I’ve never been out of the continental U.S. and I’ve been spending the better part of the month in my bedroom. Maybe my way of travel isn’t yours, but for me, it’s necessary and it helps. For the majority of my life, I’ve been a voracious reader and have had a pretty decent imagination. There have never been the time or the funds for me to actually go anywhere worth really digging into, but I can read about places and, in my mind, I have been there.

Lately, that has saved my bacon in so many ways. Southwest.com has a schtick that says “wanna get away?” Yes, I do! Oh, I do! A break, yes please! Right now, though, I’m moving quickly nowhere. But, in this room, I’m going many places.

As adults, we often turn off our imaginations and suppress our pretend-o-meters (yes, I know it’s not a real word, but please stay with me). And, yet, in the back of our minds, there is still the capacity for childlike joy in sheet forts and paper hats and closed eye pretend travel. So, I needed a break.

When I woke up, I was going on Safari. It is supernaturally hot in Nashville this time of year. My bedroom is on the second floor of the house and my ceiling fan runs 24/7 to help keep my room ventilated. My white noise machine was on and the gentle breeze blowing across my face felt good.

Suddenly, I was on Safari and staying in my Safari housing. It was so hot outside that the animals weren’t coming out. The palm fan was blowing a gentle breeze across my face as my hair gently caressed my ears and a small fly landed on my shoulder. I softly brushed it away and hugged my pillow tighter as I thought about what was going on in my home across the ocean…

the ocean…

I turned the lamp next to me on full blast next to my face and turned the white noise machine on to “ocean waves” and suddenly I was at the beach. If you close your eyes you can almost hear sea gulls. The power of imagination is strong when you focus on it. The lamp next to me mimicked the sun so strongly I wanted to pull the covers over my head because it was hurting my eyes.

It relaxed me.

The imagination we gain as children never goes away. We put it on a shelf and pull it out as grandparents so we can play in those sheet forts or play water guns properly or tell stories that make little ones truly believe that there is magic in the air.

Sometimes, as adults, we need to believe in magic, too.

I remember the terror I felt the first time I realized that he no longer had the baby scent.

And then the first time he smelled. I mean really smelled. As in “go take a shower you smell.”

And the first time he actually met my mouth instead of my chin or my nose when he gave me a kiss.

And all the small things that I find myself now terrified of losing: his hand when he crosses the street, the goodnight kisses, when he falls asleep in our bed–his little hand searching for my shoulder and the sweet smiles in his sleep when I say his name and tell him I love him, the first time he’s embarrassed when I tell him I love him in front of his friends, or the first time he doesn’t rush to greet me when he comes home from school.

Every stage of his life has been my favorite. He’s my favorite. He’s always been my favorite. No one makes me laugh as hard as him. He has my sense of humor. Of course I’m going to think he’s hilarious. He’s thoughtful and serious and sensitive and laughs at fart jokes because they are hysterical. They are. I don’t care what you think. THEY ARE HYSTERICAL. Prudes.

I don’t know how to let him go. But I will because I love him with quiet desperation and care. And the day will come when he has to let me go, too. Loving someone means that you will eventually feel the loss that comes with letting go. And I’m scared to death.

After a fitful night of sleep, I woke up and got dressed and SHELL I had a migraine.

Leon was going out of town, so we decided to meet for lunch. On the way there, I bumped the side of my tire rim on a parking block. SHELL

I had an hour between lunch and a doctor’s appointment, so I went to the dollar tree for a little non-harmful retail therapy. I actually needed some toilet bowl cleaner (WOOO!), so it was productive. Until a woman in the cheeseball aisle walked directly up to me and burped in my face. And not a polite, oopsy burp. A full on sailor belch. I almost vomited. SHELL

When I got to the doctor, I sat in one of the 30 available seats and an old man came in and sat right next to me. Within 3 minutes, I heard a nasty noise, felt a small vibration on the connecting seat and it began to stink really, really bad. Then it happened again. And again.

The old man next to me was pooping in a diaper. Right next to me.

He turned to me and grinned.

He did it on purpose.

SHELL

More stuff happened, but I think that pretty well takes the cake.

When I picked up A.J. from school, we went to Sonic. I got a Route 44 (super huge) Sweet tea and got him a shake. I needed it.

If anyone feels the need to come sit right next to me, when there are 30 available chairs and burp in my face or poop, they can go shell themselves.

I’m serious.

30 is coming soon. So, for those of you that have been wondering, that makes me the grand age of 29. In the South, women don’t tell their age. Luckily, I’m a transplanted Northerner who is attempting to be Southern, but who talks to much to make that happen. I’m also not afraid of aging, which I think is anti-cultural for this area.

Recently, in this blog, my friend, QT, made the comment that I was “What? All of 23 years old?” I grinned and laughed it off. I took it as a compliment, and who wouldn’t, but at the same time, I realize that growing older doesn’t have to scare me.

Part of this comes from the realization that my 20′s never felt typical to me. I’ve already discussed that and I still feel the way I felt then.

30 feels like a gift. The opportunity to be the woman I want to be in a manner that is comfortable, rather than struggling. Instead of finding myself, I’ll be defining myself. I found a white hair on my head the other day and celebrated that I will be having white hair (which will be gorgeous with my fair skin) instead of dishwater gray.

30 is the new 20 is the new…who cares?

I am deciding who I am in the next decade.

I am so excited.

And you get to come with me. The party happens soon! Who wants cake?

For one man, he will forever be defined by getting his butt kicked by an elderly woman. He thought he was so smart. He came in and tried to rob her, but what he didn’t count on was her moxie. Gwyneth Davies defeated the 26-year old village idiot by hitting him four times with CRUTCH. Yes, ladies and gentleman, she was handicapped. She has trouble walking properly and she beat up a perfectly fine 26-year old MAN.

What is truly sad about this story is that the man had known this woman for a while. He worked in the village and had observed her. She recognized him when she saw him in her home. What happened to a sense of community ties? The willingness to help one another and be there for another. In my opinion, this kid (and I say kid because there is no way he acted like a man) got everything he had coming to him. And he’ll get more for his attempted robbery.

Ms. Davies noted that she’d been brought up with 6 brothers and isn’t really scared of anything.

I guess not.

Sunday, March 22, 2009
I should have had my tonsils taken out 20 years ago. You know, when the doctors said “Let’s take her tonsils out.”

Monday, March 23, 2009
When you leave me alone in an office for an hour you lose the right to be surprised when I play with your expensive doctor’s equipment.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009
It never ceases to amaze me how unselfconscious 7-8 year olds are. This occurred to me while I watched the center field on AJ’s baseball team pick his wedgie from the batter’s box to center field. There is something to be admired in it.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009
As a child, you are allowed to complain that you want to go home when you are in class. As an adult, you are allowed to leave, but are too worried about how you might look if you finally allowed yourself to ESCAPE.

Friday, March 27, 2009
I am all about instituting the siesta in the middle of the workday. A 30-minute nap would increase productivity.

I thought I did. I was unaware of my own elderly status until I sat in my multi-cultural education course tonight. My class is an education course so I am in there with a handful of psychology majors and a bunch of teachers who are here because their schools or major are requiring them to attend. As such, I’m hearing stories about words I have never ever heard in my entire life.

These words apparently mean something having to do with some form of music, but I only recently learned what “apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur” meant and apparently this has been out for some time now. I don’t listen to the radio anymore. I don’t know the songs.

I DON’T KNOW THE SONGS.

Excuse me while I break down.

Ok, so for someone for whom music has meant so much her whole life, this is a huge deal. I have a rhapsody account and I upload some new music but it’s mainly…adult contemporary/aka easy listening. In other words, John Mayer, you’ve grown on me.

Who is this old person in my body? Where did I go?

I don’t even WANT this new music. It “sounds like garbage.”

That’s it. I’m looking for a nursing home.