Just Do It: My Manifesto (54/60)

Just.

Do.

It.

Pretty much best add campaign ever. Even though I don't love Nike shoes, I LOVE this theme.

Last night as I was furiously folding clothes and watching my guilty pleasure "Jayne the Virgin" (literally, I love this show), the Mama, Xo, is finally able to fulfill her dream of being a singer. She of course is rebuffed because despite having talent, she's too old.

She's "missed" her window.

There's a lot more to the story, but it totally struck home to me. I'm 43. I've written two full length books and countless essays and haven't gotten ONE published.

Not one.

I sort of tried, but . . . well, after a bunch of rejections, you either keep going, or like me, let it fizzle out and go strong on the PTA, busy mama of five project (which to be fair for a few years truly required my blood sweat and tears--lots of tears) direction.

Have I missed my window?

Last night, I was pretty darn sure I had. And missing your window is a pretty darn sad feeling to have. Sure, you can comfort yourself (and I did) with all the things you did do and the opportunities you didn't miss, but this dream of mine--unrealistic and crazy as it may be--hasn't been realized.

And I felt a bit bummed about that.

I had two dreams growing up: Dream #1; a big old yard with a big garden, flowers, and lots of laughing children running around and Dream #2; me, an author writing as I listened to their laughter creating story after story while the warm wind blew through my window and my children blissfully played.

I got half the dream. Young me had no idea how many times that laughter would be interrupted by screams, tears, fights, and near death experiences. Creativity during that time . . . not so great.

So . . . I did the half that had an expiration date--the children.

Fast forward a million and one years to me, 43, with 2 1/2 children home (Celia with her senior and work status make her a half child), with time on my hands for the first time in forever and enough money to not worry about much and my kids pretty darn independent.

And I've missed my window?

Hell, no.

The window just flew open along with all the doors.

So why the heck don't I just do what I really want to do and what makes me happy?

Fear? Of never getting published?

Totally there. But when do we ever do anything worth while if it isn't soused in fear? That's what makes us amazing when we face that fear and say, Be Gone with you. I am stronger and braver than you ever imagine.

And so . . . today, I wrote the first chapter in my new book (which is linked to my book that I wrote seven years ago).

It's good. Once I get cracking on it, it will be even better.

I may be the only one who ever thinks so, but I'm the most important critic right now.

So, Bah, to you Fear.

I'm Just going to Do It.

These 60 days of exploration--with only six left--have actually done their purpose. I know what I'm doing next (and I'm still going to take design classes and hopefully real estate--just sounds fun)--I'm going to write.

Drop.

The.

Mic.

ps my publishing name (because there are literally a million Mary Elizabeth Thomas out there and the M. E. Thomas out there wrote something like "True Confessions of a Psychopath") will be M. M. Thomas . . . someday, you just might see that in print.

Forced Frugality

We are going on ten months of looking for a job. Last September, after a rather horrid ten months, John got the boot. It was oddly and rather unfairly done, but a great relief to all of us. Working at that company had become a puzzle that grew harder and harder each day until it was in fact, impossible. The stress of it took a wild toll on John's mental and physical health. By the end, he was neither eating nor sleeping. He had strange episodes of racing heart and an inability to tell what was real and what was imagined. I sat him down and told him I would use up every penny of our retirement and sell the house if it meant he could stop working in that environment. And it may take all that. And I still won't regret it. When I feel rather sorry for myself, I remember what life was like for him a year ago and then I don't feel sad that I am once again digging through my closet to find a new way to wear old things. In fact, there is part of me (small though it

The Best Kind of Tired

My often daily life . . . (John is two feet away—I can’t do all of them by myself) Last week, every single time I sat down, I almost instantly fell asleep. I kept telling John, I have the sleeping disease. What is going on? Am I getting old? Is it the covid after effects? What on earth? He didn’t have any answers for me because he was doing the same thing. We didn’t really do anything for seven days straights. And our kids joined us in the sleepy, do nothing, lazy slug bug state. It wasn’t until this morning as I was looking over the pictures of the summer that I realized why. . . We literally haven’t stopped ALL summer long—one awesome amazing trip/visit/fun after the other. It’s like we are making up for last years “staycations.” Holy hannah have we ever made up for it. Just about did ourselves in playing and hugging and kissing and caring for babies. Highlights of the summer (in no particular order): Cousin sleepovers have resumed (most missed activity since the pandem

Midlife-Cri-sis

It's been a year. I'll sum it up by saying that food no longer tastes good to me. The last time that happened, I had lost three pregnancies in a row and John had lost and found a job and we had moved three times. The feeling is very similar. There have a been a lot of losses or near losses. Enough that when the phone pings with a text or vibrates with a call (I long ago turned off the ringer), I take a deep breath and think, you can do this . More times than not, I need that deep breath. I am probably in the second half of my life and I feel it. 47. My children are nearly grown. My house is established. Our bank accounts don't fluctuate like they used to. I don't go to the store and dream of being able to buy things. I walk into my closet and wonder what I can do without. I feel the finality of my existence and I wonder . . . what do I really want out of all this? For book club, we read A Million Miles in a Thousand Years . It's about re-writing o

The Phoenix: Epicuriousmothering Rising

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