Something I know how to do very well is spin my wheels. I’ve analyzed it every-which-way, and I think I finally figured out why I can get stuck or fail at a goal, or a New Year’s Resolution, for that matter.
I can’t lie … I’ve never been much of a “mustache girl.” When I was a kid, I had a Ken doll. “Mod-haired Ken” they called him. He came with removable, reconfigurable facial hair. He became an increasingly bad character, the more facial hair I applied to him. Sporting a full beard and ‘stache, he was straight up Evil Ken. Kind of ironic that I have been with a bearded man for over a decade. The heart wants what it wants.
A new puppy! They are pretty irresistible – they have that puppy breath, which is why thousands of people visit animal shelters every day, and leave with a brand new, cuddly best buddy. There is no sweeter happy ending.
In the matter of a month, Baton Rouge, LA – the place where I grew up – went from a city divided, to a city, quite literally, under water.
This May, I celebrated 25 years working in my primary profession – TV news. If I were to host a “silver jubilee” event to celebrate this multiple-of-five career milestone, and shared that TV news was the last thing I ever thought I’d be doing when I grew up, someone in attendance might say, “It must be where you are supposed to be.”
Turning 40 years old is such a significant milestone. For us humans, it roughly marks our “mid-life” point, which should naturally run about an 80-ish-year course. Reading glasses, shrinking clothes – er, expanding waistlines, gray hair, lost car keys, odd aches and pains. If you haven’t already done so, have I sold you on turning 40 yet?
For all of the things that seem to be going wrong in the world, there is one thing that is very right: When the chips are down, Americans are there to lend a hand.
Eight years ago this month, my husband Rick and I were married in Key West, Florida. The ceremony was small – just my husband, his best man, my mother, my matron of honor and me … and a half dozen or so drunks who happened to be passed out on the beach nearby.
I was not even going to write anything about Valentine’s Day in this month’s column. I had a self-righteous “dare to dream” diatribe all worked out in my head. You know, something like, “This is where the rubber meets the road, friends.” Whoever “they” are, “they” cautioned us the entire last week of December that most of us would fail at whatever New Year’s Eve declarations of intent we made. Here we are over a month into the New Year, and Fat Tuesday is sitting there like a huge dead-end to whatever “new me” or “new you” we were determined to become in 2016.
“I really think you should sign up for these courses, continue on with this. You are such a great student,” said the college advisor to the soon-to-graduate student seated across the desk from her.
