Friends After 30

Friends after 30.

Can you read that out loud without feeling a bit faint or sad or disappointed? Probably not. I’ve struggled with the idea of friends after 30 for a few years (4 years and a half, to be specific). I am not sure when it went down hill – maybe after kid #1? Or was it kid #3 that marked the turning point? All I know is that I was FUN. You hear me? I went dancing at the club. I had a drink of choice and my friends knew what it was. And I could have multiple before looking sloppy.

But then life got in the way.

I stopped calling, they stopped calling. “We need to get together soon!” Uh huh. I was busy with life. Kids, husband, school/work. The house doesn’t clean itself, you know? All my friends, they sort of vanished. Sure, they were still around on social media. I saw their families grow, but I felt the pang of distance burning between our friendship. And so…

Friends after 30 become a commodity for which so many of us yearn. But why not just make new friends whose lives fit ours? A soccer mom at the fields, a mom panicking about their kid started high school, or one who is just as worried about her baby starting kindergarten in just a few months. Those are my people now. Yet, I don’t know them.

But here’s a thought: Have you ever watched kids at a playground? They want to ride the merry go round, but they can’t spin themselves. Instead of waiting around for life to fall into place, kids will just ask another kid, “Hey, wanna play?” And there you have it: a friendship is born.

Why not be more like kids?

Well, I tried it, and it worked.

I was on social media, following a silly thread where we had to guess each others’ middle names by only providing the consonants. (Mine was ln, by the way). This led to the most unusual chat: 2 other girls and I started talking about being tired, needing wine/margaritas, snoring husbands, sneaking-into-your-bed-kids, and from the outside looking in, you would have thought we had been friends forever.

What was most interesting was finding that these two random strangers felt the same way. “Y’all need to move to Texas just because I need friends.” So I wondered, how many others out there feel this way? Who feels alone in such a busy world? We are connected, but so disconnected all at once. Who wants to ride the merry go round? Who is willing to take the challenge of making a new friend?

The three of us spent over two hours messaging back and forth about everything. It felt natural and joyful. I felt connected. Could you imagine if we did this on a regular basis? If it was ok to strike up not only a conversation, but a friendship?

Are you ready for that challenge?


What Friendship Really Means

What does it mean to have friends in your adult years?  This question has been nagging me for quite some time, and thus the idea of this post; however, I simply could not seem to get the answer to form into words.  What I needed was an ah-ha moment and to my great fortune, I had two.

To better understand why the question of friendship even came to mind, you have to know a bit about me.  I have led a slightly nomadic life until recently.  I have lived in 16 different houses/apartments in 5 different states and in 3 different countries in the span of 30 years.  I have packed and unpacked suitcases and boxes enough times to last me a lifetime.  And in the process of bouncing across the world I have made many, many friends.  I have also lost many, many more.  Sure, social media allows me to keep in contact, but truthfully, I haven’t seen the vast majority of my online friends in years, and some, I might never come across again.

As I reached the bitter milestone of 30 this past year, I started rethinking my contacts, more specifically, those closest to me.  I came to the realization that, differently than my childhood expectations created by 90210, I don’t have a clique of my own.  I don’t have a bff that has been by my side since the early Girl Scout days.  What I have instead, is a wide array of very different online friends who each hold a tiny chunk of my history in their minds and hearts and I also have new friends since my nomadic days seem to have ended.  Those are the friends that have come into my life within the past four to five years, but with whom I do not share a history of childhood.

This realization created a longing for someone: a person who knew me when I was not a mom, not a wife, not a grown up.  I longed for someone who knew me. 

Of course, the first step in realizing that my ideals of friendship were nonexistent in my life, was self pity.  Woe is me who is lonely and without friends.  Yes, I know: pathetic. It gave me the idea, however, to look up old friends: people who did, once upon a time, know me.  Out came the yearbooks and the Facebook stalking began.  Within a couple hours I had found several old friends, two of which were actually really close friends of mine – I’m not even sure why we never kept in touch!  My first ah-ha moment came from exactly one of these two.  She wrote, “I wish I was as happy as you are. I feel lost at times“.  I quickly learned two things from her comment.  1) She was right: I am truly happy overall.  2) Not moving 16 times across the world and back, does not guarantee a happily ever after in life.

I decided, then, to take a second and less woe-is-me approach to the friendship issue.  I turned to my new friends. They all seemed to be living well adjusted, healthy lives.  What they did not have, though, was a specific one-only go-to person.  Most had several friends – 3 or 4 – whom they could count on day and night.  I was more surprised to find that I was one of those select few.

And here the question was born:  What does it mean to have friends in your adult years?  The new friends I find myself with today, what do we share that keeps us close?

This past weekend I had the opportunity to spend a fair amount of quality time with my friends at Baby W’s first birthday party.  As I was uploading his birthday pictures, I came across one particular shot which brought about my second and final ah-ha moment.  In that shot, my three friends and I shared a moment.  It was nothing an outsider could understand.  It was an inside joke, a shared secret, it was a shared moment.  We were fortunate to have caught it on camera.  I realized that is what makes a friendship in your adult life: sharing moments.  We each have husbands, children, jobs, commitments, and responsibilities.  Our time is stretched taut like rubber band, but in moments that we share, that rubber band gives just a bit, just enough for us to nurture our friendships and create a bond.

I understand now that adult friendships require dedication, time, and a ton of understanding.  We won’t make every dinner party or every kid’s birthday, but we will always put forth the effort.  I also understand now what I lack with some of my past friendships and what I lack with all my online friends are the moments.  I hate to think that there is a person out there who has the potential to share in those priceless moments with me, yet we miss out because of lack of trying.  So I am urging you to reach out to others and make those moments happen.  Don’t just send me a text, call me.  Don’t just send me a message on Facebook, come visit or meet me half way.

Life is too full of those precious, fantastic moments to be wasted virtually..

Logging off.

My BFFs!

Sharing Our Moment

Happy Mother’s Day…to Me

In honor of moms having a relaxing day, I will keep this short:

We have all heard the jokes about what mothers really want for Mother’s Day: a shower without little hands peaking under the bathroom door, a meal eaten while it is still hot and while others are actually eating, and ah-yes – a full night’s sleep!  Jokes aside, though, that’s really what we want!

The clock has just struck midnight so it is officially Mother’s Day, but I can guarantee that those things listed above will not be gifted to me.  In fact, here I am at midnight, bright eyed and awake.  Why?  Because the gift of peace for a mom is non-existent.

Baby G has an ear infection.  It’s the outer ear, so not contagious, but not any less painful.  He is on an antibiotic regimen and on a very strict “no pool” status.  He hates it.  I hate it.  He can’t sleep and with his big brown eyes he begs me to help him get rid of the pain.  Of course, I can’t.  I have done all I can to help alleviate the pain, but until those little drops start kicking in, all I can do is wait and remind him it’s OK.  Right. Like that helps.

It’s more than that – in just writing those three short paragraphs, I had to stop to give Baby W a bottle when he woke up, rock him back to sleep, let a cat out of the house, let another cat back in the house, and get a blanket for Baby G.  This motherhood business is never-ending.  It doesn’t even pause for a day – or a night.

But us moms who are giving it all up – we have something extra special coming our way.  It’s things like these:

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This was from Baby D.  His very awesome teacher sent him home every day this week from school with a different Mother’s Day craft.  Baby D would then proudly present them to me as soon as he walked in the door: “Do you like this, Mamma?  Did I do a good job?”  Of course he did a good job – he did a great job!  The gesture, the craft – it’s pretty nice.  But the meaning behind it – now that is superb.

If it wasn’t for the small things like this one, I wouldn’t be a mom.  If it wasn’t for the fact that I am the only one that can help ease ear pain by just letting you sit in my lap, I wouldn’t be a mom.  If I wasn’t awake at almost 1 am on Mother’s Day ensuring everyone else is content, I wouldn’t be a mom.

So, to all you moms out there who are up in the  middle of the night with a sick child, or a list of chores to finish, or a mind full of worries for your family, or even if you are working that dreaded night shift to support your little ones – my warmest wishes of a happy Mother’s Day go to you.  You will likely not catch much of a break tomorrow, or the day after that: just remember, our job is never ending.

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Now, let me rush back to my camomile Mother’s Day date.

Notice that Baby D drew a small picture of me covering him with an umbrella :)

Baby D drew a small picture of me covering him with an umbrella 🙂

Imagining this world without you

Tonight I had the pleasure of watching the based-on-true-life movie, Philomena.  It was a sad story about one mother’s search for her lost son.  As an Irish teen mother in the ’50s, she was forced into a monastery where the nuns sold her toddler son to an American family.  Fifty years later, with the help of a journalist, she unravels the mystery of her son’s life, only to discover that she was 8 years too late – her son had already passed.  A tear jerk-er, for sure, Philomena was full of social injustices and cruelties, and bouts of religious questioning, particularly for those of the Catholic faith.

After the movie ended, I crawled into bed with The Man and Baby W (yes, at ten months he has yet to leave my bed) but sleep escaped me.  I felt a sudden sadness for this woman, Philomena.  I felt sadness for all mothers mentioned in the movie, in fact.  Imagine going through life without knowing your children – seeing them ripped from your arms and brought into those of a stranger for the keeping.  Think of the audacity of the nuns who allowed it – who profited from it!

So, as I lay holding Baby W in my arms, I tried to imagine what my life would be like without him or his brothers.  It was an almost impossible task, because after-all, they have been ever present in my life for 10 years!  But let’s work back.


Without Baby W – just these past few days he has mastered the “dammi cinque” – Italian for “give me a high five”.  I hold my hand up, say, “dammi cinque” and he laughs as he raises his hand too.  Sometimes he gets too excited and he grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth to kiss it.  Mostly, that involves nuzzling his face in my hand and looking at me through my fingers.  I can see him smiling so big because he knows we are playing out little game.  He also knows, however, that if he follows through correctly and gives me a high five, that I will laugh and hug and kiss him because, to me, it is so amazing to see a little baby learn new tricks – even if it is a simple game of high five.  But, without him, I would have never experienced that…

Without Baby D – he is my sweetheart.  Everyone loves Baby D, and I mean, everyone.  Anywhere we go, we are bound to find a little girl who recognizes him, and with a shy turn of the cheek (girls, you all know what move I am talking about) they whisper a quiet “hello” to him.  I have two choices, therefore: 1)I can lock him in his room until he is an adequate age to bring home a girl (say, 35?) or 2) I can teach him right.  I don’t want him to end up being that weird guy that cannot find a girlfriend because his mom won’t let go of him, so I must opt for the latter option.  So, the other day we were in the car driving from baseball practice and we were talking about etiquette.  Conversations such as these actually occur more often than you might think because boys are nasty, sloppy and gross – and I will do everything in my power to turn them into slightly less inappropriate young men.  I was explaining to Baby D that when he is older and decides to start dating there are certain rules he must follow: he must always offer to pick his date up, he must open the door for his date – all doors, he must offer to pay, and when his date offers to split, he should insist on paying, he should bring flowers, he should call soon after because the waiting game is for those who are afraid of taking risks…I told him all these things, and his simple response was, “I have to do all those things?! It sounds so…committed!” He is seven, for goodness sake.  Committed was not the word I was expecting him to use! But he is a hilarious little boy, with a sense of humor as sharp as his little brain, which is why I am now considering going back to option 1…  But, without him, I would have never experienced that…

Without Baby G – oh, the list here is immense since he brought about so many – indeed most- of my baby firsts.  My fist pregnancy, my first childbirth (yowza, by the way), my first night as Santa, and Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy – so many firsts.  But this means, he is also the first to hit some of the sad milestones.  He will be turning 10 in exactly one week.  Every year I have thrown him a birthday party.  The theme changes yearly and every year I go a little further to make the party a bit more extravagant. Last year it was Godzilla and even the food was in theme from faux sushi rolls to nuclear limeade.  This, year, however, I have nothing to plan.  It was at Baby G’s request that we are not having a birthday party.  He said, “They are lame”.  I swear to you, a part of my heart withered away and died when I heard that.  He is too cool for school.  I don’t have my baby anymore – he has been replaced by a young boy who is itching to become a teen who is itching to become a man.  I am having to face this harsh reality that, as the years pass, he is becoming his own person – and, thankfully, I am helping to mold him.  But, without him, I would have never experienced that…

So why tell you this?  Any parent out there will come to realize this at some point or another:  our children impact our lives.  But it’s much deeper than that.  This just makes me realize what an impact each and every one of us has in this world.  My boys altered my life in a way that I cannot even begin to fathom.  But what about me? How much have I impacted their world – how much have I impacted yours?  My friends – even if I just spoke to you one single time, that one time is forever engraved in your memories.  Sure, you might not think about me all the time – you might never think of me again if we were to never cross paths – but for that one instant, even just that one – I meant something to you.

The same goes for you, too.  Think of the last time we spoke: did we exchange a laugh?  Or maybe, deep down we know that we don’t actually like each other but we both fake it so well (ah, yes, Facebook fans of mine – this shout out goes to you too!)  It is simply incredible to think about the impact we can have on people.

I urge you then, praise yourself – acknowledge your worth and bearing to me and to all others.  Acknowledge your children.  If you don’t have any, consider having some – they are kind of awesome.  If you haven’t seen Philomena, watch it.  The mother doesn’t have the chance to reunite with her son, but she learns that regardless of their distance, she impacted his life just the same and he was closer to home than she ever knew.  Life is just so mysteriously fantastic, but without you – well, I just couldn’t imagine it…



What A Mother of Three Boys Actually Looks Like

I have written posts in the past about what it is like being the mother of three boys:  there are cars, trucks, footballs, dinosaurs, monsters, smelly sneakers, baseball practice, girls shyly knocking on the front door etc.  What I have never talked about before is what it looks like being the mother of three boys.  Let’s start by taking a swan dive into the past, a fourteen year old past:

ImageThat is yours truly, celebrating my sweet sixteenth birthday: pre-marriage, pre-babies, pre-responsbilities!  I find it amazing that Mother Nature makes girls – all of them – truly beautiful.  Young girls have the sweetest smiles and naturally bouncing curls.  Teenage girls, then, have a teasing sass that send teenage boys’ heads spinning. Mother Nature can be so nice.

Then comes marriage and a baby carriage.

Baby G was born when I was still very young – just shy of my 21st birthday.  My slight frame suddenly expanded to make room for that little being I was creating.  After he was born, my body and I had a chat:  I said, “Please be a dear, return to your normal size,” but my body replied, “Silly girl, this is your new normal size!”  And here I am post Baby G:


By the time Baby G turned two, I had managed to trick my body into returning into a semi-decent shape.  After all, I was still merely 23 and Mother Nature sorta-kinda thought I was young girl.

I didn’t wait too long, however, to add to my family: I decided to have another baby.  Baby D was born at the end of my 23rd year.  He was a great baby because he did not make me turn into a bison during pregnancy, but weighed like a bison himself when he was born (almost 9 lbs!).  Within a couple years post-Baby D, once again, my body met me in the middle.


Fast forward a few years, and Baby W is born when I am now 30 years old.  Let me tell you, it’s a different experience having a baby at 20 than it is at 30.  It seemed that one day, I saw the first ultrasound of that little blueberry growing inside me and the next morning, my hips grew 4 sizes.  “Body, this isn’t even possible??” but my body simply replied, “You’re not 20 anymore, Mamma, you’re not 20…”  By the time we welcomed little Baby W to this world, my body had expanded like a mini Big Bang.  In my heart, deep down, I just knew that when I left the hospital I was going to prance home in my skinny jeans and flaunt my awesome bod.  But I lied to myself.  I barely fit into my stretchy yoga pants that coincidentally, never saw a yoga mat.  My belly was still overpowering the boobs – and we all know that’s a sight for sore eyes.  I told myself, “It’s ok!  This is your third baby, you’re thirty, give yourself some time!”

Time has passed by.  Baby W is now seven and a half months old.  He’s all smiles and giggles and – well he’s a boy – so all cars, trucks, footballs, dinosaurs, monsters, and the smelly sneakers, baseball practice, girls shyly knocking on the front door are just around the corner, I can sense it.  My body, however, has not done its part: it hasn’t changed much at all since I brought Baby W home.  Those yoga pants still fit, but thankfully they slide off easily (mostly because I have worn them 5 million times).

I decided to up my morale and shop for some new clothes that fit this body of a mother of three.  One particular dress I bought made me feel like one hot mama – short to accentuate those pretty legs of mine, loose in the top so my still huge boobs were slightly disguised, and paired with my high healed boots, I made it hard for The Man to leave the house without undressing me.  Score!  But as we were out shopping, the absolute worst thing happened.

A little old woman approached my shopping cart and began cooing and sweet talking Baby W.  “Oh he’s so cute, oh he’s so precious, oh the time flies…and when is your next baby due?” What, what, WHAT?  Next baby?  Oh, her eyes were planted straight on my belly, my not so flat anymore belly.  Maybe even on my not so small hips either.  I almost thought she was going to reach over and pat that non-existant baby belly.  Had she, I might have knocked her sideways.  A long trail of thoughts raced through my head: mean comments, how to hold Baby W while I ran the old lady over with my shopping cart, or how my lunch suddenly started regrettably churning in my belly.  But mostly, I thought how hurt I felt.  After all, she was a woman too, I can assume she had children, likely grandchildren, maybe even great grandchildren.  She must have known how her comment was hurtful, insulting, painful.  I just smiled, “No – no more babies. This one marks three boys for me and they make me happy.”  Her face cringed with embarrassment, she muttered an apology and continued with the Baby W compliments.  It was too late. She knew it, I knew it: my feelings had been hurt because someone decided to put a mirror to my face showing me what I already knew: my body at thirty is no longer the body of a 16 year old, or a 21 year old, or a 24 year old.  Things are different now.

The entire drive home I contemplated what the woman must have seen to make her ask about the non-existent baby number 4.  “I won’t eat anything but salad,” “I won’t drink anything but water,” “Gym every day, twice a day!”  But here is the truth: today is Taco Tuesday and my kids love tacos and so do I.  The gym is about twenty minutes from my house and I have laundry to do, homework to help with, children to bond with and a husband to entertain.

It might take a few months or years, but eventually things will shrink back to a somewhat acceptable form.  Maybe they never will, but even that is acceptable.  I will just have to hope that I don’t encounter those people who feel so inclined to assume that mine is a baby and not just an extra curve or two.

So, when you’re out there and you see a woman who you think might be with child, please refrain from making any judgments and comments because you might not be as lucky as the woman was today when she met me.  Next time, even I might run you over with a shopping cart.

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Don’t Catch The Gay

I tend to stick to lighthearted, cute posts about how absolutely adorable my children are.  Plus, we are a week away from Christmas so my posts should most certainly be jolly and reeking of merry spirit.  Just for this once, however, I am going to get serious and, in the process, likely offend a person or two.  So, reader beware.

Very few people out there today have never seen an episode of the latest A&E hit series, Duck Dynasty.  Retail stores are swamped with Duck Dynasty products ranging from bobble-head dolls to car seat covers.  The reality TV show focuses on a Louisiana family  with highly religious and conservative values.  Yesterday, the patriarch of the family, Phil Robertson, made national headlines as news of his GQ magazine interview emerged.  A quick Google search will turn out his direct interview and quotes, saving me time from presenting those details.  But to paraphrase him, being gay is sinful and comparable to adultery, greedy people, swindlers, slanderers etc.  Additionally, homosexual behavior, as he believes, is an open gateway to bestiality and sleeping around. Yowza.  Talk about a bomb shell.  Even for a hit reality show, his comments were bound the have some serious repercussions.  And they did.  A&E suspended Robertson from participation in the upcoming season due to air in January.  Thanks to social media, this news spread like wildfire and both the critics and supporters came creeping out from every corner to put in their 10 cents.  And here am I.

I have read that Robertson being penalized for speaking his mind is an infringement on his First Amendment: the right to free speech and the right to religion.  Then again, I have read that though it was his right of speech/religion, it was also A&E’s right to defend their image.  The question is, then, how far do free speech and freedom of religion carry us?  When does it go too far?  When are our right imposed upon?  Even before Robertson came out with his comments, I have had ample opportunity to discuss gay rights vs. religious beliefs, and just as he stood his ground in his beliefs, I intend on standing mine.

We study history because we hope to learn from it, and not continue to repeat past mistakes.  So let’s jump back in history a bit.  Once upon a time, in this strong country of ours, we had slaves.  Those slaves were eventually freed, but we all know that freed was a superficial term that hardly described many African American experiences.  Today we wouldn’t fathom the idea of telling an African American person they are not allowed to shop in White stores, or eat in White restaurants.  It’s racist.  So why did so many people feel that way just a short while ago?  Pull out your Old Testament.  African Americans were meant to be oppressed, secondary citizens because they were descendents of Ham, whose son, Canaan, was cursed by Noah.  It is divine truth that African Americans are inferior.  Or rather, it was the generally accepted White view then that African Americans were inferior because that excerpt from the Bible was considered more important than other excerpts (say, for example, Galatians 3:28 “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus”.)

While your Bible is out, why not look at Corinthians? “The women should keep silent in the churches.  For they are not permitted to speak, but should be in submission, as the Law also says.  If there is anything they desire to learn, let them ask their husbands at home.  For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church” 1 Corinthians 14:34-35.  Well, go ahead and shut my blog down then and lock me up, because I spoke during mass on Sunday, which I attended without my husband – yikes!

What this shows is that over the course of time, society accepts and interprets religion differently, molding it to fit the betterment of the dominating group in society.  Once, it was the white male.  Today, however, the black male or the female holds just as strong of a voice (or so we hope) as any white male.  We have to find a new guy to pick on so the homosexual community has stepped up to bat.

Correlating this to freedom of speech and religion, however, is where the situation gets tricky.  Greater than the rights that are laid out for American citizens in the Bill of Rights, are a set of universal rights known as Human Rights.  They include the right to life, freedom from torture, from slavery, right to a fair trial, freedom of speech, thought, conscience, and religion.  They also include the right to the respect for a private life which includes the right to sexual freedom, orientation, and gender identity.  These human rights are the basis for all laws and basic human respect.  They are the foundation for “don’t judge me and I won’t judge you”.

One can have the belief that homosexuality is a sin.  One can also have the belief that homosexuality is simply another twist to  Mother Nature’s creation.  Both beliefs are acceptable so long as they do not impose on any other person.  What Phil Robertson did in publicly announcing his severely negative beliefs about homosexuality was advertize and stigmatize those in the homosexual community who are already struggling for equality.  Fifty years ago, the struggling community was comprised of the African Americans and the women.  Fifty years from now comments like those presented in the GQ magazine will be viewed as ignorant as  those that preached that African Americans were divinely inferior beings.

I believe Phil Robertson has the right to believe in whatever he chooses, but he does not have the right to assume that everyone else should abide by them.  A&E made the correct move in taking a stand for those who are being oppressed and stigmatized.  Human rights come before all.

I’ll step off my soap box now.










Being the New Kid on the Block

Let me tell you a little story about being the new kid on the block: it stinks.  We were all the new one at some point.  Our first day of kindergarten or first day at a new job.  Those first hours are exhilarating as you face the unknown.  You sport  a new outfit, maybe even a new hairdo.  The doors to a whole new world open up to you, presenting  unfamiliar faces: potential allies and friends.  The past is a train that has long since departed.  No one knows you.  You can pave the path to becoming a whole different person.  “I am adventurous” or “I am upbeat”.  No one can stop you – but you.

There’s that ‘but’.  That dreaded ‘but’ always gets in the way of an easy life.  With a field of possibilities, what creates this ‘but’?  To explain I have to step back in time.  I was raised in a split world: half of me grew up surrounded by my maternal family – a steady un-altering ground.  The other half lived the military brat lifestyle: most of my school years were spent on military bases and my friends and I moved all the time.  Whoever was my best friend one year could potentially live on the other side of the world the next year.  The advantage to this situation is that now I have friends on literally every single continent.  The disadvantage is that I have friends on every single continent – and our friendships have spread so thin over the years.  But jump ahead a decade or two, and here I am now living in Mississippi and it looks permanent (how did that ever happen…)

I have the innate ability to make friends easily, and the ones I have made here make me a happy person.  Certain thoughts and realizations, however, put salt on an open wound, and that brings me to today.  I am days away from turning thirty years old.  (Sigh.)  Yet once again, I am back in college.  I am working on a second degree since my first has flopped tragically.  Thankfully the years have fared well on my face and, besides the hidden stretchmarks of motherhood, I still look reasonably young.  None the less, there are small details that set me apart from the young college crowd:  my wedding band, the drawings my boys have taped onto my day planner, and the over-sized bag I carry with half my house in tow.  As I write this I am sitting in The Commons, cruel irony considering I feel no commonality with anyone in the room.  One hipster has a laptop covered with propaganda stickers.  A brunette (who, may I add, is fishing way out of her league) is hovering over him flicking her hair to the side as she flirts with the Ron Paul fan.  At another table another couple is bent over a nursing book exchanging notes.  All I can do is ask myself, “What are you doing here?  This is no place for you!  You don’t belong!” Ah! There it is! The “you don’t belong” fear!

We have an option on that first day of whatever it is we are encountering: we can be the wallflower who’s eyes dart quickly from people’s glances, or we can peel ourselves out of that shell of shyness and become known.  Anyone that knows me will say that I have never been, nor will I ever be a wallflower.  I have mastered the skill of becoming the newcomer everyone knows.  I have mastered the ability to make friends with the most difficult people (BE, that would be you!), or those who are even more of a newcomer than I am (OV), or neighbors (SB).  As I unravel my persona – the new one I create for each new friend or the old one that just sneaks out over time, I am still left wondering if I will ever actually belong anywhere with anyone.  Will they ever think “Back in the day with Nicole…”?

Until then, however, I will just be…adventurous; no, upbeat; no, just me…