I did not write last night. I slept. And slept and slept and woke and then slept again. I then did the normal morning “chores” which included chugging a cup of coffee and then pouring a second one like I was going to actually drink it but instead will microwave it 17 times and watch the creamer curdle with each spin it takes in this miracle machine that I know damn well is so bad for our bodies. Curdled creamer doesn’t sound so great either but here we are. I suppose now I am thankful I only have one cup of coffee worth of an attention span to drink it. Perhaps I am preserving some years on my old ticker. Lord knows the tequila is too. When I was pregnant, my OB suggested I start having a glass of red wine in the evenings towards the end of my pregnancy. She said the amount of stress I was under was doing more damage to my sons than a glass of wine would and to help myself out. Girllll, say no mo! The faces I would get, the reaction. One time just to take it a little further because well, I love to fuck around and find out…I pretended I was hammered while at this wine bar with my ex-husband. I was the skinniest I have ever been for a good portion of my pregnancy and had this poke you in the eye disbelief-producing belly when I would swing around. So on this night, we sat at a booth overlooking the city and the rooftop garden which I wanted to lick all of the dirt out of as my pregnancy brought out my true self and desires. I turned sideways, squat down (because you know damn well I was still wearing 6-inch heels back then), and then slid myself across the bench until my back hit the window and I had support for these two humans I was about to sprinkle some love on by eliminating stress via a glass of wine. You would have thought I was some monster deserving to be taken away in cuffs…when in reality I had the equivalent of two monsters inside of me who cuffed me the second they came to be. I was a captive and they were running the show. Fuck, they still are. For a little information, I went into labor with these pirates at 25 weeks, again at 32, again at 35, and held them til 36 and 6 days thanks to lots of elevated bedrest, Nifedipine to minimize my continual contractions, weekly visits to the specialist, and a hospital stay or two(?) I have blocked so much out it was so traumatizing. I EARNED THIS FUCKING WINE and the boys and I earned our love and bond in the most harrowing fashion. The three of us fought together and drank red wine together and cried together and laughed and somehow survived it all. They are my best friends and always will be. So this night at the too fancy and classy for a really fucking pregnant woman to be drinking wine, sitting sideways in a booth because her stomach does not fit otherwise, I took all the stares and smiled with my purple teeth and slid my still perky ass back out of the death trap booth, placed my 6-inch heels firmly on the ground and strutted my way across the dimly lit room to the hallway which led to the bathroom because the pirates said its time to go and playfully kicked my bladder and giggled together at how much control they were beginning to understand they had over this ship they invaded. The manager came up to me in the hallway and placed his hand on my arm, just below my shoulder. Poor dude was trying to find a safe place to land his hand. Nowhere was safe. You don’t hold onto the sails of a ship with two hysterically cackling pirates behind the wheel and feel confident you can ride it home due to your location on the ship. After he found a false sense of security and safety with his hand landing, he told me loved my approach, the boldness, and the confidence and wanted to make sure I knew I had his support and so many others. Girl, thank you. I know. I too like to believe they staring because they are caring and not starin cause they Karen. Later he handed me a bottle of whiskey to look at so I could really stir up some shit. I. Have. Never. Read. A. Label. So. Slow. And. Intently. My eyebrow has also never reached such a high.

I went on a walk today and I kept my head down until I could see someone approaching and then I would look up and smile and take in their face and wonder what they were there for. Why were they alone and walking. What were they thinking about. How did they get the injury that left them disabled. How many people have broken their hearts and what do they miss the most. Yeah, sure those were all supposed to have question marks. But this is not a grade, just my thoughts. Let it go, Britt…I was just visually watching several someones walk past me and wondering who was wishing they could experience this sighting of this person one last time. I felt this energy today like I was living in these moments in a different way than I usually imagine. Likely because the pirates were not with me and the buzz from the first cup of coffee was long gone and I had the presence of a Cooper’s Hawk that was flying alongside me and was zigzagging across the path only to sit in the field and wait and then do it again once I caught up. Motherfucker was probably like what in the hell is she doing, get away from me. Honestly, I normally walk towards them and that thought would therefore be justified-ish, but not today. Today I just limped along and let tears fall and smiled at people who seemingly all had this silence in them as well. Everyone looked like the cooler weather was bringing them closer to what they were feeling. I in particular was feeling a lot of pain even despite my continual effort to ease it by wrapping my big toe in a sock all by itself. I fucked up my left big toe on Sunday night. Not a cool story and definitely felt bad limping past men with canes and service dogs. Like fuckkkkk dude, I am sorry to be limping with you over something really silly when I took note of your Vietnam hat and the badges that are sewn onto your dog’s vest. The sewing that was probably done by your wife and she may be dead and now you walk alone and I am out here limping because I am a klutz without a badge or a sad story. And honestly, I just made up an entire one for you and your “wife” and that damn dog that is making me want to squeeze him and tug on his ear and spank him a little while thanking him and you for your service. Perhaps I should cut this walk short because shit is crumbling and it’s crumbling fast. I always ask my dog to wear a service vest. Because I honestly don’t feel good without him. But he honestly doesn’t feel good lying about it and so we don’t do it. And I just rush all of my outings so I can return home to him quicker. I will be gone 5 minutes and I am already saying “I miss LeeLee…” with tears in my eyes and a giggle because I know how ridiculous I am but also how true the feeling is. He is also my best friend. Eli my best friend refuses to wear a vest to make my indoor outings last longer as I can endure the sterile lighting and terrible energy around me more when I have his butt to watch wag and his constant control over my emotions. Soul. Mate. But like the super healthy codependent kind. You know what I am talking about. Look, he is an honest dog. Just like Brad and all the other exes that made it so merry that one year with a company-wide email declaring me a winner. Ew, no. Eli is nothing like them. Eli is the shit. Eli is truly an honest dog. Aren’t all pups?! Eli is a pirate too, he just doesn’t wear a pirate vest either because he too says, ew. Yet another thing we have in common. We also love to share a heated blanket, heating pad, and pillow each night. If I move just enough for him to feel one piece of his fur not touching my back…he will move closer to me. Over and over again. And in the morning, I will look over my right shoulder and he over his left as we lay spine to spine and we both just barely catch a glimpse of each other’s face and then we lay our head back down on our pillow and relish knowing damn well this ain’t the time for our feet to hit the ground. This morning was no different. 

So I drank wine when I was pregnant and had beautiful healthy sons. I adopted a dog when he was “5” after he was abused and he is a beautiful healed dog/son/soulmate/pirate/“ew” sayer/non-vest wearing/ codependent Godsend who has more names, songs and dances in his honor than anyone on this earth. And I went on a walk today with a wonky ass toe that I refuse to pull the severely severed nail off of and continue to just bandage and cushion with an ankle sock and pretend it’s not happening. That was my day, my success. Some days that is winning to me. It does not take much. I think walking with a sports bra on is torture enough and I should give myself a gold star. So I do. Hey, whose standards am I living by? My own. Thats who. I am sure many people did magical things today, had a full calendar, and busy schedule, and saved someone’s life but I wore a sports bra that made my neck want to break (and kept others from doing so) and hours later, I still have the indentions in my skin to prove it, but I also have this shiny little gold star and a bloody sock and a dog and two human pirates who are cuddled up with me and think I hung the moon. And I think the same of them. We all make differences every day. Some seem petty and insignificant in comparison to others, but in reality, they are not. We walk, we work, we parent, we judge ourselves, we pass people all day long in a physical presence and also in thoughts and we are all keeping this world spinning by doing so. Someone once told me the classic “the early bird gets the worm” and I replied that I have seen that worm and I don’t want it, it’s all yours. And that’s really where I am in life. Eat that fucking worm if it makes you happy. Have that second cup of coffee. Hold onto that dead-as-hell bloody toenail and cover it up in denial. Give yourself that gold star. Cry on your walk. Pull that dog’s ear and give him a love spanking. Adopt the dog no one wants because he says “Ew, fuck that vest.” Drink that doctor-approved glass of wine when you are pregnant. Make that ugly Christmas sweater. Sleep spine-to-spine with your dog despite hygiene concerns. Put a period instead of a question mark after your question(s). Chat with your friend for the smallest amount of time you have available. Text your dad you love him and nothing else. Laugh when your kid thinks “Bill Shipper” (pronounced “cipher”) is the name of the recipient on a package because, well, dyslexia SUCKS but it’s funny. Thank God your feet were able to hit the ground when they did and that you felt it. Be alive. Say what you are thinking. Feel what you want. Celebrate whatever you value and celebrate what the ones you love are celebrating as well. Dream how you wish and let go of what needs to be. LIVE. This is the chapter of life I have entered. Living and accepting that I live it the way I want to. I always have, I mean from day one even without the memory myself. I have always been me and marched to the beat of my drum but as I got older I started questioning and comparing. Trying to figure out how to do this. When I already had. I just let others tell me I was the problem and I accepted that like they were right. I don’t belong here or we don’t work because of the way I am. Bullshit. That is not the problem, I was not the problem. Nor were they. None of us are. You just have to find the people and the places and the circumstances you are meant for. You have to be willing to not hold on and just let life flow through you. And when you just live, you do. Stop questioning or at least stop putting the question marks. Make them your own statements. No one has to understand it. No one has to understand you. No one has to approve of why you gave yourself a gold star for getting out of bed or for limping a lap. There is nothing wrong with finding value in whatever it is you do, whatever it is you stand for and whoever you live your life as. No one except you.