To-Dos To-Done

While not always the case, there have been a few occasions when resolutions have been a phenomenal influence toward my growth. I have a hard time believing I'll ever outdo this quartet of hopeful promises and its magnificent outcome. There's no reason to try to reinvent the wheel, and I can't run my first race or launch my bachelors degree quest again, but I can set goals (out loud) and accomplish them (out loud) over and over and over again.

Just a few weeks back, I said I would join a book club (and read a book), grow something, and set a fitness goal. 

Done.

After next Saturday's 50k, I'll get back to you with another trio of to-dos. I'm thinking something along the lines of pay library fines, protect tomatoes from squirrels, and nurse sore legs and arse.

History Repeats Itself

I met a friend for brunch today. We are both muddling through the trenches of singledom and have acted as sounding boards for the other off and on for a few months. We spent a good long time chatting about his loves, past and present, and of course, mine came up for more than a few minutes.

I spoke of my inner voice and it's loud proclamation. He smiled and said, "You've said that every time we've spoken since the break up." He's right. I've said it. I've known it. I just haven't been ready to act on it.

Not sure if I am yet or not, but I'm trying.

...and I'm crying.

Again.

Voice of Reason

I deserve better than this.

My inner voice shouted it clear as a bell. I rasied my eyebrows and stood taller.

Strong Jen is back. The Jen who walked away from a dead marriage when she realized she didn't respect the man who promised to be there for her, the Jen who braved returning to school so she could create a better life for herself and her family, the Jen who got hit by a car and ran a marathon eight days later...that Jen...she's back.

I etched the word near my heart for a reason. I knew there would be days when I might not feel strong. We can all use a reminder now and then, and I see it every morning. Some days I believe it more than others. Today I know.

I am worthy of nothing less than magnificent. And if magnificent takes the form of remaining a strong, independent single woman, so be it.

Dead Ends

Five, maybe six inches. Not a lot, right? But symbolic as hell.

I cut my hair. Well, actually, Lori cut my hair. I let her. I was ready for a new style and a new stylist. Half a year (and a proverbial lifetime) had passed since scissors last touched my locks, so the time had come to trim the ends and move forward.

I sat in the chair and let her know I wanted a hairstyle rather than just hair. She pulled out her tablet and showed me a couple of photos -- both fairly short designs -- and I hesitated. She pointed at one in particular and said, "I want to do this." The male stylist next to her agreed that it would look great on me, and I was [mostly] sold.

Hair grows. I've always said that. I used to wear mine Sinead O'Connor short. This shouldn't be a big deal.

But it kinda was.

Not long before our breakup, my tresses came up in conversation. He said something along the lines of how it wouldn't be prudent to give up my length -- and I quickly gave him the stink eye. He then explained that my hair was "so beautiful" and that it was such a part of who I am that it would be hard for him to understand why I would want to dispose of it. Red flags began flapping wildly, if only in my mind.

Flash back seven or so years ago: My (now ex-) husband told me I should not cut my hair short (like it was when we met). Several months later (after he informed me he was done with me), I chopped the fuck out of my locks, which resulted in a comment along the lines of, "I thought I said you should have long hair."  As if I was going to keep my hair for some good-for-nothing asshole? (Hmmmm, might be the whiskey talking now.)

Anyway, as I sat in Lori's chair, prepared for another lame trim and just another version of my middle aged long-ish locks, I sat tall and remembered that it's my turn to serve my own interests. No one else, not even while in the most serious of committed relationships, owns my body. I wanted new hair. I needed an externally visible attitude adjustment.

And I needed to let go of the weight that I was carrying in those dead ends. Shit. I said it. Dead ends.

This morning as I was using a bit less shampoo than I did yesterday, I heard myself singing, You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling. It took me a sec to connect the dots, and it was then that I remembered Mr. X and his strong suggestion that I grow my hair.

So while [many] pieces of me still long for what once was, those inches are history. I have spent the last few months stretching my wings and re-establishing who I am as an individual.  Sure, I realize the short hair is just a symbol here, but the Fuck You that accompanied my abbreviated 'do seven years ago might have more in common with the Hey, Look What I Just Did than I knew when I gave my new stylist the green light to lift that weight off my shoulders.

Friendly Fire

Because I was once a very wise woman with very wise friends...

I wrote this.

And be sure to read the comment. That might be the best part.