A Strange Sort of Sandwich

I was telling a friend of mine the other day that I've found myself in a "sandwich generation" of sorts. Not the kind that they talk about in AARP Magazine or on the morning talk shows. 
Nope. 
At thirty, I'm not working out plans to take care of aging parents at the same time as I'm chasing down rugrats of my own. 
The sandwich generation to which I'm referring would be the one where, at thirty years-old, I'm being propositioned by eighty year-old men and asked out on dates by twenty year-olds. One is too young, and the other...well, I'll just say they're too old and leave it at that.
I'm sandwiched between age groups.
And sandwiched between being creeped-out and flattered. 
It's definitely an odd place to be, and not really one I'd given much consideration until now.
Especially since, when I got married, I thought I was done with all that.
True, the validation would have been nice, since that seems to be the slippery slope of married life––you lose that feeling of being attractive to other people, so you start to wonder...
But now––as a widow––if I get asked out, I have a choice. 
Not that I get asked out much. 
In fact, so rare is the occurrence that it's newsworthy.
But I digress.
I'm at an odd place in life, for sure. 
An odd, unexpected place.
Which, strange as it may sound, leaves me somewhat hopeful.
After all, sometimes it's being at the unexpected places at unexpected times that brings us unexpected joys and gifts.
We never imagined this life, so we could never have imagined the possibilities it would bring.
I don't know about you, but I have a pretty colorful imagination, but even my sense of the sensational is stumped by all the twists and turns my life has taken since I began my plunge into the pool of life as a writer. 
I could never have written this.
Six years in, and every day is still a surprise.
Sometimes its stressful, sometimes its blissful.
However my days unfold, one thing is sure: I'm sandwiched in the emotions of agony and ecstasy, often caught between fear and faith.
What does your sandwich look like? 

Frozen in Fear?

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this update: The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the icicles have dissolved into tears. In fact, everything that was iced over yesterday is weeping now, crying great tears of joy as we creep out of our deep freeze. 

And while it is by no means warm outside, compared with yesterday, things seem almost tropical today. 

Bizarre, yes.

But I'll take this turn of bizarreness over the ice-blitz of the past few days. 

Everything that stopped the world in its tracks over the past few days is now but a puddled memory, so non-threatening it seems almost absurd.

It would be an apt analogy for fear, wouldn't it?

Fear freezes us in our tracks, fusing us in place. We are immobilized, unsure which steps we take will ultimately lead us to fall. 

Falling would mean failure.

Falling would mean pain.

Falling could be fatal.

And so we freeze.

But what freezes us? 

In the end, will we find it only to be a puddle?

In the end, will we find that we stayed in our own seeming safety when there really was no reason to fear? That it was merely a short time, a short blast of a reminder to take stock and be aware, rather than simply charging ahead in recklessness. 

Maybe instead, we should slow down, appreciate what we are given.

Each blessing we have is a gift, yet we often barrel forward without thought.

Selfish in our single-mindedness and avoiding anything that makes us fearful.

And until those fears overwhelm us, we allow them to build until they overwhelm, a slow drip that seems inconsequential.

A slow drip that will puddle and, if we allow it, freeze over into something immobilizing, maybe even dangerous.

I'm trying to heed my own advice as I write this––trying to lookout the window at our great thaw and realize that many of my own personal fears are those puddles. 

Trying to remember that I needn't freeze in fear, but rather be careful. Even if my reminder to be careful is simply in reference to remembering to reach out when I worry, rather than trying to control everything.

Don't freeze––and don't freeze people out. 

 

Deep Freeze in the Deep South

I think we've been transported to an alternate reality. 

Unfortunately, this one didn't come with hover craft or self-starting cars that thaw ice from their entire chassis (although some people are fortunate enough to have remote start cars––boy, could I use one of those!!!!). Maybe that will come with time; but right now, we're all still grounded.

And we're all still scratching our heads at the weather.

Personally, I'm stumped.

Maybe it's because the little gray cells are still running circles trying to get warm, so they're too preoccupied to waste time figuring it out...but I'm having no luck even fathoming how this is possible.

Whatever happened to global warming?

I could use some of that right now.

I think the entire country would welcome it.

It would thaw us all out a bit.

Instead, I'm currently having to remind myself on an hourly basis that I live in Florida, and that no tectonic plates have shifted to break us up from the rest of the country to float us toward one of the polar ice caps.

On the contrary, we're still quite firmly attached in firmament, and the South has plunged into a deep freeze. 

And while the South may one day rise again, right now we're all keeping our heads down and shivering worse than a Yank in a room full of lickered-up Rebs. 

Our Rednecks have turned blue, even under layers of polar fleece.

Uggs are looking mighty un-ugly right now...

Fortunately, there is a bright side to this. 

It's just one that's still a few days out, according to our trusty (ha!) weathermen.

Bless their hearts.

Uh huh.

I think if they're wrong about their predictions of warmth, we're all going to band together for a lynching. 

But I digress...

Today is one of misery––a misery of epic proportions. So for posterity's sake, I'm going to describe just what I'm looking at out the picture window of my home away from home. There are icicles clinging stubbornly to anything even vaguely horizontal; and if it's solid, it's coated and crystalized. Roads are slicked over with ice, the sidewalks are puddled with slush, and a large part of the region is shut down and locked tight. Government offices are closed for business, banks are vaulted, and schools are silent. 

Welcome to Florida, pardon our ice.

It's Wednesday, hump day, and hopefully the description is fitting in this case, and it will all be downhill from here. 

Hopefully, we are at the peak of misery; and the thaw will, indeed begin.

Hopefully, the South––and our temps––will rise again. 

In the Soup

As the country slogs its way through winter, I think it's safe to say that we're all watching the thermometer climb and plummet with increasing trepidation. As a Floridian, I'm naturally shiver-prone and cold-averse; but right now, I'm amazed that I can keep my fingers steady enough to type out coherent sentences in between all the chill-induced trembling. My fingertips cringe in fear every time I touch something metal, and the steering wheel in my car could instantly freeze soup. 
Hot soup. 
Piping hot, thick soup, dripping down my head and over my body, warming me from the outside in.
Ahhh.
Right now, I'm not so much hungry for soup as I am wishing that I was swimming in it. 
Is it weird to be fantasizing about being an ingredient in the soup pot? 
Or maybe sandwiched between the plates of a hot panini press... 
Yes, I'm sitting in Panera. 
Which might be the source of my food-related fantasies of warmth, but still. 
I can't help but wonder what Freud would think. 
He'd probably tell me that I was suffering from hunger––and not hunger related to actual food. 
But I think I'm getting off topic here, so I'm going to reposition my GPS...
I can only hope, as I eye the falling drops of FREEZING COLD rain that this taste of hell will soon be over, and that warmer days are peeking around the corner. 
I think we're all ready to thaw out and be rescued from the misery of these record breaking weather patterns. I know I said in an earlier post that I was going to try to grin and bear it, that I would somehow try to turn my grimace into a genuine smile, but I'm finding it awfully hard.
I think I'm barely bearing it, and the grin has gone into hiding. 
It's too cold for the pearly whites to come out and play.
So here's my bit of sunshine in the midst of all this mess––Here's what I'm trying to remember as I contemplate the best time to leave this haven of warmth and wiFi.
These days of frigidity are not forever.
They are the exception to the rule, rather than the everyday reality.
This too, shall pass, and we'll all marvel that we made it.
We'll have odd stories to tell one another.
And one day, grandchildren will roll their eyes through stories of the days when we had to walk both ways uphill...through the snow...in Florida.
Sounds like a tall tale in the making to me. 
For now, I'll keep dreaming of stone soup and cozying up to some carrots.

Oh, the Irony!

Timing is an ironic thing, isn't it? It's something I've discovered––and rediscovered––with increasing regularity over the past months:

My late husband's wedding band sold on eBay two days before the one-year anniversary of his suicide. I observed the day by putting the ring in a box and sending it off to its new owner with wishes of a happier future than the past it held.

I've been seriously considering asking my agent to dissolve our professional contract so that I could pursue other avenues with my manuscripts––whether that meant seeking out a new agent, submitting to a small press publisher, or simply trying to self publish was undecided. But I felt at odds and was holding off on making a decision, based mostly on the fact that I like her as a person. Screwy logic, perhaps, in the grand scheme of things; but still. I felt a bit tied-up. And with each Twitter follower and fellow writer that has come my way over the past months, I have entertained more and more seriously the need to break ties. After all, if these writers would find success, maybe I could, too. But still, I dallied. And then, yesterday, the decision was made for me. So now it's up to me again to find a home for my babies, and hopefully an audience for my stories. Rather than scared, I feel oddly free. And possibility seems to be whispering in my ear.

Hopefully, I'm not being delusional.

Unfortunately, with the ironies of the ups comes the ironies of the downs.

Two days ago, I was reading an article in O the Oprah Magazine about not making the mistake of letting "the one that got away" get away again. Of being brave and holding tight. It spoke to me, and I wondered if, indeed, this article in January's issue was a directive meant especially for me, as I have a confession to make: I am an inveterate torch carrier. I have loved the same person for nearly two decades––first, as he made his awkward way through the years of boyhood playing with Matchbox cars; then as he grew into adolescence; and finally, as a man. Timing has often been a factor––he's been in many relationships over the years, and so I never felt as though I could make any move. And I, being so reluctant to make the first move with any man––I am an old-fashioned sort and want to be the one pursued, thank you––was always afraid to. But looming larger than anything was my fear of rejection. What if he said no? What if he crushed the dream? 

So I kept silent, carrying my torch and wondering if the love story I imagined would ever play out. When I met my late husband and the wedding plans unfolded, I thought that was the end of things. After all, I was taken; and he was in a relationship. The end. The wedding invitations went out, and I mailed one to his parents, knowing that if by some strange twist of fate, they brought him along, I would have struggled through the ceremony. So I said my vows and hugged his father at the reception, on a euphoric high in my pouffy white dress that seemed to provide the safety shroud of being in a full-body costume. And then I did something a bit wreckless––I told the man I had always wanted for a father-in-law exactly that: that this day was one I had always envisioned with a different outcome, with his son waiting for me at the end of the altar. It was a confession wrapped in humor. But I meant every word. 

Months later, I was widowed, unexpectedly liberated from an abusive marriage that should have never taken place. And the one that got away had broken up with his girlfriend. 

Too good to be true? Still, I dithered, waiting and wondering whether we would have a second chance at what I had always dreamed of. More months passed, and still I waited, torch in hand.

And then I read the article. Was this my Aha! Moment?
I sit now at my keyboard, heavy with the newly imparted information (gotta love Facebook) that he's been promoted to another position within his company and will be moving to another state, about five hours away.   
To quote Alanis Morsette, "Isn't it ironic?"

So is this my answer? A no as he prepared to leave? Or a push to move before he goes?
I eye my good friend irony and wonder how next it will strike. 

Unlisted

I have to admit, I'm feeling a bit off-track with the blog posts. It's been my goal to be much more regular about this whole endeavor, so as not to disappoint all of my faithful readers who wait with baited breath to see what insight I will next impart (hah!). But somehow, the good intention falls by the wayside when my day gets started, and I end up knocking it down on the priority list. Way, way down. And so, I feel this self-imposed condemnation about the blog not posted, the unchecked "To Do." The unmet obligation that no one really knows about, other than me.

There are many things in life that are like that––items on our unofficial To Do lists, tasks and goals and promises that really, if we haven't ticked off and inked a line through by day's end, would make no difference in the grand scheme of things. But we don't live in the grand scheme of things. We live in our own frame of reference, our own expectations of ourselves. So those un-completed things loom large in our minds and munch away at our self-worth. Rather than being things that elevate us, they knock our knees out from under us and make us feel as though we are somehow lacking. We begin to link our identity to the so-called failures, and we allow ourselves to listen to the screaming voice of condemnation that plays on an unrelenting loop in our minds. 

As the end of January approaches, I'm sure there are plenty of things that all of us face on that list. For some of us, it's the broken Resolutions that were so enthusiastically penned at the beginning of the month. For some of us, its simpler tasks, little menial things that just keep getting pushed aside "until there's more time." Whatever the case may be, the important thing to remember is this: You are not your list.

No one looks at you and sees that you didn't make it all the way through that book of poetry you promised your sister you'd read by the end of the week. No one sees that you planned to vacuum the baseboards yesterday, but you were just too tired to tackle it when you finally stumbled in the door after a stressful day at work. Your "failings" are not streaming across your forehead, on display for all the world to see like a ticker tape. They see you––just you.

And you are not your list.

You are you, and you are beautiful. 

Blog and the City

I recently finished reading the latest installment of the Bridget Jones books (one book became two, two became three, and now 30-something Bridgie has tipped 50), and I have to say...I'm not sure what to think. Call it my sharper eye for detail; my more editorial view of books; my inner critic who combs the words on every page of every book I read wondering what, exactly, is the driving force behind the author's success––but I was a bit disappointed. 

I found it a bit one dimensional and flat, not really a character I could engage with. I wanted more––out of the writing, out of the character. Out of the plot-line. Overall, it was superficial and unsatisfying. And I know I'm probably going to get nailed to the wall for saying all this––after all, our dear Ms. Jones is supposed to be like the Everywoman, right? But most of the time, I just wanted to smack her.

Hopefully, we won't be treated to a third movie version of the book; but if one does happen to come to fruition, I sincerely hope it improves the book. Slamming the series, however, is not the intent of this post...rather, I'm ruminating on the aging of characters we have all long known and loved. The resurrection, I suppose you might call it, of those fictional heroines we all thought long retired from the page. 

Take, for example, Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City. I love, love, love the series. The TV version made me a huge SJP fan, when I previously was not. But the writers did such a wonderful job capturing Carrie and her cohorts, and the actors had obvious chemistry. It was pure magic. And, as unrealistic as many things may be (ahem, Jimmy Choos and Manolos on a writer's budget???), I still loved it. I related to aspects of each lady, but most of all, I felt a kinship with Carrie. She's off-beat, she's got her own very distinct style, she's a writer, and she carries a torch for a man named Big.  

When last we saw Carrie, she and Big were happily married, Samantha was happily single (again), Charlotte had two wee ones, and Miranda was being Miranda. 'Nuff said. They were all braving the steady march of time and rocking it. So the question lies...now that even Carrie's character is staring down the barrel at 50, will we revisit the foursome, now older?

And will these older characters have embraced the advances of technology, as Bridget Jones has? Bridge now has a Twitter feed and Facebook page, though hasn't yet taken up the blogosphere with her strange ramblings. 

If Carrie & co. do, once again grace us with their presence, will they blog and Tweet? Or will Carrie maintain her staunch practices as a luddite? I, personally, find it endearing. And another thing that makes her relatable. And even though I have a Facebook page; a blog; and a Twitter feed of my own, I do it because I need to be able to connect with people who might, I hope, one day help me see my dream fully realized. That this single-gal with a writing dream will make it as successfully as Carrie has.  So I write and post, not to inform the world of such minutiae as what I ate for breakfast, but to reach out into my universal community; and perhaps, become someone's Carrie or Bridget. Someone people want to see more of and read more of. Someone who makes other women feel a kinship.

Maybe one day, I'll be able to afford some Manolos of my own. 

Put on Your Dancing Shoes

It might not be much, but the temperature has risen. We're all up, actually––all around the country, from what I'm hearing on the radio. And those increased numbers are thrilling everyone as much as a marked increase in the economy. 
Better watch out, I might actually attempt the Twerk.
Or not.
More likely than not, I would end up looking like some version of Elaine on Seinfeld, so famous in her whiplash-like attempt at dancing. Unfortunately, I've got rhythm––but my own self-counsiousness makes me lose a grip on it when I think people might be watching.
All of which means that in situations of dancing––concerts and the occasional beat-thumping atmosphere of the nightclubs I went into once or twice in my roaring twenties––you'll likely find me with my feet firmly planted on the floor in one spot, even while my head and upper body are doing a barely detectable version of a bounce. 
Or something.
All tragic attempts at dancing aside, when I'm alone in my car or at home, I seem to have a pretty good grasp on what qualifies as publicly acceptable dancing.
The perception of eyes––real or imagined––renders me danceless.
Sad, but true. 
Actually, that seems to be true about most things that make us all feel vulnerable.
If we feel like someone's watching, we become inept. We get in our own heads, and then in our own way.
Our mental feet trip themselves up, and we stumble and fall.
That's something I'd like to change about myself.
Not the literal dancing thing; but my own tendencies to glue my "feet" to the floor when I think someone might be watching, waiting to see me fail. I want to dance, but I don't make the move to move.
I need a new pair of dancing shoes.
Not just to keep in the box, shiny and new.
I need to take them out, hold them in my hands, and put them on.
As 2014 unfolds, I want to learn how to dance in public––and then wear those dancing shoes until there are holes in the soles.
Dance with me?

In the Vortex

We've all heard the saying "Don't eat the yellow snow;" but these days, if the snow is yellow, it might be from something else than...well, you know. 
     In fact, the nationwide cold snap––being dubbed a "Polar Vortex"–– has brought about all kinds of unconventional methods for melting the snow and ice. Beet juice, molasses, potato juice, cheese brine...
     So maybe the yellow snow might actually be tasty now.
     All joking aside, I have no doubt we're all more than ready for this friggin' freak of frigidity to come to an end. They're feeling it even in Hawaii! Last time I checked, hula skirts didn't pair well with Uggs, but you never know. New trend, perhaps? 
     I, personally, am more than ready to wave good-bye to Frosty. He may look cute, but boy-o has a wicked streak. A sadistic streak, actually. I think he might be off his meds.
     Whatever the case may be, someone needs to hunt him down and light a match. 
     A lot of matches. 
     Lots and lots of matches.
     In the meantime, I guess we'll all have to hunker down and keep out eyes glued to the thermometer so that we know how to prepare. Blue might be a popular color in statement make-up right, now but I'm pretty sure that the blue-tinted lips on the pages of the glossies aren't courtesy of the thermostat. And blue nails? If it's not from the bottle of OPI you scored last week at Target, you might want to invest in some gloves.
     We might not have snow or iced-over roads here in Pensacola, these insanely cold days are at the top of conversation. Greetings hello are swiftly followed by marveled observations about the weather and sincere lamentations about how much we miss the warmth. Maybe the commiseration is one of our most effective ways of warming up––we break the ice by exchanging shivers, discussing the dip and cursing the cold. Suddenly we are all on level ground, huddled around the proverbial bonfire that now replaces the water-cooler chat. 
     Isn't it interesting, what it sometimes takes to unite us on one (very cold) front?

To Russia with Love

It's official.
I'm no longer SAD. I think I'm delusional...I'm seeing things, surely.
Right?
One poke of my head out the door would actually prove my firm grip on reality (ha!) and confirm the number on my car'd digital thermometer.
Nineteen degrees.
Let me repeat that.
Nineteen. Degrees.
Nineteen.
Nineteen.
I think I'm in hell.
I think the Ruskis are laughing.
They're exacting their revenge on us poor little wimps, clinking vodka shots and snuggling into their fur-lined boots and heavy coats to watch the show.
They drink.
We shiver.
I think I like their idea better.
Tempted as I am to test out the theory that Russia's favorite tonic keeps you warm, I think I might have to pass. Something tells me vodka and coherent writing are mutually exclusive.
In my case, at least. 
I have a feeling it would lave me comatose, rather that cognizant. And though the thought might be fun, I have far too much to do to slam the shots at the rate it would take to keep me warm.
And so I sit, stone cold sober, sucking down coffee and tea as I try not to lose any fingers to frostbite. Emphasis on the cold part.
Heavy emphasis on the cold part.
Even my laptop is cold.
Aluminum casing gets pretty darn frigid when you leave it in the car overnight, since metal is a conductor. So when I turn on my laptop in the morning, its warming up––literally.
Where am I going on this rambling rant about the cold?
I think that there's something to be learned in all of this––gratitude.
Gratitude that this is an anomaly, and not the norm.
Gratitude that there are days on the five-day forecast that will be far more moderate in temperature.
Gratitude that there is coffee and tea, and that I have a safe, warm place to go.
So before I sign off, I say this––Russia, I solute you. 
At this moment, we are comrades.
Raise your glass in a toast, as I raise my mug.
Here's to finding cheer in the chill.

Why So SAD?

Oddly enough, Florida and New Jersey (and probably a few other lucky states out there right now) have opted to trade places on the ever-unpredictable and duplicitous device called the thermometer. Last time I checked, Floridians weren't supposed to be dressing for a date with Jack Frost while our neighbors far to the north are enjoying a decidedly more temperate (though still chilled, I admit) outing. According to some lucky lady I heard on the radio this morning, her neck of the woods up in Jersey were enjoying temps upwards of 55, while my car was registering a frosty 32. 
Yup, you read that right.
It was cruel.
As you've gathered by now, I hate winter and the thermometer dips that accompany it. It seems to zap my enthusiasm for the day (and any foreseeable future period of low temps), making me tense and a grumpier version of myself than I'd like to see. I'm melancholy, rather than hopeful. 
If I had my way, the winter blues and blahs wouldn't have any effect on me, but I seem to be extremely susceptible to the season. 
I guess that would make me a SAD case, huh?
Maybe changing that should be on my aspirations for this year. 
Hmmm. If only I had a switch I could flip. 
Wouldn't that be nice...like a warming flicker on the flame of a gas fireplace, something to thaw out my blues. I could march out into the chilly air without the mental and emotional cringe that accompanies every blast of cold. 
Oh, if only it could be so simple.
For now, as I try to keep my little grey cells from turning blue, I'll have to bundle up and fake that smile til I make it. Maybe somewhere along the line, I'll figure out how to make my grimace into a grin––a genuine one. Maybe Jack Frost will decide he doesn't care to see us anymore and continue to date other women around the country. 
For now, we'll all do our weird little dance through the whipping cold air and look forward to warmer temps to come...somewhere...maybe Cupid will ping some flaming arrows this way... 

Consistently Inconsistent

Not that I consider myself some great contributor to the world wide blogosphere, but I always feel a slight bit of guilt when I go days between blog posts. For those few readers I do have (and thanks to you all, for your vigilance, patience, and interest in what I have to say–random though it mights sometimes seem), I feel a debt of gratitude and a desire to give them a steady stream of content. 

On that front, I seem to be terribly inconsistent. Really, I'm not being lazy. There are some days that seem to pass in a blink without giving me time enough to compose something both legible and interesting. There are some days when I have absolutely, positively no idea of what I have to say that might be even remotely worthy of posting. And there are some days that I just plain forget. All of which collaborate in conspiracy against me to become a dreadfully inconsistent frequency of postings. 

Maybe something I'll make it a point to rectify in this new year...

Four days in already! Isn't that just amazing? Maybe some of you out there are unfazed or can greet the date on the calendar without widening your eyes at the slippery passage of time, but I am not one of you. Nope. I am constantly amazed by how quickly one calendar month melts into another––sometimes  sweetly, like chocolate in a double boiler; sometimes more resembling clashing flavors, like salt melting into coffee. It may look a bit like sugar, but the two couldn't be more different.   

Quick as the year flashes by, the unpredictability seems to come more into play with regard to the hours of those days. Some seem to crawl by with painful disregard to any desire that we might have to wave good-bye. Some hours seem to whoosh by like a swift breeze––even if we'd rather they'd slow down a bit and let us catch up. They are predictably unpredictable, consistent in their inconsistency. However they pass, they are, in reality, the same number of seconds; minutes; and hours. 

Once they're gone, they're gone, never to be recaptured or rewound. In that way, they are both cruel and kind, depending on the day's events. 

So here we all stand, together facing the fourth of January, 2014. Each of us will be facing different hours, different ways that the same day will unfold. Unique to all of us, yet consistently inconsistent.

No Resolutions

Amazingly enough, it's the beginning of another year. 
     2013 is past, and 2014 is our new reality.
     The rent check I scribbled out this morning said January 1, 2014, an undeniable acknowledgement of not only a new month, but a new year. A brand new, clean slate. 
     I'm not making any resolutions––I never do. Rather, I have unofficial hopes for myself and for the year ahead. Perhaps a life coach or a counsellor would declare that insufficient, that I should make something concrete. 
     But, as I've learned far too many times, there are just too many things in life that you can't plan, and often those "resolutions" become condemnations rather than achievements. 
     Yes, I, the self-proclaimed control freak, am freely admitting that I don't have control the world and all the minutes that pass in the day. Much as I generally want to control everything, I don't get that luxury. Last time I checked, God hadn't issued any decrees that I am now Mistress of the Universe. The earth is still His domain, and He still knows far more than I will ever conceive of. 
     I'm still beyond flawed, and He's still beyond perfection.
     All of which mean I have a limited, human scope of the future. Any predictions I make will, in all likelihood, far fall short of the mark. Any plans I make will, in all likelihood, have to change in some way, whether those changes prove to be big or small.
     Granted, I'm not saying it's not wise to have goals or make plans. I'm saying (and trying to listen to myself say this and digest it, since––remember––I'm a control freak) that we need to make plans with the understanding that they need to be flexible, fluid. Not set in cold stone that shuts everyone out.
     There are other people in the world than just us, even though we'd all like to think that the world actually does revolve around us. It doesn't. Not even close.
     So make your plans and set your goals. 
     Dream your dreams. 
     Just do it all with the knowledge that the future isn't firmly in place yet.
     2014 is brand new, little caterpillar.
     Are you allowing your future to give you beautiful wings to fly, or are you pinning yourself behind glass?