Friday!

This is Friday. My sister from another mister. Where "mister" equals "species." Plain and simple: my mom's dog. And she's among my top 6 favorite siblings ever. She makes me happy.

Tons of fun.

Him: You're no fun anymore.

Me: Yes I am!

Him: Who says?

Me: Kosta. He said I was tons of fun.

Him, skeptically: Really?

Me: Yep. ... But I'm pretty sure he was making a fat joke.

(FYI: I'm up to 219.)

And... go.

Yesterday I stepped on the scale for the first time in I'm-not-sure-how-long (because stepping on the scale ruins my day) and was horrified to see that I weigh more now than ever. 217.six-tenths-of-a-pound-doesn't-even-fucking-matter-at-this-point.

I was successful at losing weight once before. I got down to my goal: 135 (!!!) but then I got divorced and gained it all back plus some. So chalk that up to just one more reason to hate the guy. (Kidding. Kinda.)

I had a blog the first time, too. It helped. Or, at least, I think it did. So, here I am again. Round two.

And this time, just for good measure, I'm throwing a food addiction into the mix. Just to keep things interesting. Let's have some fun.

Five. Holy shit.

1. Holy shit, it's August. August.

2. Holy shit, I'm going to be 31 in 29 days. (Where's the pause button on this thing?)

3. Holy shit, I've been blogging for five years. (And one day, but who's counting?) That's a whole hand!

4. I did the math and 467 posts over five years is 1.796153846153846. That's an average of two posts per week! Which, ya know, ain't half bad. (Let's all just pretend for celebration's sake that it ain't half bad, okay?) I'm practically a regular blogger!

5. I hate it when I get to five and can't think of anything else.

6. "Holy shit" has lost all meaning.

The end.

Afraid.

I'm afraid to make mistakes.

I'm afraid I'll be alone forever.

I'm afraid to be with you for the wrong reasons.

There were times when I was married that I thought I wish he would leave me. I'm afraid I'll have that thought about you one day.

I'm afraid that one day I'll feel stuck or trapped.

I'm afraid to lose you.

I'm afraid that sex has gone and confused everything and neither one of us know which was is up.

I'm afraid we'll never speak the same language even though we both think we're doing exactly that.

I'm afraid to date other people.

I'm afraid if I don't date other people, I'll always feel as if I missed out on something.

I'm afraid if I don't date other people, I'll always wonder "what if?"

I'm afraid I've read too many romance novels and ruined myself.

I'm afraid to trust myself.

I'm afraid I'll always question my feelings.

I'm afraid I'll never be able to make up my mind.

About anything.

I'm afraid I'll feel depressed and anxious forever.

I'm afraid things will never be the way they were.

I'm afraid I'll never feel carefree again.

I'm afraid I'm losing my best friend.

I'm afraid I've already lost you.

All because I'm too afraid.

It's time to start writing again.

Something.
Anything.
Every.
Single.
Day.

And, no, this isn't one of those posts where I go on and on about why I don't and why I should and how I'm going to blah blah boring blah.

In fact, this isn't even about blogging.

This is about writing.

About wanting to write.

And that's all.

And it starts with throwing away my ridiculously high standards for myself.

And just.
Fucking.
Writing.

This is going to seriously cut into my reading.

About me. Five years in the making.

Five years ago:

"I'm twenty-five years old. I consider a Grande Skinny Caramel Latte from Starbucks to be a well-balanced breakfast. I'm a Weight Watchers lifetime member. I've been married for five years. I live in southern California. I find myself extremely creative but am still waiting to see if I have any real talent. I find it impossible to spend less than $50 at Target. I love to watch TV and consider the DVR to be one of man's greatest inventions. I am totally inconsistent. I'm a photographer... trapped inside the body of an administrative assistant. I don't like people. I love tequila. I love to watch movies. I can't live without chocolate. I'm eleven years younger than The Husband. I'm afraid of everything and I desperately want people to find me interesting."

Five years! A lot has happened in five years and I feel the need to dissect the hell out of that paragraph. Humor me.

"I'm twenty-five years old." Twenty-five? Holy hell, that sounds young. I'm thirty now (obvi) and the only thing I've learned in the last five years is that I never want to be twenty-five again. Okay, that's not the only thing I've learned, but close.

"I consider a Grande Skinny Caramel Latte from Starbucks to be a well-balanced breakfast." Now it's a Grande Toffee Nut Latte. With 2% milk. Because non-fat tastes like ass.

"I'm a Weight Watchers lifetime member." This sentence makes me want to cry. And then jump off the 19th floor. Because I was there! I had done it! I had lost the weight and achieved my goal and I was thin! WHY DID I GO AND FUCK IT ALL UP!?

"I've been married for five years." We made it to seven. And now I'm single.

"I live in southern California." Yep. Still true. I've gone absolutely nowhere.

"I find myself extremely creative but am still waiting to see if I have any real talent." I had so many fun hobbies while I was married. Baking, taking pictures, writing, being generally crafty. I had the space and the resources for it. Once I filed for divorce, my whole life changed. Now? I only dream of baking and most pictures I take are with my cell phone.

"I find it impossible to spend less than $50 at Target." Yes.

"I love to watch TV and consider the DVR to be one of man's greatest inventions." I no longer own a TV and the only thing I watch is Pitch Perfect over and over and over. Because BEST MOVIE EVER.

"I am totally inconsistent."

"I'm a photographer... trapped inside the body of an administrative assistant." I'm an administrative assistant again. But this time in a department where I'm the minority and I don't understand anyone! Fun!

"I don't like people." I really don't.

"I love tequila." Love? Love? Such a profession only comes with the immaturity of a 25-year-old. I like tequila. I despise Fireball whiskey.

"I love to watch movies." I really do. Especially when I'm having particularly bad anxiety. Bad anxiety... something I didn't have when I was 25.

"I can't live without chocolate." Some things haven't changed and never will.

"I'm eleven years younger than The Husband." There's no longer a husband.

"I'm afraid of everything and I desperately want people to find me interesting." I really am afraid of everything, but if you don't find me interesting... that's fine.

An adventure

Yes, an adventure. And one I took all by myself. Which isn't saying much except that I lost cell coverage during most of it so obviously it was extremely dangerous.

Last Sunday I was on my way home from visiting my sister when I decided to detour to Lake Mead. On all the drives to and from my sister's home in Utah, during all the visits to Vegas, I had never once seen Lake Mead. It didn't look like it was too far out of the way so what the hell? That's my motto most days. What the hell. It's the more sarcastic and disinterested version of "you only live once."

What was supposed to be a "quick" detour to visit a lake turned into a four hour drive through a state park, then a national park, a visit to the lake, and, finally, a stop at Hoover Dam. None of which I'd ever seen before.

I was posting (less than stellar) photos on Facebook along the way. And no one seemed to care. And when I say "no one" I mean my mother. My mother didn't care! Her daughter- who, sure, may be thirty, but still!- was driving alone through the wilderness! With no cell coverage! And a car that was in desperate need of new brakes! (The brakes thing might have been my own fault and has since been rectified, I'm happy to report.)

When I brought it up and asked how she could possibly not care about the harm that could befall her (30-year-old) baby in the wild, she argued that my Facebook posts hadn't been clear. And when I explained in more detail about just what an adventure I had been on, she replied with, "wow, how boring."

My mother would only survive the same adventure if someone else were driving and she were able keep Facebook-ing. (No, seriously, that's what she does now. She sits in the passenger seat with her laptop on her, well, lap and Facebooks.) I, on the otherhand, enjoyed the peace of (at times) being the only person around for miles with only Mumford & Sons to keep me company. (If I'd gone on the same adventure a month ago, my only company would have been Taylor Swift.)

I arrived home that night after driving for what felt like forever but was really only 10 hours. (10 hours!) I was in a weird state of exhaustion where my body was in desperate need of sleep while my mind was wide awake and ready to tell whomever would listen all about my adventure. Unfortunately, I think I'm the only one who really considered it an "adventure" at all. Apparently, to the masses, I did some sight-seeing on my way home NO BIG DEAL.

And honest? It really wasn't a big deal. Except that it was probably the first real spontaneous thing I've done alone and just for me since you know. And my mom and I aren't very similar and I had a blast. The end.