I love the movie Bridget Jones’s Diary.  Yes, I know it’s a total chick movie, which make sense, ‘cause I am a chick. I love that Bridget says things and later feels stupid.  I love that she does things and embarrasses herself.  I love that she can’t cook.  (Also known as Marlo Van Mackelberg’s Diary.)   And above all, I love that Mark Darcy says the words “I like you very much.  Just as you are.”  (Sigh)           

In fact, it was while watching Bridget Jones that I decided a relationship needed to end.  For more than one reason.  I was at my then fiancé’s and we were watching Bridget - meaning I was watching the movie and he was doing something on the computer.       

It was in the very moment when Renee Zellweger turns to Hugh Grant and says “That’s not a good enough offer for me.” that I remember thinking “Yes, Bridget.  You’re right.  It’s not good enough.”  And everything in my heart knew exactly what those words meant.  It would be several months before I had the strength to do what I needed to, but I did.    

I was at my very heaviest when I ended that relationship.  It was in that relationship that I had gained and lost the most.  Because instead of dealing with what I needed to, I ate.  And the more weight I gained, the more I lost myself.  It was not a good thing. 

It always bugged me that Bridget was considered fat.  She wasn’t fat.  I weighed 247 lbs. – I was fat.  And in my size 22 jeans, I watched the scene where Bridget runs down the street in her underwear, and I remember saying “If I looked like that, I’d run around in my underwear all the time.” 

At first, I just wanted to get below 200 lbs.  And once I got below 200 lbs., I just wanted to fit into regular size clothes.  And once I got into regular size clothes, I just wanted…something else to finally make me feel good about myself.  And so I had to learn that it didn’t matter what I did or didn’t do, because I was never going to find anything to make me feel good enough, unless I first believed I already was. 

I’ve always had the most amazing friends.  For real.  They have cried with me, and laughed with (and at) me, and run with me, and eaten chocolate garbanzo cake with me.  And with every tear and smile and step and bite, they have helped me learn to appreciate me.   And if our friends are a direct reflection of ourselves, then I’m pretty okay, because these people in my life - they are awesome.   

I’m finally at the point where I can recognize my worth.  And no, it’s not in a ‘I’m all that and a bag of chips’ kinda way.  But more of a ‘I’m happy to be me’ kinda way. 

I know I will still say things and later feel stupid.  I will still do things and embarrass myself.  And I probably won’t ever be a great cook.  But none of that matters.  Because I’m no longer waiting for someone to tell me “I like you very much.  Just as you are.” just so I can finally believe it. 

It was in January of 2006, that I decided to change what I could change.  It’s now seven years, and 100 lbs. later.  And as I start this new year, I’m under 200 lbs.  I’m in regular size clothes.  And so I should be happy to run down the street in my underwear.  But somewhere along the line, I forgot about that.  Until now. 

And Bridget and I…well, we both think it’s good enough. 

*****

(see pictures below - thank you, Kristi Gnyp photography)

My friend Anne once told me a story about when her daughter, Holly, was little.  They were getting ready to go outside to play. But when Anne tried to tie Holly’s shoelaces, Holly wouldn’t let her and said “No. By self.”  So Holly sat and flopped the shoelaces back and forth because she was too little and didn’t know how to tie them.  They didn’t go out to play. 

Somewhere along the line I told my Mom this story, because to this day we say to each other “By self.”  And it’s usually when she’s trying to help me.   

Recently, I had abdominal surgery.  Everything is okay, but I’ll be honest, it was far more intense than I was prepared for.  I’ll be in pain?  That’s fine, I can handle it.  I only took pain meds for two days.  (For the record - I did not keep the bottle of oxycodone, but considering resale value, I probably should have.)  You want me to walk as soon as possible?  Challenge accepted.  I once ran a half marathon with a torn meniscus, (that’s part determination and a bigger part stupidity) so bring it, I’m not scared.  And I will be strong and amazing and smile through all of it.  You just watch me. 

That was the plan, at least.  But the day before surgery, something happened at the 4-plex where I lived that forced me to move.  I no longer felt safe living there.  And so I spent the next three weeks recovering from surgery and sleeping on a couch at my parents’ (that alone is enough to cause insanity) while I tried to find a new place to live.  And I couldn’t even drive.  And when I did find a place, I couldn’t pack or unpack anything.  And when I did move, neither one of my couches would fit into my new place.   

I had lost my apartment, my space, my home.  I had lost my furniture - the couches I sunk into when I watched movies, and cuddled with my cat, and spent hours thinking and writing.  Physically, I had lost part of me.  It was too much.              

And then it happened.  I hit the wall.  And I didn’t just hit it.  I smashed, face first.  I couldn’t stop crying.  Or swearing.  And by crying, I mean snot dripping, bawling, sobbing so hard it becomes a whimper that becomes no sound because I can no longer breathe.  And by swearing, I mean F-bombs.  In front of my parents.   It was as if every single emotion I’ve ever felt in my entire life decided it was time to make an appearance.  All at the same time.  And there wasn’t anything I could do about it.      

I’m the chick who prides herself in being (as my friend Poppy calls me) ‘freakishly strong.’   I bench press well over 100 lbs.  I’ve always felt that my physical strength and mental strength went hand in hand.  But I had never felt so weak in my life.  I’d lie in bed at night, not sleeping, staring at the wall, feeling totally useless and helpless and hopeless.  And I hated it.  I hated that I was this person that was anything but strong and amazing and smiling through all of it.  And so I cried even more.  

I cried on the way to work.  I cried on the way home from work.  I cried if someone was nice to me.  I cried if someone wasn’t nice to me.  I cried because my Dad ate the date square I was saving for the next day.  (Seriously.  He had already eaten his, so why would he eat mine too?)  I cried when I heard the theme song from the Mary Tyler Moore show.  (What if she’s not gonna make it after all?) 

All along, I knew it wouldn’t last forever.  All along, I knew it would get better.  All along, I knew there were other people going through things far, far worse than my measly crap.  My head knew all of this.  But my head no longer worked.  Because I was cocoa puffs.  Cuckoo for cocoa puffs.  Minus the puffs.   And I was embarrassed of what I was feeling and thinking and doing.  That’s not me.  I’m Marlo.  I’m supposed to be tough, not this whimpering mess of snotty kleenex making sounds that are scaring my cat.  Except, I was. 

When I started writing my blog, I promised myself I would always be honest.  Of everything I’ve written, this has been the hardest to share.  Because this isn’t wise, or funny, or inspiring.  This doesn’t make me sound smart, or confident, or cool.   But more than anything else, it’s because I don’t like admitting that sometimes I’m not strong.  But the truth is, sometimes I’m not.                             

Sometimes we have to let people take care of us. Sometimes we have to ask for help.  Sometimes we have to say “I feel weak right now, please hold me up.”  It may not be what we want, but sometimes it’s exactly what we need.  

I’ve learned that “This too shall pass.” is true, even though in the moment I want to punch the person saying it.  I’ve learned how many people love me, even when I feel like a complete idiot and the biggest suck in the world.   But most importantly, I’ve learned that we don’t have to try to do everything by self.   We’re not supposed to - that’s why we have each other.   

*****

It was over thirteen years ago that I stood in the aisle of Shoppers Drug Mart looking for prenatal vitamins.  There weren’t any.  Not a single one.  When I asked the pharmacist, I was told they were getting new brands in the following week and didn’t have any in yet.  Normally, I’m stubborn.   Normally, I would have just gone to another store.  Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.  Normally.  But this wasn’t normal.  And I remember thinking “Marlo, someone or something is trying to tell you something.” Something.  I didn’t know what, and I didn’t know why - but for some reason, I listened.  And I didn’t buy vitamins, and I didn’t get pregnant. 

Several months later, all hell broke loose.  My (now ex-) husband’s drinking had increasingly become worse.  He was either getting drunk at home, or coming home drunk.  He’d be gone all night and I wouldn’t know where he was.  I’d cry myself to sleep.  His work would call in the morning asking if he was coming in.  I worried that he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.  That thought was soon replaced with “He’d better be lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”     

Then one night, as I was in bed sleeping, I heard his truck pull into the driveway.  My heart was pounding with a combination of anger and dread.  I watched him stumble in through the back door and laundry room.  He fell against the washing machine.  He couldn’t even walk, and he had driven home.  I stood there and said to him “I don’t care who you were with or what you were doing, but they must be really good friends to let you drive like this.”   

The months after that were a blur.  I’d like to say that was the end, but it wasn’t. Because I thought counselling could help us.  I was hoping counselling could help us.  And even if it didn’t, at least I would know I tried.  But soon I was sitting in the psychologist’s office by myself.  And quickly I learned no one person has the superhuman powers to make everything better.  Not even me, the girl who was part of the crime fighting duo, Electra Woman and Dyna Girl.  I was Electra Woman, of course, because I’m six months older than my friend Christine.  But how could I possibly know at age six that The Spider-Lady could never compare to the evil you encounter when you mix drugs and alcohol?  Not even spandex and a cape and really big hair can save you from that. 

I know sometimes things happen that are simply a coincidence.  Sometimes, they’re an interesting coincidence.  And sometimes, they are more than just a coincidence.  They have to be.  Because there’s no other explanation.  And I think back to that day at the drug store.  And I know now, even though I didn’t understand it at the time, when I made that choice to trust what I was feeling, it was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life.  I’ve always wondered if it was my head or my heart that was screaming the loudest, but I’ve come to learn, more than anything, it was my gut.     

As a child, I remember my Mom telling me that if someone gave me a bad feeling, I should trust it.  But somewhere along the way, we program ourselves to not trust those feelings any more.   Because we’re told we’re not supposed to judge people.  Or it’s not polite.  Or it’s someone we love and we don’t want to think they would hurt us.  Or more than anything, we want to believe it’s okay.  But I’ve learned, especially in the past few years, my gut is very much like the Frootloops’ bird’s nose.  It always knows.  And once again, I’m learning it’s okay to follow it.  Thank you, Toucan Sam.     

There’s just no way around it - things are still going to happen that make me wonder, or upset me, or make me confused.  Things are still going to happen that make me doubt myself.  Things are still going to happen and I’ll have to make a choice.  And so I will remind myself to be quiet enough, and still enough, so that I will hear and feel what’s inside me.  Time will pass, and maybe one day, the answer will be totally clear.  Or maybe, I’ll never understand why.  Or maybe there really never was any reason, except learning to trust that it’s simply what needs to be.      

*****

I remember hearing once, that your true personality is you as a child.  For some reason, I’ve always remembered this.  For more than one reason, I also think it’s true.  

If you were to ask my Mom what I was like as a little girl, I already know what she’d tell you. 

She’d tell you about the time we were walking, I let go of her hand and said to her “You go your way, I go mine.  I love you.  Bye.” 

She’d tell you about the time she took me to get my picture taken, but I didn’t want to smile.  When the photographer tried to get me to smile, I’d roll my eyes.            

And without a doubt, she’d tell you about the story of the glass.  According to my Mom, we were standing on the porch drinking lemonade, and this is how it went down:

Marlo:   “What will happen if I drop the glass?

Mom:  “It will break.”

Marlo:  “How do I know it will break?”

Mom:  “Because I told you.”

Marlo:  “What will you do if I drop it?”

Mom:  “I’ll spank you.”

Marlo:  “I want to see what will happen.”

I dropped the glass, it broke, I got spanked.  I was three.   

We all have our stuff.  Things that we repeat over and over, like dropping a glass to see if it will break, and sometimes, we never understand why. 

I grew up in a house where there wasn’t peace.  There was a lot of fighting.  My Dad was very angry, he yelled.  My Mom was very sad, she cried.   As a child, I always felt loved, but I didn’t think my Dad loved my Mom.   I never wanted to get married, because I didn’t want someone to hate me that much.

I remember making deals with God – I’ll do this, or I won’t do that, if you please just make Mom and Dad stop fighting, I promise.  It didn’t work.  It wasn’t God’s fault, it was mine.  I wrote to my Dad asking him to stop.  I thought I could change things.  Because if I was good enough, and special enough, and enough and enough and enough, I could make it all better.   But it was never enough.  I was never enough.  Why wasn’t I enough? 

And so it continued.  I married my first boyfriend even though there were things telling me I shouldn’t.  But I didn’t listen.  Instead, I dropped the glass.  It broke, and some of the pieces hurt me.  But I still tried to put it back together.  Again, and again, and again.  I thought if I tried hard enough, I could fix it, I could make everything okay.  Because I can do that.     

I repeated this in more than one relationship, feeling my heart and soul slowly wilting in the process.  I had become one of those women, and I hated it.   I didn’t want to be that person.  I’m not that person.  I’m smarter than that, I know better.  Except I didn’t.      

And then something happened.  I’d like to picture it as me sinking to my knees and crying out in despair “Why?  Why am I doing this again?!” as Yoda appears and says “Repeat this you must, until the lesson you learn.”  It was nothing like that, but that would have been really cool.      

Instead, it was remembering the little girl.  The little girl that tried so hard, and wanted to be special enough, and who was still hoping someone would just say “I love you so much that I will do anything to make this better.”   And suddenly my head realized the little girl was still waiting for that to happen.  And that’s when my heart finally understood, that it was never about her.    

You grow up, and you learn that sometimes things just happen and there’s nothing you can do.  Even if it’s not on purpose, and you don’t mean it to, and you don’t want it to, and you tried so very hard to stop it – the glass still falls and breaks.  And sometimes, when it does, the only thing you can do is pick up the pieces, and know that it’s enough. 

*****

(See picture below)

When I was a little girl, I thought you could have a pretty face, or, you could have a good body.  You could be thin, or you could have boobs. One or the other, not both.  It was the law of physics.  Or something.  In my little girl mind this made sense.  It seemed fair, and good, and right.  And then I saw Christie Brinkley in a bikini, and the world as I knew it ended.  Way to go, uptown girl.     

As I grew up, I learned that life doesn’t always make sense, (I don’t always make sense) and it definitely has nothing to do with being fair. 

Despite all the “don’t judge by appearance” stuff we say, let’s be honest - we all judge based on the outer person.  Because in the beginning, that’s all we can see.   

I remember a girl in high school.  Her name was Amy.  She was absolutely gorgeous.  She had perfect tan skin, and green eyes, and light brown hair, and she could eat whatever she wanted.  Yeah, one of those.  Guys drooled when they saw her.  I hated her.  Okay, I didn’t actually hate her, but there was definitely a mix of jealousy, and envy, and deflation, and some other stuff that I admit I  sometimes feel now when I compare myself to someone who is thinner/prettier/ something else-er than me. 

Amy started modeling, and her pictures were in a flyer in the newspaper.  There she was.  And she didn’t look like anything.  She was just there.  The camera didn’t like her, and secretly (okay, not so secretly) I rejoiced.  Okay, I didn’t actually rejoice, but on some level, it was kind of a good day.      

In my world, outer beauty would be based on inner beauty.  If you had goodness in your heart, you’d have a beautiful chest.  If you reached out to help others, you’d have beautiful arms.  If you spoke honestly, and with kindness, you’d have a beautiful mouth.  That’s how it would work.  And it would make sense.  And it would be fair, and good, and right.           

When I think about the people that mean something to me, the people I love, and care about, and like -  it has nothing to do with how they look.  It’s not because of their eyes, or smile, or face.  It’s not because of their arms, or legs, or back, or chest.  It’s because of laughing, and crying, and saying nothing.  It’s because of smiling, and understanding, and sharing dessert.  It’s because they are kind, and good, and make me think.  It’s because I’m happy, and proud, and better for having them in my life.  It’s because.  These are the things that make me want to walk beside someone.  These are the things that make a beautiful person.  These are the things that are real.

Real is wonderful.  It’s existing, and genuine, and true.  And it’s all and everything Pinocchio ever wanted.  He knew the other stuff didn’t matter.  The string puppet had it figured out.    

I think nothing says it better than the words spoken to The Velveteen Rabbit:  “It doesn’t happen all at once.  You become.  It takes a long time.  That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.  Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.  But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” 

I wish I always had it together.  I wish I was always confident, and mature, and above all that superficial crap.  But sometimes, I forget.  I let myself get wrapped up in the silliness of “I wish” and forget the “I am” that is real.  And that’s when I need to remind myself.  So I smile at a stranger, or inhale the smell of mud after it rains, or laugh with a friend.  Or sometimes, I just close my eyes, and think of a shabby brown rabbit, and a little wooden boy.  

*****

I have a big mouth.  I’m loud.  Sometimes I talk way too much, and often I say things that later make me cringe.   I’d like to think it’s part of my charm, but the reality is, it’s just part of me.    

My Mom says when I was a little girl, I always went for the laugh.  That’s definitely something hardwired.  In school, I loved public speaking and drama class.  But as vocal as I can be, I’m a huge contradiction.  Because sometimes, I have no voice. 

Was it because of growing up with an angry father who was always yelling?  Or because of a mother who so desperately wanted to protect her children and keep the peace but could only say “Shh…it’s okay…” when it was anything but okay?  Yes.  No.  Great big question mark. 

All I know is that when I wanted to say something, it would feel like everything was shutting down.  I couldn’t speak.  The words were there, but I couldn’t get them out.  I wanted to, but it was just too scary.  So instead, I did something easy.  I kept my mouth shut.  Except I didn’t.  Because instead of opening my mouth to let the words out, I opened my mouth to shove them down.   And yes, I know this is a recurring theme with me.  Because it is me.  Hey me, sorry ‘bout that.          

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had issues with food.   I’ve eaten instead of dealing with things.  Nope, I’m not sad, I’m not scared, I’m not angry, I’m not confused… I’m just hungry. Really really hungry.

Thankfully, I never turned to drugs or alcohol.  But I wonder if Hostess would be better off financially if I didn’t get my head on straight.  Let me just put Jann Arden’s “Hanging by a Thread” on repeat, cry, eat a box of twinkies, and hate myself instead.  But, that doesn’t accomplish much.  And one day, I was just too tired to do that anymore.  So tired, I didn’t know if I could possibly do anything else.  But I had to do something else.  That thread was getting too weak to hold me any longer.  That poor little thread.            

And so I had to learn.  It wasn’t easy.  It never was, it never is.  But I’m getting better at it.  I’m learning to let myself feel sad, and scared, and angry, and confused, and all those other words that are everything in between.  I’m learning how to say those words when I need to.  And, I’m learning that even if someone gets angry and yells, I don’t have to tell myself “Shh…it’s okay.” when it isn’t.  Because in the end, it doesn’t matter how much you shove down your throat – whatever you are trying to stuff down is going to keep trying to get out – and you’ll always be hungry.      

Whenever I hear “Say What You Need to Say” by John Mayer, I can’t help but sigh a little smile.  I’ve never been a fan of John Mayer.  I like some of his music, but him personally, not so much.  For some reason, I think he’s arrogant, and there’s something in his face that makes me want to punch him.  I have no reason for that, I just do.  But you know how when something hits you and all of a sudden you have a change in heart and it all makes sense? 

Kinda like I always used to make fun of “The Climb” by Miley Cyrus.  Until the day after my first half marathon.  It came on the radio when I was in the line of the Tim Horton’s drive thru.  Maybe I was still deficient in electrolytes or mildly dehydrated, but suddenly those words had meaning.  And I sat in my car and I cried and I nodded and I thought “It’s true, Miley.  It’s so true.”  (Saying things twice is always much more dramatic.  I learned this from watching Little House on the Prairie.)

I still have a big mouth.  I’m still loud, and talk too much, and say things I wish I didn’t.  But I have learned.  I’ve learned that when you speak, when you say the real stuff, suddenly, it’s not scary any more.  In fact, it’s the only thing that has the power to take that fear away.  Because when you let the words come out - when you feel them, and you mean them, and you let them go - you can finally breathe.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Thank you.       

This is my voice.  And now, even fully hydrated, I can nod and say “Why yes John Mayer, you are so right.  With a heart wide open, I will say what I need to say.   Thank you, I won’t punch you, and please have yourself a nice day.  Oh, and p.s.  - it really is about the climb.  It really is.”  

*****

I knew it that morning. I had always said as long as Kiko ‘danced in my hair’ I was going to do everything I could to make him better.  I always considered him extra special.  My Grandma loved to see black cats lying in the green grass, and he found me a few weeks after her death.  A skinny, stray black cat, you guessed it - lying in the green grass.

But, he was no longer my cat.  He didn’t want to eat.  (Definitely not Kiko.)  I tried petting him, talking to him, lying next to him.  He didn’t want me near him.   When I’d lie down beside him, he’d walk away.  He was telling me it was time to let go.

The week before we had gone to the vet’s.  His weight was down to 6 lbs, 5 ounces.  How could he get any skinnier?  It had been two years of trying everything, and there was nothing left to do.  I remember going home that night, devastated.  Kiko and I had an especially good talk.  I told him how much I loved him.  He danced in my hair, purred in my ear, and we fell asleep lying next to each other, his paw resting on my arm.  I remember saying to my Mom the next morning, it was like he was telling me that everything was okay.  No matter what happened, it was going to be okay. 

That day I made a last ditch attempt taking him to the vet’s, hoping against hope there was something they could do for him.  I knew there wasn’t, but I didn’t want to give up without saying I had tried everything.  His weight was down to 5 lbs, 2 ounces.  His little body was consuming itself.  I took him home, and made arrangements for the vet to come to my apartment. 

My fiancé Jeff picked up a shrimp ring, and I laughed and smiled when I watched Kiko chomp on them.  I was so glad he got to enjoy those shrimp.

My sweet little boy had taken such good care of me.  I can remember one time in particular, when it felt like my world had ended.  He stayed with me the whole night, his little body tucked in against mine, reaching his paw up to touch my cheek.   

Sometimes, Kiko and I would slow dance to music.  There’s a song ‘Godspeed’ by the Dixie Chicks, and I had changed the words so it would be ‘Kiko’s Song’.  He’d rest on my shoulder, the best place in the world, and we’d rock back and forth. 

When the vet came, I had that song programmed to repeat on the CD player.  We spread out the flannel blanket he loved to lie on.  I remember how he looked at me, looked right into my eyes.  I lay down on my stomach, close to him, my hands softly touching his body.  The blood vessels in his little arm were collapsed, so the vet had to try his other arm.  I thanked him for letting me be his Mumma. 

After the vet and his assistant left, I picked up my dear boy and gently placed him on my shoulder.  There in my living room, we danced one last time to his song.  I wished the song would never end.   

I wrapped him in my red hooded sweatshirt jacket, and brought him to my parents’ house.  While Jeff dug his grave in the backyard, I sat with him on my lap, stroking his fur, and watching the sunset with my Mom.  It was the most beautiful spring evening.   

Kiko was buried with the sash from my red satin housecoat that he loved to play with, and a piece of my hair I had cut and tied in ribbon.  Later, I planted pussy willows and flowers.   

We’ve all heard the expression “Everything happens for a reason.”  Personally, I don’t believe it.  Because sometimes, really sucky things happen and there’s just no good reason at all.  I do however, believe there’s a lesson in everything. 

I learned that sometimes you can do everything right, and everything you’re supposed to, and everything you possibly can, and still things don’t turn out the way you want them to.  I learned that no matter how hard you try, and love, and do, there are some things you just can’t fix.  But most importantly, I learned that even when the ending isn’t what you want it to be, it doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.  Sometimes, even now, I still have to remind myself of that.       

I remember reading a saying once, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” 6 ½ years just wasn’t long enough, yet I know how lucky I am to have had that time.

A little part of my heart went missing that day, but I have so many good memories of my sweet, funny, little guy to fill it in.  Now I can smile and not just cry when I think of my dear boy.  And I know, that sometimes when I’m sleeping, if only in my dreams, there’s a little black cat, dancing in my hair. 

*****

As a child, I thought my Mom was the smartest person in the world. I loved looking at pictures and hearing stories of when she was little.  As a teenager, that turned into mostly eye rolling.  Everything she said and did embarrassed me, or bugged me, or both.  Teenagers are fun like that.     

Growing up, my Mom took ballet, loved swimming and gymnastics, and was a cheerleader.  Add all of this to the equation, plus a trip to Florida with her family when she was nineteen, and it all fell perfectly in place.   

Years and years ago, Weeki Wachee Florida was known for its mermaid show - a performance of choreographed ballet and stunts, (and access to breathing tubes) all underwater.  My Mom watched the show and fell in love.   When she spoke with one of the mermaids after the show, she was told she could try out right then and there – but my Mom was with her family, and they were leaving the next day, and so she didn’t.  And this is something she’s never forgotten, and for some reason, neither did I.          

Recently, I got to cross two things off my list - the list of forty things to accomplish in my forties.  I auditioned for a play, and, I got a part.  As a zombie.  No, it wasn’t a lead character, or the star in the show, but I did what I set out to do.  And I did it full out zombie style, if you know what I mean.  Somewhere in the mix, I found myself in charge of a group of high school drama students.      

Bianca was one of the students who volunteered as a zombie extra.  She was quiet, well behaved, and painfully shy.   It reminded me of when I was in high school, when there was always that one person that was so withdrawn, or timid, (or something) and you just felt like you wanted to help or protect them, but you didn’t really know how.        

There were two groups of zombies – the ones that walked by the window at the back of the stage, or the ones that walked through the audience.  Bianca only wanted to walk by the window.  Done deal. 

One night, Bianca asked if she could walk through the audience because her Mom and brother were there, but when it was time, she quickly changed her mind.  She told me she didn’t think she could do it. “What if I go first and you walk right behind me?”  I asked her.  She looked at me, and with fear and hesitation in her voice said “Okay, because I think if I don’t, I’ll regret it later.” 

For just a minute, I was fifteen again.  And twenty three.  And thirty two.  And every age I ever was when I didn’t do something for whatever reason.  And I remembered.  And I thought of a conversation I had with my Mom just a few months prior. I smiled at Bianca, and how true her words were, and I told her “You’re right, you will.”  

So we walked through the audience together.  And when we finished, I turned to give her a double high five.  She smiled, and gushed, and said “I did it!” and I felt my heart smile along with my face.   

Sometimes, I don’t always feel like an adult.  I know I am, but it doesn’t always feel that way.  I don’t always make the right choices, or know how to handle things.  I don’t always know the right thing to say, or the right thing to do.  I really wish I did, but the truth is, I don’t.  Not too long ago, this is exactly where I found myself.  And so I called my Mom.  Her answer was simple.  “You need to do this, because if you don’t, you’ll regret you didn’t when you had the chance.”       

My Mom was right.  Sometimes there just isn’t the perfect time, or the perfect circumstances, or the perfect reasons.  Sometimes, it just ‘is’.  And in that very moment, I am once again a little girl, and my Mom knows everything – because she is the smartest person in the world.  And, the most beautiful mermaid.   

*****