I live in a 2 story colonial in the suburbs of Chicago, one with an outdated kitchen and a storm door that doesn’t close right. I wear Old Navy jean capris I’ve owned for the last 6 years and my hair is a dyed, frizzy chestnut with centimeter-tall grey roots. I walk my dogs twice a day and pick up dog poop in individual plastic bags, and worry about landfills. I’m saving for my son’s college, which starts next year, and am woefully behind, but still trying. I love my husband even when he’s stressed and grumpy and not sure being a step dad is all that terrific. I eat Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton and then follow that with a handful of pretzels. My bras are old because I am cheap and I hate that the straps fall down when I’m talking, and wish I had better shoes.
I work really hard for a big-name consulting firm, and I love solving complex problems and figuring out how to make the place stronger and better (even while working from home wearing old, Old Navy jean capris).
I let our Himalayan cat outside even though there are coyotes every once in a while, passing through the sub-division. I drink red wine, if given a choice, and toss out milk as soon as the expiration date comes. I detest left overs.
I wonder at the songs my teen kids play when they are in the shower and how they can stand to be in their rooms, given the explosion of mostly dirty clothes on the floor.
I love to look up into the trees as I walk.
I eat kale and avocados and also italian beef.
I love gardenias, and they have been blooming just crazy beautiful this May (fresh soil and plant food is magic!)
I love excel and know approximate exchange rates for the Euro and Pound Sterling in any given month.
I write poetry sometimes and crap most other times.
My mom is a competitive swimmer who was just diagnosed with Parkinson, and I am so scared for her, and for my dad, and for myself.
My oldest is leaving for Germany next week, and I just wonder how it is possible I agreed to let him live 5000 miles away for 3 weeks.
My youngest wants to marry Netflix.
The black & white dog I adopted a year ago, to keep our 9.5 year old collie young and “with a spring in her step” is not 3 years old, but probably closer to 8 or 9. I “pull” him on our 2 daily walks, but he grins and waddles the whole darn way, the lucky little con artist . . .
I live one beautiful life.
You do, too.