A pirate looks at forty....

The big day is finally here. 4-0. The birthday which seems like it was so far away when I turned 10, or 16, or 21. I can remember back to the days when 40 seemed old and not fun, not exciting. The weird thing is, somewhere over the course of the last six months, I began to appreciate turning the big 40.

You see, I was convinced by 40 I would have a family. The 2.5 kids that were super cute, the white picket fence, a job I jumped out of bed for each morning. A 'complete' life. I planned it that way when I was little. The "cookie cutter" life that sounds so perfect, and exactly what I saw my parents having.

But, today, I sit childless. An aunt to two amazingly gorgeous and brilliant nieces. A "aunt" to so many of my friends kids, children of exception talents, and amazing senses of humor. And the truth is, I'm not sad I don't have children of my own. Is it completely not possible in the future, not entirely, but its also not something that I will be super sad about if it doesn't occur. I used to be concerned that that very thought made me seem selfish, self centered.  Wow, Jess, I thought, you really can't give enough of yourself to bring another human into the world. But I realized that wasn't the answer as to why kids were not in my future. It was more something that would materialize if it was "meant" to happen for me.

And the white picket fence? Oddly enough our house doesn't have a fenced in back yard, or side yard. We sit next to an open space and adjacent to the high school in my small town. For a kid who grew up in the big city of Denver, I needed to adjust to living in a small town. I remember the first time my boyfriend (now husband) drove me to see our new house, never before even hearing of the town we were to live (and I went to school 20 minutes north of here!). I was afraid I'd have a hard time adjusting to very small town life. Yet going into restaurants around here, and having them know me by name, running into friends from the gym at the grocery stores, having a support system close by, has made life in our small town amazing. I now would struggle to live in a "big city". Ironic.

And the jump out of bed job? Well, I've been at the same place of employment for almost 10 years. And while I have had my share of setbacks, frustrations and chaos at times there, I realize it has been a blessing to achieve some of the successes I have there. That I was blessed with amazing people as bosses, and co workers over the years from around the globe, who have challenged my work style, and pushed me to want to succeed, and influenced my drive to excel. I've also gained so much from the good and the bad, to realize that even with as adverse to change as I normally am, I've learned to manage and rise from it, quite well.

So, am I at all saddened by not achieving all these "child-dreamt" goals from when I was a kid, by the time I hit the big 40. Not at all. My life has been blessed the last 40 years. I have an amazing family who love me, support me, surprise me and celebrate who I am. I have an amazing husband, who despite us being complete opposites, has learned to understand his aloof wife who lives so much of her life in the gray area of a black and white world he lives in (he's an engineer so the world is quite black and white to him), and loves me even if sometimes he doesn't understand me.

Lastly, I have amazing people who I call friends. People like my friend Deb, who wished me a happy birthday via HER blog today. A person I didn't know less than 5 years ago, but who has made such an impact on my life because she "gets" me. And so many countless others from my CrossFit gym who accept me when I am at my "weakest", challenge me to be great, and appreciate the person I am, every day.

So as this pirate looks at 40, and reflects back on who I thought I would be vs. who I have become now, I'm proud of who I see when I look in the mirror.  Do I have things I want to fix and change? Do I have challenges I want to rise to? Of course I do. But I have learned at 40, its ok to be comfortable with who you are, and allow yourself to be happy.

A love letter to those I miss

Birthday celebrations were always important in my family. They still are. Today would have been my grandfather's 97th birthday. I remember when I was little loving the fact that my birthday fell in between his birthday on the 23rd of February and my grandmother's (his wife's) on March 2. We were bonded in celebration during that week and I always felt so special.

We lost my grandfather 4 years ago, my grandmother two years before that. As I reflected on missing them sometime last year, I poured my love of my grandmother (mostly) into a piece. On the week that reminds me how special they were in my life, I feel it only proper to share.

On the plane ride home, alligator tears consuming me, darkened glasses hiding the emotions welling within my eyes, I grabbed a notebook. After 34 years of having you, my closest ally, my protector, my sponsor..I was afraid of all the memories of you, the vision of you, would seep through my hands like sand. So I wrote to NOT forget, To forget the pain of losing you, losing my rock, losing my strength, all 4’1l of you. You were always bigger than your small stature, in love, and support. And as I reflect on your memories, small vinyets of a long life lived well, I forget how much I miss you…and how ever present you still are, within me. Memories of a time long ago, when the smell of your house meant bean, tortillas, picadillo, and chili were bubbling on a gas stove. Where you always wore an apron, afraid to soil your Sunday best. Where and when you’d scurry us out the door, screaming to fasten our jackets as we leaped down the steps of the back porch into the backyard and rushed to the garage. Always at breakneck speed to get somewhere and the knowledge that age, might have slowed your body, but not your spirit.

You were always afraid of losing things. Meticulous in where you placed them and reminding us to remind you. You made us recite the Lords Prayer, Hail Marys and giving of thanks before every shared meal echoing along with us, as if training your brain not to forget. TO hear they found notebooks by your bed when you passed, of basic tasks, getting up, cooking, laying out gramps’ clothes..still training your body, your mind, your spirit when it started to betray you. You were always a far better storyteller than me. Even if the words, the script, the comments were so basic, they told a sad story at the end.

And you were always there to wrap us in warmth. You made clothes for us from your own weathered hands. Sewed from scraps off cast from many a fabric store, cheap, on sale, but always good enough for mi hija and hijo. And your quilts and afghans, keeping me warm on winter nights with friends envious in college of how loved and worn they were. 'Someone must really love you for you to have something so special,' they’d say. And I would smile and curl into the warmth of that blanket deeper. A secret they couldn’t penetrate of our family’s closeness, love, and acceptance. I still have most of them, hidden in the basement, afraid to wash them for fear they will rip and tear, and forge holes in my memories, the way time has worn the threads.

And your stories…oh your stories. Of you and gramps meeting and you admitting on a bus ride to go gambling one day with me, of the fact that you actually WERE dating another at the time you met him. Scandalous I proclaimed, and you smiled, a devilish, mischievous smile, and said quietly “well..I wasn’t sure I’d even like your Gramps, Jessy.” Knowing that after 60 years together, it OBVIOUSLY worked out. Your candor, reminding me just how human you really were. And how much more I loved you for that…for I always saw you as superhuman.

And when you left, I watched the man you love…crumble. Rise, and hide his feelings, his memories for you in a box hidden from all to see. He wasn’t taught as a young boy to feel loss. And while he grieved, he taught me the strength to carry on, knowing how much he missed you. Knowing that having a picture on his dresser wouldn’t bring you back. And knowing that nothing could replace the hole he now had in his heart. And when he left….years later, going the way only he could….with out a goodbye, without a hint of regret….much like you, I knew you were one. One soul living in two bodies, broken, separated a few years from each other but reunited again in a much better place. Watching over us….loving us, guarding us towards our future. And every time I think of you, the smells of your skin, his skin, perfume and aftershave intertwined in grappled bear hugs to you both, I remember what I miss about having you here on earth, that sense of home.

For the love of the written word...

 

I was a shy kid. I'd spend days behind my bed, my nose buried in a book. I took bites of prose like a starving refugee. And back in the 80s, with the Scholastic Book club inserts I'd carry home, my mom was always willing to buy a selection of each month, because she knew how quickly I would read them. I believe I read every Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary books, did reports on them at school, and imagined myself as one of the characters.

During fifth grade, we were introduced to creative writing. The idea of becoming the author, magically writing the prose someone else could read, completely flipped my mind sideways, and I immediately jumped at the chance.
Up until that point, my writing consisted of goofy little snipets of a 10 and 11 year olds life. Scribblings I can barely read now, from my younger self. I had picked out a cute little square "Cathy" diary (you remember the old comic of Cathy right?) to journal all my feelings into. I pre-dated it way into the future on the last page, February 26, 2015, my 40th birthday. That seemed SO far away. I'd be old, and so different by then. And somehow in my kid mind I believed I'd still be writing in that cute little diary. Telling stories of my husband, family, cute little life I had dreamt up, much like the stories of my youth.

But in 5th grade, creativity and the excitement of crafting a story was born. I still have those stories, bound by staples, on looseleaf papers tucked away in my personal stash of memories in our basement. Humble begins of my young creative juices. I went to a Catholic school from kindergarten through eighth grade so the stories took on images of being trapped in school, and reprimanded by the sisters, or thoughts on how life would be if Jesus was just a person in class with us. Nothing earth shattering, but it pushed me to come up with new ways to express characters. And they are a riot to look back on now. Oh the stories of those stories.

In later years, notebooks, spirals of angst from my teen years and college were filled nightly. Comments and observations flowed on the person who wronged me, the guy who wouldn't notice me, the friends who betrayed me. All the anger, resentment, hurt, flowed from a pen into my notebooks. I picked specific composition notebooks, a special pen, and watched the words encapsulated in those notebooks like a hawk for fear a roommate, my parents, would try to steal them by reading my emotions dripping from their contents.

In college, I elevated my game, and found poetry. The love affair of certain words, formulated with specific patterns and rhythms, allowed me to add further "feeling" into my words. I became enthralled with works of Keats, e.e. Cummings, Yeats. I became the little bookworm kid again, devouring verse and quotes I could live my life by. And committing my own style to my poems. Coming up with a cute notebook name, and oddly, (maybe for fear of the edits and never feeling comfortable enough with my ability within poetry) I always jotted them down in pencil.

But as I fell victim to the world of a full time job, my writing suffered. I quit journaling and pouring my heart on a page. Especially because my job became documentation (I was a technical writer in a past life) the idea of then coming home after putting together content or a user guide became less than inviting. I fell victim to writing becoming a "job" and so I quit doing it for fun, for release, for passions. The only time things awakened my need to jot down feelings were when I was left raw (the heartbreak of a lost relationship or friendship, the anger of a world event). Writing took a backseat to my every day life, not a way to balance every day life.

This too is ironic. As a child, I wanted to be an engineer, just like my dad. When my AP English teacher mentioned I had a knack for writing my junior year in high school, the idea of a job related to writing was planted in the front of my brain. I decided on journalism as major, but shifted gears after graduation. Vanity and lack of making money (even if was based on my passions) led to computers winning out. So while writing and my passions for learning through words, and using it to teach were still present, the fun of creating disappeared.

Cut to this very moment, this challenge, this push to jump back into writing on the suggestion of a good friend, and my love affair with letting the moods and thoughts pour through my hands like water has illuminated me again with the very thought of creating. Writing for me, as well as the consuming of others' words, has always kept my heart full. When it is absent, you can clearly see the changes in my personality and level of happiness. So I  am excited for the new journey that diving back into the writing world has allowed me through this challenge. And looking forward to the new prose, new emotions that flow out of my hands as an older "shy kid" if for nothing more to allow the hunger in me for words, to again be quenched.

Flying the friendly skies...

I remember as a kid I had an extreme fascination with travel. The idea of jetting off to an exciting place. And lets face it, when I was younger EVERYWHERE was fascinating because it wasn't what I was used to, here in good old Colorado. Even the thought of flying for work, excited me.

I also  remember the joy I had, packing the night before a trip, mom and dad reminding me of all I had to remember to NOT forget. For a short while I was convinced there weren't shops where we traveled because of my mom's constant reminder to "not to forget anything." But the level of excitement I had the night before, led me to not sleep well, carrying over into the adrenaline of the next morning or day when we hopped on a plane for the unknown.

As I got older, I became fascinated with the study of people in the airports we wandered through, human behavior. It's an interesting display of folks at their best, or worst. You can generally tell those who are hopping on planes for work related trips, laptop out, feverishly checking emails on their cell phones (never mind as I type, I am on my work laptop, in an airport, just one of those many business travelers). The study of dress, level of stress on making the plane (if they are rookie business travelers), as well as the desire to find a decent meal that doesn't include the default of McDonalds that seems in EVERY airport food court. (I lucked out on this trip, a Farm Fresh eatery, Mod Market,just opened in the United terminal in Denver. Score, bacon before 7am!).

Then there are the travelers who get the chance to hop on a plane to fun, sand, excitement of fresh powder somewhere. The easy going folks who are super laid back, ready to just relax. Their uniforms take on different designs, sweats or yoga pants for comfortability, a pair of shorts and flip flops if they are going somewhere hot. They are always the ones I envy when I am traveling for work, wanting so badly to sneak on their plane and fly away from responsibilities and just relax for a while.

I remember the days before 9/11 too, where displays of affection and love hit you the minute you stepped off the plane. Where friends and family were allowed to greet you at the gate and depending on the reason for travel, it meant a somber and sad hug, or tears of joy as you embraced your friend or family member you hadn't seen in years. When these reunions were confined the spaces of baggage claim and the pick up arrival areas, something felt lost.


I started business travel early, at the ripe age of 22, fresh from college. The opportunity to "see the world" for work was too intoxicating a concept for me, so I jumped at the chance to be a consultant. I found out way too quickly that removing yourself from the life you were used to at home, was more challenging, and depressing, than I first realized it would be. And at 24, realized that I wasn't going to be young and enjoy life forever, so business travel took a backseat to creating a life for myself at home.

Once again, I am forging back into business travel today. I'm lucky in almost 10 years with my company I've only had to travel 3 times for work. Each time, there's been some level of excitement as I go through security, survey the folks waiting in line with me for food and coffee, and remind myself of souvenirs to get the hubby in the place I end up. This might become more constant for me in the near future (business travel that is), so for now, I am enjoying the quiet buzz of the food court, a much needed cup of coffee, and allowing myself to ride the wave of travel til it sends me back home on Friday.

I'm not a competitor or am I?

I've always been what some would call a tomboy. When I was 8-11years old, I'd walk around the house, nerf football in hand, convinced I'd be the first women to get drafted to play in the NFL. I'd practice spirals in the backyard, throwing them to my brother. In my mind back then, I was a competitor, an athlete.

A few years older, I realized my body type meant I could be a "natural" at running. The long lean frame, legs for days. When I placed first in my age group at 12, in a 5K I ran with my dad, I felt like a competitor, an athlete.

A few years after that, I began playing in sports in middle school. Basketball, volleyball, kickball. All things that I hoped would allow me to get better, because I started them so young. I was convinced if I learned some of the sports when I was in my pre-teens that by high school, I'd be starting on varsity teams, unstoppable. Did it help I was one of the tallest (even compared to the guys in my class), you bet? I was an athlete now, a competitor.

Cut to high school, when my lanky, and sometimes clumsy frame became a detriment. When much bigger girls with more power pushed me aside, and I began riding the bench. I no longer felt like an athlete, or a competitor, even as I walked the halls, letter jacket covering my shoulders.

I gave up on being a competitor. I decided I wanted to be a spectator, PR on my cheering, podium as a fangirl of my friends. This past weekend, I attended a CrossFit competition where 10 of my friends from our box worked their asses off. For some it was their first competition, and their drive, their passion for just wanting to do their best inspired me. Maybe I wanted to be a competitor again.

When I started CrossFit I knew how hard it was. I knew how much I would be challenged. But I never realized it would light the fire in me to again want to consider myself an athlete, a competitor. Even if I am last, even if I am struggling to breathe, even if I watch kids 20 years younger than me run circles around me. They are the same ones who don't let me quit.

Last year, I fell apart, on Open workout 14.5. Thrusters are one of my worst lifts. Pair that with burpees over bar and I became a mental wreck. A workout that took the top "athletes" less than 20 minutes took me 45. Every emotion in me screamed in anger, 'you aren't any damn athlete, Jess. You aren't a damn competitor, what the hell are you doing even trying?'

Yet it was my friends, the people who cheer me on in the gym, the ones who have become close for reasons other than shared workouts, that reminded me I WAS an athlete, I AM a competitor, and to keep on chipping away at what hurt. Just one more rep, one more push, one more jump.

I make no claims to being the fastest, the strongest or the most adaptable to a challenge, but I AM A COMPETITOR, I AM AN ATHLETE.

Inspiration on the way to the Stalls?

Recently, work has been an uphill battle of change, getting used to a new role, added stresses, pressures of a new group, a degree of travel I hadn't anticipated, and with it, a completely new building and new cube. I've always been one to call myself "change adverse," so afraid of new things entering my world to upturn me. Yet, the company I work for has proved to challenge me on this repeatedly, as almost every 12-16 months  managers, or re-organizations have forced change.

So it is not lost on me that I found inspiration the other day in the oddest of places. Getting used to my new building, meant finding beauty in an unusual spot, the rest room. The rest rooms here, have a decorative chest of drawers, fake flowers, a cute bench (for resting after a tinkle perhaps?) and these cute printed decorative words on the wall. No, not the type that are graffiti scribbled quickly on a door, but decorative prints hanging on the wall.

Believe, Inspire and Laugh.

I realized they were 3 words that interestingly fit together, but for very different reasons in my world.

I believe I can handle more change. I believe the new challenges laid before me, are things I can tackle. And I have to believe that even if I fail, I will have given it my all.

Inspire. Inspiration in the form of an extra push, more responsibilities, inspiring me to try my hardest. Or maybe the constant change inspiring me to prove to myself I will no longer be complacent. Inspired to move forward, even if it means taking a risk.

Laugh. This word hangs separately on the wall opposite Believe and Inspire. It is a word I have always associated with myself with while at work. For if you can't have fun in your job, interspersing life's challenges with humor and laughter, can you really be happy in your job?

But it struck me, what made the designer of our rest room, here in this building, chose these 3 words? Were the prints on sale at Target? Did they just match the cute little bench underneath them? Or maybe there was more thought into picking those 3 words to display to us ladies, each day while we take a few minutes away from our desks to reflect.

So as these constant changes wash over my head here at work, and I still try and come afloat from all that feels like it is drowning me lately, I have challenged myself, to find value in those 3 words, daily. Believing that if I can inspire those around me, with laughter and joy, maybe the change that is consistent, will become fun again.

All because of a few choice words, hanging on the bathroom wall.