Stensen discovered that tears originate in the lacrimal gland, just above your eye. They are not all alike and are not just drops of saline. They are a complex 3-layer fluid with a structure similar to saliva. They contain enzymes, lipids, metabolites, and electrolytes.
 
Incredibly, we all make 15 to 30 gallons of tears each year. Yes, I said gallons. If you are anything like me, you are envisioning 30 gallons of water stacked to the ceiling. Whoa. That is a river of tears.
 
Basal tears lubricate, nourish, and protect your cornea by removing dirt and debris. This happens every time you blink.  Reflex tears are released in larger amounts to wash away harmful irritants (smoke, foreign bodies, onion fumes, etc.) and actually contain bacterial-fighting antibodies. And to think that Charles Darwin once deemed them purposeless.
 
And then there are Emotional tears. These do not need explanation, right? You might be surprised. There is actually a link between multiple brain systems that send signals to open the floodgates. And it is believed they release stress hormones too and help the body find physiological equilibrium.
 
Jane Craig (Holly Hunter in the 1987 film “Broadcast News”) unplugged her phone daily, sat in reflective meditation for a moment, and then burst into chesty, heaving sobs to start her day. I think she knew the secret.
 
And so, I cry. While I do provoke my tear ducts passionately at times, I know it serves a radical purpose. The relief for me is diabolical. Life bites but you learn to live it with grace, dignity, and a measure of good humor. Otherwise, you crash and burn. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Do you ever think about what makes you truly happy? I have written here so many times before that to me, happiness is relative. What makes me happy might not even affect you. And what makes you jump for joy may be a conundrum for me.
 
I remember what it felt like to get an “A” on that test I didn’t think I was ready for. Or, waiting and waiting and waiting for what seemed like months for a much-needed tax refund only to find that it just hit the bank. Or, seeing an incoming call from a phone number you had prayed for many times.
 
And I know that every one of you has had experiences that affected you in the same way. It is an adrenaline rush that no one can really explain. But while happiness may often be elusive, it is still a choice.
 
This past week, my niece’s husband returned from a 9-month military tour overseas in support of Ukraine. She broadcast live after the welcome home ceremony as their precious daughters first saw their daddy and ran to him screaming. I could not hold back my tears as I watched him hug them for the first time in months. For the love of me, I cannot comprehend how my niece was holding her phone so steadily.
 
Happiness is just so personal sometimes, isn't it? And there are an infinite number of variables that make it so. For me, it is virtually impossible to pass judgment on anyone because of a feeling they might have. The old adage about walking a mile in someone’s shoes is right on point. Right or wrong, I am infuriated when someone says to me “it could be worse,” or “don’t be silly.”
 
When true happiness seems distant, I always choose to rejoice in whatever feelings I do have. This past weekend, feeling alone and tired, I decided to do some routine maintenance to my Sassy Sentiments Facebook page, and BOOM. There it was.
 
7,000 followers! Did I read that right? I was overwhelmed in late January (1/24) when I surpassed 6,000. But WOW. 1,000 new followers in TWO MONTHS. Have I told you guys lately that I love you? Shall I break out in song?
 
Emptying my brain every week is therapeutic. It makes me happy. I wish everyone could find that one thing that gives them peace, value, and self-worth. Some days it is simply a Sea Salt Caramel Chocolate Chunk cookie that makes everything okay. On other days I need my keyboard!
 
I keep thinking, “If I write it, they will come read it.” Yeah, I know. That is a lame reference. It still makes me feel like a million bucks. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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As a teenager, I was fearless. OK, so maybe I wasn't as fearless as my best friend, but because of her, we had many fearless moments that teetered on the edge of stupidity.
 
One night we were cruising the local college campus when we (i.e. SHE) engaged in a flirtatious screaming match with a car full of hormonally-charged guys. I cannot remember the gist of the engagement, only that they squealed a U-turn in the middle of the road and started to chase us.
 
She thought this was a blast while I was in the passenger seat trying not to uncontrollably empty my bladder.
 
They taunted us across town. They were not going to accept failure. She hightailed it off into the suburbs heading toward my house. They followed. To this day, I believe the only thing that saved us that night was my brother's best friend, a 6’ 11” monster basketball player, standing in my driveway. One look and they sped past -  she still laughing, me shaking in my shoes.
 
I doubt there is any relevance, but today I don't even make eye contact in the grocery store. Can you imagine? In today's world, that car would have been hauling gun-toting maniacs. As a teenager, the thought never entered her mind that we could be in danger. It was a harmless act of flirtation.
 
But today is different and I find it sad that kids have to gauge their interaction with others on a whole different level.
 
Even as an adult, I had a similar experience. I was driving home from work on the 55 freeway in Southern California, bumper to bumper, all traveling about 55 mph. I was in the center of three lanes.
 
The truck in the left lane behind the truck immediately to my left started honking and flashing its lights. Uh, sorry pal, but there is nowhere to go here was my thought, when the front truck driver picked up a flashlight, aimed it backward, and started flashing it on and off.
 
Oh. My. Goodness. This enraged the back driver. He sped up and bumped the front truck. I was instantly petrified. I could not just slam on the brakes to let these guys go at it for fear of being rear-ended, but I did start to diminish my speed.
 
Within a minute or so, there was room for the back truck to safely move over in front of me. I thought surely this would alleviate the issue. I was wrong. Once he changed lanes in front of me, he tried to sideswipe the other truck into the center divider. This nut job was going to take all of us out. I immediately found a way to merge into the right lane and exit the freeway.
 
Now, this was long before cell phones. We were alone on a deadly racetrack with daredevil drivers. I found an alternate route home the next day.
 
And I wonder why we all tend to proceed with such caution anymore. Life has changed. Making any kind of contact with anyone anymore is genuinely a risk. How scary is that?
 
So, if you want to engage in flirtatious communion with me now, I will need a background check, five notarized personal references, proof of insurance, and an executed contract that the receipt of falsified information will result in the termination of friendship if not your manhood. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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How many of you rationalize how vibrant your life is? How meaningful is it really? This is a conversation that seems to have taken a front row in the production I call "My Life."

Sunday morning was a riot. I crawled out of bed and headed sleepily to the kitchen for liquid caffeine. From the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white. What was that? I lifted the blind to see snow. I did not even know snow was in the forecast.

TV off, music off, hot coffee in hand, it became just me and my brain having a quiet romp through youthful memories. Of course it snowed. It is the onset of March Madness. Snow is a prerequisite. It made me reminisce and smile about days gone by. It never failed during Indiana High School basketball playoffs that we had a major snowfall. It was a given.

But then my brain took a detour. No surprise there. Those memories were from many, many years ago. And, as hard as I tried, I could not seem to connect the snow with anything else. Based on our recent weather, it was just a freak early Spring surprise.

And then it hit me. My life has a hole in it.

I have spent the last 20+ years virtually alone. Every action, thought, and plan has been based on work, financial needs, and emotional survival. Weather played no role whatsoever. Well, except for the black ice I hit on the way home from work one scary February night that introduced me broadside to the interstate guard rail.

Suddenly a blanket of regret smothered me. Surviving is not living - not really. Why did I choose that path? Did I choose it? Do we have those kinds of choices?

And WHAM. Instant wake-up call. Of course, we have choices. I obviously just made poor ones. I walked on the safe side of existence instead of the wild side. OK, so it did not have to be wild, it just should have been more deliberate.

But that regret was short-lived. The sun came out and I was flooded with loving images of friends, and family, and my sweet little Seeker. Our life successes are not always action-filled blockbusters. That "hole in my life" is just a place to find respite. It is surrounded by a high-speed racetrack. All I have to do is step on the accelerator to get back in the groove.

That groove, however, will not start in the snow! So today it will be fulfilling enough to find warmth in the comfort of home. Perhaps the next time I am startled by snow I will think of today. And that memory will remind me how life enlightens us sometimes with simple surprises. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Have you ever awakened in a pretty good mood only to look in the mirror and see Albert Einstein on a bad hair day? Some days, my life is just a quiet riot.

Now, I have been told I clean up nicely, but that first vision is always frightfully disturbing. You would think I would avoid that blindingly honest moment of the day at all costs. But nope. I never do. I have, though, graciously learned to smile through the horror.

And so, my daily circus starts in the center ring. Sometimes I am the Ringmaster - sometimes the Lead Clown. I waddle my way through the darkness for that first cup of confidence. There is no greater sense of triumph first thing in the morning than to grant caffeine permission to throttle my brain and hoist my eyelids for the day.

I am an early riser too. I know with certainty I accomplish more before noon than I ever will later in the day. The early hours are my redemption. It is in the quiet of the morning that my thoughts are most unobstructed.

When there is no annoying cerebral chatter, I visualize possibilities. Building your day on a spiritual foundation, whatever that means to you, paves a road to inner peace and acceptance.

But I am forever cracked up by what I envision my day will present as opposed to what I expect will happen. Oh, I do believe in the power of positive thinking. I just think that sometimes when it comes to positivity life savagely screams "MYTH" just to rattle our nerves.

And that leads to a conversation about the Law of Attraction. I have always believed that the energy of your thoughts manifests your experiences. Good begets good; bad delivers disaster. But, of course, without actions on good thoughts, the energy dries up and blows away. Maintaining a positive influence is almost too much like work anymore and I don’t know if that makes me crazy or lazy.

But the author of an audiobook I listened to this week really tweaked my curiosity. He wrote that mantras are tools of thought to penetrate the depths of the unconscious mind and adjust the vibration aspects of your being. The more I heard the more deeply invested I became in defining one that might allow me to harness my strengths and focus my attention.

Then, he said that a mantra's success was dependent on reciting it 200 times a day for a minimum of four weeks. Are you kidding me? That calculates to over eight times an hour (if you talk in your sleep) and 5,600 recites to invoke change. Perhaps my new mantra will be "screw that sh*t."  Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Some days are just not doable, right? Simply said, it doesn't matter what your frame of mind is, your heart, body, and soul are just not in sync. One is sleeping, one is shopping and the other one is a playful child romping around in the backyard. Finding focus is next to impossible.

I am currently in a personal rework. I have returned to full-time employment and am truly struggling with the adjustment of how to juggle work and play. Changes in adult life are not as fluid as they once were. Old people just get tired more easily.

As a kid, the hours of our day were filled with unlimited imagination and curiosity. As an adult, we tend to suppress that inner child in favor of predictable safety. Responsibility, expectation, and physical needs make it too risky to just have fun and enjoy the moment.

But then something slaps you upside of your head. Life is just too short to sweat the small stuff. It is essential to take a minute and acknowledge the abundance of blessings ever present in our lives.

Yes, I know, that sounds like a Deepak Chopra meditation order. Don't fall into that pit.  Just take a deep breath and accept it for what it is - common sense. I have to tell myself that daily.

Recently, I came across a story about German-Peruvian Mammalogist, Juliane Koepcke, who specializes in bats.  She became famous at the age of 17 as the sole survivor of the 1971 LANSA flight 508 plane crash - just one day after she graduated high school.

Mid-flight, the plane was struck by lightning and began to disintegrate before plummeting to the ground. Juliane was sucked out of the plane and fell two miles into the Amazon Rainforest, still strapped to her seat. Miraculously, she survived. Sadly, her mother died in that crash.

She spent 11 days, alone, searching for help, with a broken collar bone, cuts and bruises, and a concussion. On the 9th day, she came upon a local fisherman encampment and found supplies that allowed her to give herself rudimentary first aid. When the fisherman returned, she was transported to a more inhabited area and airlifted to a hospital.

Wow. Just wow, right? I am hard-pressed to believe I would have had that stamina and perseverance at 17. And ever since I read that story, I have been hard-pressed to remotely think I have a not-so-great life. I am incredibly blessed, more so than many.

So, I suggest next time you feel overwhelmed, enter meditation mode and imagine surviving 11 days, alone and injured, in the Amazon Rainforest pouring gasoline on your wounds to kill the maggots that had taken root. You will have an epiphany: your life is undeniably good. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Are you a creature of habit, a prisoner of routine? The nature of the “American Way” often leaves us with little opportunity to divert from daily convention with reckless abandon. You know it’s true. Even I cannot function without that first cup of coffee. And my free time is limited by work expectations.
 
A five-day workweek becomes a Groundhog Day horror for many of us. The alarm goes off, and we stumble out of bed navigating the morning in a habitual grind. It reeks of leading the cattle to slaughter.
 
But it keeps us on point, doesn’t it? Without that cadence of routine, we tend to lose our way and wander endlessly without focus. We lose precious minutes, sometimes hours, without so much as an understanding of how, or why.
 
Now some will call it discipline. And many will admit without the safety net of a routine, they get lost in a swirling sea of anxiety. Decision-making is just easier when it is predetermined. I understand that, but the result is horrifying to me. Without spontaneity, we wander around in an existential rut. And Lord, I hate being in a rut.
 
I am certain not all of you had a very predictable childhood like mine. In my house, if we were having spaghetti for dinner, it must be Tuesday. And when we had pot roast on Thursday, we had leftover beef and noodles on Friday. The Gregorian monks could have set their calendars on our food consumption.
 
As I grew older my unmanageable work schedules eliminated the menu ordinances ingrained in my youthful food comforts. It did not hold the importance for me as it did for my mother. Yet I can also remember the irritation that ensued when a significant other lamented, “What’s for dinner?” five minutes after I walked in the door from a long day while he channel-surfed comfortably on the sofa.
 
Oh, how posting a weekly menu on the refrigerator may have bridled that bitter annoyance. Was that my mother’s secret weapon?
 
But routine is not always about food either. I watch people manage their lives like zombies on a blood search. Again, they call it discipline; I call it mindless repetition. I realize that sometimes action is required by rote – my favorite blueberry muffins are only produced on Wednesdays, so I must go to the bakery on Wednesdays to get one.
 
My bestie and I usually cougar crawl on Tuesday nights because her basement is filled with old wannabe rockstars every Tuesday night. But that, my friends, is not a mindless habit. That is her salvation.
 
So next time you execute a plan based on previous outcomes, pump it up a notch. Be ruthless. Change it up and proceed without thought. Who knows – you might just end up having the best damn bowl of gumbo you’ve ever had. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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It is the middle of the night and I have tossed and turned for over an hour. My back is aching, my feet are threatening major-league cramps, and my brain will not stop lusting over the new ice cream machine I read about last week. I grab my phone to record funny little snippets about old age and blind ambition when it hits me. Why in the bloody hell do I become my most creative at 3:00 a.m.?
                                                                                                                
And there it is. A Google search about sleep and creativity returns multiple theories. Imagine that. One confirms that research suggests we are most clear and creative when we have recently awakened from REM sleep. Tell that to my aching back and crampy feet that have robbed me of anything close to REM sleep tonight.
 
Another theory teaches when tired at night, your frontal lobe is missing vital energy signals that spark distraction, leaving you slightly more creatively focused than usual. It goes on to say that your brain’s creative response when tired is exactly the same as when you drink alcohol. Well, well. Now we're talking. I want desperately to sleep but my frontal lobe has decided to serve up martinis instead. I'll have mine shaken, not stirred, thank you.
 
I also question what silence has to do with creativity. Except for the tinnitus echoing ominous Gregorian chants deep in my ears, it’s a quiet night. It is common knowledge that silence relieves stress and tension, and mindful meditation allows us access to our innate imagination and creativity.

Scientific research also found that when exposing mice to two hours of silence per day new cells developed in the hippocampus - the brain region associated with memory, emotion, and learning. Perhaps I need to find my two hours of silence during the day and add a cheese tray to complement the martinis. Problem solved!
 
All this nonsense, however, does make me pause in nostalgic reflection. Throughout my secondary and collegiate studies, and long into my 30s and 40s, I rarely slept for more than four or five hours every night. I simply did not need more to feel revitalized every day.

​And, I can honestly say I do not recall bouts of sleeplessness. I ran like a freight train until I dropped and slept without interruption. Even though an aging body probably does need more rest, I push the envelope too often and give in to an early bedtime. All theories aside, I am simply at my best after about five hours of sleep. Will someone please tell that to my body?
 
So, I have learned a couple of immediate lessons from this exercise. First of all, if you search the internet long enough you can find logic to support any result you want. I wonder if I could be awarded a federal multimillion-dollar grant to prove it? Secondly, there is no logic to why I don't just put my phone down and go to sleep! None. Zero. Zilch.
 
Okay, so I’ve counted sheep, slammed a couple of hot toddies, and wrapped myself in a toasty electric blanket, yet my body is still dead set on running a marathon. If this were an Olympic sport, I’d be a national hero. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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It has been a crazy few days. Up down, in out, go stay, right wrong, wine or not? Would someone just help me make an intelligent decision? Choices are dangling all around me without rhyme or reason. I think I need an intervention.
 
Okay, so I have just lost my mojo - you can sidebar the intervention. I remember when decision-making was black and white – no gray areas – not even a maybe. And then one day it became 5,862 shades of gray (give or take a few). When did I decide it had to be difficult? And how did I come to this state of mind?
 
We all know that decision-making is a reasoning process based on one’s assumptions of values, preferences, and beliefs. It is a cognitive mechanism that generally results in a rational – or irrational – course of action. Ah, but the kicker here is that oftentimes we jump to conclusions based on not-so-explicit information.
 
Of course, in my humble opinion, the delineation of rational vs. irrational is meaningless anyway. Rationality is relative, right? Everyone’s interpretation of “the ability to reason” waivers across the board. Unless a conclusion is beyond a shadow of a doubt, who can pass judgment? And who defines the shadow of a doubt?
 
Is anyone else confused here? I am simply trying to decide if I should wear boots or shoes. Should I go to the grocery today or tomorrow? Is my flannel jacket enough or should I wear my heavy coat? Thank goodness it was easy enough to choose coffee over tea.
 
I wonder…did this unacceptable indecisiveness happen overnight? Or did it come crashing down like an overloaded pantry shelf when one too many cans of soup were added? Yes, I am just a hot mess.
 
I have always believed that decisive wisdom was the compilation of years of successes, failures, good choices, and bad decisions. Today I feel as though I blew a circuit breaker. My confidence is intact, and my energy level is unabashedly youthful, but my brainwaves are lost in the Bermuda Triangle.
 
So, I am curious. Do you have overload days too? An elder friend today, in a bit of an unnerving state of confusion, said to me, “I am not buckled very tight today, am I?” I reassured him we all have those days, yet the serendipitous simplicity of his acknowledgment slapped me silly. I am not buckled very tight today either.
 
But tomorrow is near and while bedrest can be an elusive healer, I have an inkling that I will awaken with newfound resolve. Will it be shoes or boots? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Wow. I let an entire week get away from me. Oh, I got up every day, did my duty, nourished my body, and clocked a few hours as a real person. But my focus was gone. Poof. Gone. And I honestly do not know if that was a good thing, or not.
 
This morning I awakened at 3:08 AM and realized I had not written a word in 13 days. Guilt immediately washed over me, and I jumped out of bed like I was an hour late for work.
 
I brewed a cup of coffee, took a moment to savor how good it tasted, and grabbed my laptop.
 
It felt like I had not touched it in ages. Have you ever had a moment like that? When something old feels new again? It is a good feeling! (Note to self: Make this feeling happen more often.)
 
So off I went on my usual journey down the big black hole. I checked my email – nothing of interest to note. I always try to scan the local news but when the headlines are nothing but death and destruction I move along. I need to find my inspiration elsewhere.
 
And oh goodie. A winter storm warning is my new truth – predicting 4-8 inches of snow overnight. January has been so ridiculously mild that I cannot even muster a grunt of despair. It is January in Indiana after all, and I need a reason to don my new thermal underwear anyway.
 
Then it is onward to social media. Notifications are out of control. Good news, sad news, funny news, and ads up the wazoo. The experience is just not what it used to be. I have to seriously dig through grunge to find the good stuff. Yet I still ponder – how did we stay in touch without it? Even more importantly, how did I ever live without knowing what someone’s cat did during a thunderstorm?
 
Ah, but then I saw it. Why didn’t Facebook notify me? Readers – we did it! I not only hit my 6,000 milestone, I surpassed it by 144! That’s right – 6,144 followers! My fingers are tingling; my heart is racing; it is time to celebrate. Since it is too early for wine (even for me!), I need more coffee!
 
And just like that, I am refreshed. I started this journey over two years ago to simply empty an overactive brain. I never dreamt for a minute that strangers might find even a spark of interest, a flash of entertainment, or a moment of resolve in my thoughts. I am so glad that I have shared them.
 
I realize that 6,144 followers do not an influencer make, but I am humbled and ever so blessed to have found my own little niche of personal freedom. Each of you has helped liberate me from my fear of not being enough. To feel worthy is to feel loved. And I thank you all so much.
 
But let’s get back to that cat in a thunderstorm. Did I really need to see that? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Share your thoughts!  Click the word Comments below and tell me what you think!
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