What would I say, if I could, to my younger self?  You know, if we went for drinks at a Mexican joint, and I began a sentence with, "Okay, there’s something you should know…" what would follow?  It’s easy to tent a blanket of "Don’t take life so seriously" on it, but that’s like telling someone to "just relax."  The words are there, we hear them, but they don’t make us feel any differently.  It’s too easy.  It’s lazy advice.  Here’s what’s harder to say:

Keep a diary.  And when you write in it, try not to dot your i’s with hearts or fat little circles.  Try to write about something other than the opposite sex or the fights you have with friends.  I wish I knew, when I was younger, to write about the good in my friendships and family, to document the loving moments.  Write about your relationship with your cousins, with your grandfather, with your parents.  I need to take this advise now, too.

Nobody cares if you bite your nails.  No guy is going to notice what shoes you’re wearing, and if he does, he’s the wrong guy. 

You actually look beautiful, and can leave the house, without makeup.

Learn how to keep track of your spending and realize no amount of shopping will give you real self-esteem.  Even the have-to-have handbag or shoes.  But, it’s okay to like nice things.  Don’t be too hard on yourself for buying into consumerism.  There are worse things.

Be kinder.  Try to treat people as if it’s your last interaction, but at the same time, care less, a lot less, about what other people think.  Read that again.  Stop caring what other people think.  How?  Understand that this is your life, not theirs, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself if things don’t work out the way you’d hoped.  At a certain point, you have to stop pointing fingers behind you toward your childhood. You cannot be walking around worried about what people will think of you.  At the end of the day, all that really matters is what YOU think of you.  Even if people say great things.  Horrible things.  Their opinion shouldn’t matter more than your own. 

Don’t worry about appearing braggy or narcissistic.  It’s called having self-esteem, valuing yourself enough to think people might care about what you have to say.  Don’t be ashamed about anything because all our embarrassments are part of the human condition. 

Don’t play music on your outgoing answering machine message.  I know you think it sounds good and everyone else does it.  Don’t do that.

Rich relationships are a product of who you are, not where you are.  You’ll make friendships anywhere you go, so stop worrying about the right places, schools, cities, apartment complexes, neighborhoods. 

Whatever decision you’re worried about, right now, whether you should do this or that, however important it feels to you, just stop.  Look Up. Remember, when you’re feeling like shit, to just step away from it, for fifteen minutes and just try, TRY, to enjoy the view.  Yeah, the stars shine bright deep in the heart of Texas, but I’ve preached this before.  Now that I’m in, what I consider to be, the ‘burbs, I never think, "I wish I were living in the city."  But when I lived in Manhattan, I always wished for stars, stairs, and a view.  So look up wherever you are and realize a world goes on outside your dramas. Really, all of it will pass, will be worked out.

Don’t be afraid of making mistakes.  I’m not saying to discount the consequences of your actions, but try to worry less about choosing wrong.  We weigh ourselves down in it.  Second-guessing ourselves.  Don’t be afraid of making mistakes because, really, you learn so much when you risk.  So really, it’s never a mistake.  Unless it involves wearing the color orange or anything to do with a hat.  These are usually mistakes best to avoid. 

Ditch negative people.  Don’t keep them around because you feel guilty.  Hold onto your strong female friends, even if you’ve had a pissy fight.  They’re really important.

I wouldn’t tell my younger self to listen more, or to be compassionate as well as passionate.  I think I knew those things then.  Yeah, yeah, live in the moment, in the now.  I already knew that.  Heard and knew the words.  That’s not something I needed to hear, and it’s still not.  I would have liked to have known that the truly big moments aren’t as important as the smaller quiet ones.  The sidelines matter more.  When traveling, I’m never impressed by the main attraction; I remember, more, the smaller moments, the little girl, when I was in Madrid, dressed in "her Sundays."  She saw me watching her walk by as I sat on a bench.  She kept turning to look at me.  I remember those moments most.  "Keep paying attention to the smaller things," I would say.  "That’s where the good stuff is."

Don’t be so damn hard on yourself.  Yeah, you screwed up.  You’re not perfect, fine.  Learn from it.  But don’t punish yourself.  Be kind to you, even when you screw up.  You’ll bounce back eventually.  You’ll make up for it. 

You are not fat.  You are within a healthy weight range.  As long as your doctor isn’t talking to you about health risks, you are not fat.  Even if your fat pants no longer fit.  Try, as hard as it is, to realize how good you look now.  Here’s what I’ve learned.  When I’m a size four, I’m usually miserable and anxious.  Then, at a size ten, I’m happy in my life (miserable that I cannot fit into my wardrobe, but actually happy in my life), but as happy as I am, I long to be the miserable size four again.  It’s lame-ass behavior.  Stop worrying about it.  Your weight issues aren’t going away, so just deal and learn to love yourself at whateverthehell size you are.  Just deal. 

The man should love the woman just a smidge more.  Many wise woman I know have told me this (after the fact).  I wish someone had said it to me once upon a time.  I would have listened.  Life is too short to learn everything the hard way.  At some point, it helps to listen.  Yes, you have to experience some things for yourself, but the things I’m saying here, and especially if I had a "back to the future moment," and it was coming from ME, I absolutely would have listened and reacted… at least while it was top of mind.  I hope to look back on this one day and just add to it.  I hope to keep this list top of mind, too.  Especially the bit about writing about the good.  As for the man loving the woman more bit, I’ve been in relationships where I just *knew* I loved him more… and in relationships where I totally just *knew* he loved me a little more… I still loved him completely, but knew, I guess, that he adored me and would never do anything to screw things up.

Don’t cling to what you know.  Holy shit.  This would have saved me some therapy.  Push your boundaries, explore; don’t rely on the familiar.  Move.  Make new friends.  Go out alone, and don’t be afraid of what others think about it.  No one else is just like you, and you, just as you are, are important.  I wish I knew and believed that then.  Much more important that sunblock.  Okay, just as important, anyway.

Compliment people.  When people receive a compliment studies have shown that their blood pressure is actually lowered.  People are immediately set at ease. 

Accept compliments graciously.  Don’t pull the old, "oh stop," or "ew, no I don’t."  Don’t roll your eyes.  Take it in, and really accept it.  Shake your head and respond with a heartfelt, "thank you."

Get a pet.  You live longer and happier when you can care for it properly.  When you’re older, you tend to live longer if you have a pet.  It’s an activity; something is relying on you.  You matter, even when the kids are too busy.  They also lower your blood pressure.

When you feel blue, have a "self-esteem" music mix at the ready to lift your mood.  Then force yourself to take a walk, wear the anxiety tired. 

Eat three meals a day.  Try not to snack.  I don’t care what you’ve heard about grazing and blood sugar.  You know you and the way you can’t stop once you start.  Stick to three hots.

Realize your life is not like the movies.  It’s not supposed to be a Mark Ruffalo film.

Pointing out how the fake MIT Sunscreen speech of Vonnegut did it better?  Better re-read the title and figure out the author is doing more than "internalizing things;" she’s tipping her proverbial hat. Not a case of sloppy seconds, thank you very much.  Again, try not to expect the worst from people.

(Finding the Extraordinary on an ordinary rainy day)

I sometimes think there are hidden secrets in our lives. Not things that we don’t want to tell people, or things about which we’re embarrassed, but the kind of secrets the universe knows but we don’t. There are actual things, objects, gifts that we meant to give, that we even wrapped, where we even wrote that last minute card at the checkout counter for a birthday party that we ended up saying we were too sick to attend–but really at the last minute we just felt too fat, or too hot, or too tired, or too full to go. Now the present is sitting there, that book that’s still wrapped, at the bottom of our closet, and it’s kind of waiting for us to discover it again. Maybe it was meant to be in our lives, and maybe we’ll unwrap it and read a passage in that book, and it will change our lives.

I love the idea that it doesn’t just happen with things but also with people in our lives. Maybe there’s an old receipt in our closet, and we find it, and Oh, my God, you know what? I’m going to return that thing, that shirt that I bought that I never wore. Because the store says you can return whenever, and they have a really easy return policy, so you return it and meet your best friend.

It’s comforting, inspiring really, to know so many possibilities are hidden in our lives. Whether it’s some business card at the bottom of an old handbag, or the label on a sweater that belonged to your grandmother—one you decide to research, to see if the company is still around, and then you find something else, something new, something you never would have discovered a passion for if you hadn’t taken the moment to look. And it was just sitting there, ignored, right there within reach, as you droned on wondering what you’re doing with your life.

I just love the idea that there are “secrets” in our lives that prompt us to live our days differently. We can all look around, wherever we are, and find something, an actual object, that can change the course of our lives. Looking up at your closet full of perfume, you might realize you don’t actually wear any of them anymore, so you decide you’ll get a new fragrance.  After a day of spraying, waving, fanning, and sniffing coffee beans, you decide there are no fragrances out there that really suit you, so you begin to research fragrance, thinking maybe I’ll design a fragrance. And one day you’ll be telling this Once Upon A Time story to a reporter, many years later, who wants to know how you got your start. What was the motivation, the driving force behind your empire? They’ll want to know. And your answer will be: curiosity. Simply looking up and noticing. I believe that’s the key to an active life and mind: remaining curious. Life is never dull when you encourage yourself to learn.

Our lives are rich with possibilities, yet we have crowded to-do lists and TV shows to watch, calls to make, emails to send, dry-cleaning to drop off, diets to start, that we rarely notice the small gifts, the tiny secrets, there just waiting to change our lives.  Instead, we barrel through our habits and rituals, our routines and our way of doing things, without even questioning Why am I living this way anymore?

They’re such gifts, doors really, and yet we ignore them. Assume we’re just wasting time, creating busy work. It’s why I call them “secrets,” because all these detours are secret entrance-ways to a different life. Our lives can go in such different directions if we choose to pursue any of them or choose to open our eyes and realize I don’t have to live the life that I’m living right now. I can actually choose a new one.

I can stop everything (gradually, of course) but I can! I can decide tomorrow that I’m going to research film classes, review their reading lists and go ahead and read all the should books and see all the should films, then write my own film in my research. Who knows, and that can be my thing and the people I meet along the way can be the ones with whom I’ll grow old—my mentors, my dinner companions, the people with whom I’ll vacation, my first thought when I receive an extra ticket… the friends with whom I’ll visit the museum, the ones who’ll notice the little girl with her arms outstretched, flying over lily pads and believing anything is possible.

A YEAR AGO: Nuclear Results and False Negatives

5 YEARS AGO: Sample Sale

“I‘m afraid that if I start dreaming, I’ll lose my way.” I wrote it in my journal just the other day and immediately saw the irony. When we stop following our dreams, isn’t that when we’ve lost our way and not the other way around?

“If I start dreaming, I’m afraid I’ll move away from what I’m meant to be doing, get distracted, and do something I’m just mediocre at, that won’t make me special. I’m afraid I’d start painting and drawing, and what would I do with that? I’m not an illustrator. I didn’t go to art school.” That’s the voice of my inner defeatist asshole. She dresses governess-chic and always looks as if she’s just come from the salon. Only her lipstick shade is always a little off, too coral, the poor thing.

Maybe it’s also the voice of my parents—the people who love me dearly, but who also live in a practical world of meals on tables and money to pay for heat, water, and premium cable channels. I was always told to follow my dreams, but then it was quickly chased with a, “You know, you’d make a great lawyer.”

Had I said, “When I grow up, I want to be an artist,” I’m sure it would’ve sent my father to the bowl with “The ‘rhea.”

“That’s fine,” he’d say two hours and one box of Tuck’s medicated pads later. “Do all that art stuff, you know, as a hobby, on the side. But in the meanwhile, take the job with the health insurance and 401k.” So I did both. I took the job in advertising that allowed me to be creative with a month of paid vacation, and two free pairs of eyeglasses a year, dental and medical. And I followed my passions on the side, taking night classes in figure drawing, in watercolors, in photography, and in writing. I did this for eight years, and then I left advertising to begin a new full-time job as a writer (who’d work from home, cafe’s, and a lot of bars).

It’s no “secret” that I strongly believe that when we follow our passions, doors open for us, to show us that we’re moving in the right direction. As long as we make ourselves open to possibilities and have the guts to risk, it can all come true. I’ve known and said this for a long time now. And yet. There I have it, in my journal: an expressed fear of following my dreams. Well WTF is that about?

“I’m afraid that if I start dreaming, I’ll lose my way.” I realize this is actually horseshit, given that you can have lots of ways. I wonder why, from such a young age, we’re asked what we want to be when we grow up, and our answer, while it changes from day to day, mood to mood, year to year, usually contains an OR instead of an AND. “A princess,” or an “actress,” or an airline “stewardess,” anything ending in “ess.” Then we grow up and realize it’s actually “flight attendant”– how disappointing — choose one thing, dedicate our lives to becoming more skilled, in teaching others what we’ve supposedly mastered. Though none of us really feels as if we’ve mastered anything. Mostly we wonder when we’ll be found out, when the world will realize that we don’t deserve the awards, the promotions, the accolades because there are so many people out there with so much more talent, just not as much tenacity. And yet, so often we believe that one role we chose is what makes us us. People get laid off, and find themselves saying, “But this is who I am.” It’s what we know, but it’s such a small part of who we are.

Dreaming feels indulgent, like making five different desserts for Thanksgiving (and eating them all, naturally). There’s a fear in dreaming, that the reality of it will never be as satisfying as we’d hoped. It’s what I call “The Pillow Fight Factor.” People have pillow fights in movies, running through hallways of a house barefoot on wooden floors, jumping on beds, feathers slipping out, seesawing their way through the air. Then giggles, hiding behind a chair, threats of “I’m going to get you.”  No one is ever allergic, and no one has to clean up the mess. Then you try it in your own life, only to realize PILLOW FIGHTS FUCKING HURT. They are not fun at all. Especially those Goose Down numbers that might as well be a sock, stuffed with flour, and knotted at the top, a weapon. The fantasy of it was so much more exciting than the reality of it, so what if that happens with my life? With this job, with this relationship, with this sexual fantasy I want to try out, with this huge decision I’m making? What if I risk only to later feel regret?

The eye-rolling kicks into high gear, followed by a yawn. Please don’t tell me “Then you learn” or “Then you can always change your mind.” That’s not enough. Here’s what is: Then at least you’ll know. In old age, at the very end, wouldn’t you rather say, “At least I tried. I didn’t waste my life too scared to live it.” It really does come down to a book of quotes about failure and success. And as cliche as they might be, they encourage me to at least try.

Why would I be afraid to dream? Because what if what I dreamed for now “derailed me?” What if it took me so far off course that I’d live to regret it with a “what the hell was I thinking?” years from now? I think I read somewhere that it took courage to dream, and I remember rolling my eyes. It doesn’t take courage to dream. It takes courage to follow them.

2 YEARS AGO: Delusional, Much?
3 YEARS AGO: This Waltz
5 YEARS AGO: Why I Never Went to Law School

When it comes to weddings, I think of breakup songs, and when it comes to birthdays, I think of death. I’m still the girl who smears her name with her pinky, and wears the cake icing on her nose before making a wish, but somewhere down the line, I’ve begun to value life, so much so that it makes me think of the end of it. I guess that’s what aging is about: no longer thinking you’re immortal but risking and living as if you are. I will spare you the ass-twitching “love like you’ve never had your heart broken” crap, but I am, I warn you, about to unapologetically take a turn into a marsh of maudlin.

Sometimes I hold the possibility in my mind, because one day it might be a reality, that you’ve died. I feel a deep ache and most of all an extraordinary sense of missing you. A fear of forgetting details about you, an anger that you won’t be there when I need advice, an unfairness that I didn’t know every last thing there was to know, a guilt that I could have tried harder, could have spent more time making memories, savoring, giving me more stories to tell, and more to hold on to of you. The comfort of you. The peace and security I feel simply knowing you’re in my life. At every touching moment of my life after you’re gone, I’ll be overwhelmingly saddened by the fact that you’re not there to celebrate it, to cry over it, to curse it, complain about it, make me laugh about it, or to experience it deeply.

I’ll have to remind myself that while you were here, in your own timeline, however long or brief, you felt love and joy. And for me to experience those things fully in my own life, it means enjoying the moment as it’s happening, savoring my own joy and not clouding it with the sadder thoughts of unfairness. Of “why didn’t I?”‘s. Of “what if?s” Because they’re useless, really, and always lead us to the same place: that we can’t take it back. We can only do it better the next time we have a chance.

One thing I’ll always know is that you loved me unconditionally. You loved me when I made mistakes, when I failed, when I was chosen last, and when I wasn’t the best. You loved me win or lose. With or without a job. Without the makeup, with the extra weight, even when I smelled. When I was cruel or reckless, when I flat out chose wrong, you didn’t give up and made me believe and know I was capable of more. Whether you know it or not, being loved so fully by you has made me who I am. I’m a mold from that love, which enables me (it’s a gift from you) to love in the exact same way: win or lose.

I think the key to a happy life, a full life, is to love all you have, to feel lucky for each interaction, to watch and interact and learn from the people in your circle, BUT to realize that they’re not yours to keep. When you go at life with this outlook, you take responsibility of your own happiness and don’t overstep your bounds and force your shit onto someone else. You have to love deeply, but loosely, knowing each of us has our own journey and that those in our path will forever change it, change us, but they’re not ours to keep. We all have to embrace the unknown. And one of the hardest things to realize is that it’s not disloyal to move on. I think so many of us allow guilt to discolor our happiest moments because we think we’re betraying the person who’s gone. We worry that if we aren’t constantly grieving and missing and aching that it means we loved them less. We wrongly equate the severity of our pain with the depth and sincerity of our love.

The truth is–and it’s hard to always live it this way–that it’s a cycle, and one day when it’s our turn, we’ll leave behind loved ones who’ll feel angry that we’re not there to experience things with them, angry that we didn’t have more opportunities to experience the highs. It’s why in honor of those we love, we have to commit to eating the marrow, to live without the self-inflicted guilt, to live our lives out loud while they’re ours to live.

I’m not saying it’s easy to love loosely. The truth is we can’t live our lives in prevention mode, keeping our feelings under lockdown, hoping to escape the inevitable pain one day. Because it never fucking works. But it has to make it easier seeing each moment as a loan.

As a mother, I remind myself that I get their spirits, am allowed to witness their joys, see and come to understand the way they make meaning of things, watch as they handle change and heartache, see them grow. I remember when Abigail was just able to pull herself into a stand. I watched as she toyed with the idea of gripping onto an activity table with one hand while testing the limits of her body. How she learned to bend to the side and still hold on, to pick a toy off the floor while still standing. I love that I’m able to observe their lives, that they’re mine on loan.

All that I love is a part of who I am. Those moments together are mine, but THEY are not. Each of us has to let go and let one another live our own lives.

So if you ever die, if it ever seems like I’ve moved on, know that you’ve changed my life and I’ll forever be changed because of the life you lived and allowed me to witness. You’ll always be a part of me. I’ll try to imagine that you’re there with me, experiencing it all with me, every last drop because no matter what, you really will always be with me. Out of my love for you and all those loved ones I’ll one day leave behind, I owe it to all of us to make the kind of memories that last a few lifetimes. And I hope you’ll do the same while you’re here.

Whether we insist on sleeping without socks, or if we’re the type who unconsciously squints when we really like something, we want so much to be adored for our sidelines. For the little things most people miss, the smaller streets. For our bitten nails or the fact that we’ve got the "royalty toe" (when the second piggy is longer than the one who goes to market). There’s someone out there who wants to take us to new countries and cities and neighborhoods, restaurants, parks, or to hear a new songwriter at that new bar with the new wine list, just to witness the way we experience new. That’s their adventure: learning us, seeing through our eyes, loving the way we see the world. And we’re not even their kid, but we’re loved as though we’re family. And one day we might be even if we never officially are.

She’s the kind of girl who thinks she’s good at cards, and she’ll do a little dance when she wins. You’d tell her you only let her win so you could watch her, but she really did beat you. Truth is, you’d love her either way because really, you love the way she reacts to things. You love the way she cries at commercials and looks in her glasses, no makeup. And she thinks she looks ugly, but it’s when you love her most…in her socks, comfortable at home, at her desk chair, caught picking her nose, but only a little. You love her like Sunday with eggs and the smell of bacon and fizzled onions. In her undershirt, her laugh, the way when she reads something she likes, she has to read it to you aloud. "Are you listening? You’re not fucking listening. Pay attention. There will be a test." You like her threats and her smile, but you think she’s prettier when she doesn’t. When she thinks no one’s watching her. You like her off.

You can’t stand how long it takes her to get ready or how many times she asks you to get her water, or please do this for me, but you compromise because she rolls down the windows and makes you forget about the traffic. She’ll paint her nails in the car and whine when she’s cranky and when she can’t sleep. You like that you know she’ll sip at her tea in a way you can hear, and that she chews on her shirt collar when she’s nervous. That she prefers mittens to gloves and wishes she had a fireplace only for the smell. You love the curve of her face and the cup of her smile, the way she breathes in the dark, and how she loves you. You’ll spend the rest of your life letting her know you’re the lucky one, that you adore her, even with the extra twelve pounds, and you’ll whisper it every night, even when she can’t hear you.

You love how she gets excited when they’ve got her Ben & Jerry’s flavor in stock. She’ll spin around in front of the glass door and say, “Hells yeah.” And she’ll look up for a moment to make sure you see her, the way she does at the movies when something good happens. She always wants to share with you–you know, except when it comes to her fries. Her fries are hers, and your fries are hers. Money too, but mostly the fries.

You love the way you know her, that you know how to make her feel at home no matter where she is. Sometimes it’s as easy as the Disney channel and the original Parent Trap. Other times it’s ordering in and a bedtime story she forces you to make up, and if it sounds vaguely like any movie she knows, she’ll call you out on that shit and make you start over. With something new. Because as long as you both find and make new, you can stay with everything that’s old and broken-in.

Upon viewing some of my past skinny pictures, someone recently commented, "Seeing how amazing you look at 118 pounds, what keeps you from going on an extreme diet to recapture that?" I have an answer.

Ignoring the wrongs of "extreme dieting" outright, I will say that the times in my life where I’ve been my thinnest, looking my best, I was, in fact, at my worst. I smiled pretty for the camera, but inside I weighed more than I ever had; I was heavy with anxiety, self-doubt, and felt the pangs of rejection. I was miserable, but damn did I look good. And you know what? I don’t want that back, not even for a second.

Aside from hate-dieting my way to thin, there were times when I thought thin was the answer. We all have been victims of the "someday" mentality, believing that someday when (X) happens, all our "Y" eldest dreams will come true. But it doesn’t work that way, and I can honestly say, I’m happy with where I am right now. Could I stand to lose 15 lbs., absolutely. But I’m at a normal weight, and I feel extraordinary. Do I like having a double chin? No. But do I want to work my ass off, keeping a food journal, and watching those around me feast while I abstain? No.

I have no desire to sustain the unsustainable weights of my past, a life lived in single servings of fat-free yogurt with grilled chicken dinners without carbs or dessert. A weight attainable only if I ate at home where I knew the exact measure of olive oil, the precise cut of the butter, or the seconds with the non-stick spray to the pan. I don’t want a life of occasional indulgences. I want it to be filled with everything I love as often as possible without sacrificing my health. I want every last thing I can get away with. Life is too short to deny myself shortening, and I believe, above all else, life should be lived with gusto. Not excess, but gusto.

At my thinnest moments, I didn’t even feel like a person. It felt like a lie. It’s not that I aligned myself with a fat girl identity and believed the thin me wasn’t real. I wasn’t sabotaging myself because thin didn’t feel familiar. I felt empty, soulless, ghost-walking through my life. I wasn’t nurturing my spirit or my body. I was anxiety in a size 4. It didn’t feel real because I wasn’t eating or living real. I was exercising too often, and eating too little. What I did eat wasn’t real; it was processed, unwholesome. Chemicals. Substitutes. Never mind healthy, it was all empty.

Whereas the calories that people have come to consider "empty calories," sustenance from your mother’s chocolate chip cookies, for example, were a comforting, calming, indulgence. This might just draw one to argue, "Aha! You use food as comfort, and that’s your problem!" I can only respond, it’s not my problem. I have no qualms about food anymore. I don’t feel guilt or fear or panic when it comes to fueling my body. Sometimes I eat too much, sometimes not enough. But at least I feel whole.

In the photos where I’m thin, I smiled. In my behavior, I was more forward, less inhibited, eager to meet up with people from my past. But in the quiet moments, alone in bed, I didn’t like myself. I wasn’t really a person, just a thin container. I loved fitting into fashion-forward clothing, that men seemed to be uncritically fond of me, but really a part of me was missing. The heart of me.

So now I eat the heart out of everything, and I’m happy.