But that's not the topic of the day. Today’s topic is pregnancy. In fact, to be honest, this might be the topic for the next 6 months. I have to say though, this was almost beat out by a story I wanted to tell recounting Dan’s interpretation of Lord of the Flies. There’s almost nothing I could tell more interesting than watching the father of my child stalk around the living room in pursuit of death. In a ghastly display of nature versus man, a swarm of flies invaded our house. Dan, being the strong patriarch he is, would not sit for such a thing – even if football was on TV. He rolled up a newspaper and got to the killing. In short order, one of the greatest battles ever fought in our house had come to an end. Amid the carnage and destruction stood Dan, sweating over the dead carcasses of his fallen foes….

But like I said, I’m not going to talk about that. Let’s talk about pregnancy instead. So as many of my loyal readers (of 5) know, I’m pregnant. I know! It’s crazy and mostly unbelievable. My boobs have grown 4 sizes in three weeks and I’m still having a hard time believing it’s real. I’m exiting my first trimester and am firmly into my 14th week. Apparently, I should be celebrating the resurgence of energy and a cessation to the morning sickness that’s plagued me for 6 weeks now.

Let’s talk about morning sickness for a second. First, it might be the biggest lie perpetrated against women, ever. It’s either that the notion that Adam came before Eve. I mean, please. But to the point, morning sickness isn’t contained to the morning. In fact, ALL DAY LONG seems to be fair game for this disease. I understand that some women simply feel nauseous. I happened to be one of the fortunate few who actually vomited, violently, 3-4 times a day. Two weeks ago I found myself weeping in front of the can after losing a not so inexpensive dinner blubbering, “I-I-I don’t think I can do this any more… I’m not good at this at all.” It was a bonding moment between me and the toilet and our relationship is much stronger now because of it.

I’m not sure what the point of this God-sanctioned bulimia is supposed to provide. Is God’s plan to get me closer to the Supermodel experience? I would have been happier being 6’1 and 120 pounds, thanks. Patience, perhaps? Or just the general idea that lots of sickness will be in my future, so I might as well get used to it…

Regardless, and in a great display of irony, I’m still gaining weight like a freight train. OK, I realize I’m having a baby and that’s part of the process. I do. But right now, according the books my baby is the size of a jumbo shrimp. I happen to be the size of a whale. Proportionately, it seems a bit more than necessary.

Anyway, I suppose I should be happy that my schedule if moving from everyday sickness to every other day sickness. Of course, I’m starting to get headaches now too. I wonder when the “joy” of this joyful experience kicks in?

Now, let me get to the story. The story of lately is full of stuff and hopefully, will be an interesting one to tell. But don't get your hopes up folks; we all know the end result of that.

I recently spent almost two weeks in Kauai, Hawaii where I snorkeled in my own private aquarium, hiked the Napali Coast and the Waimea Canyon, sunburned the backs of my legs which prevented me from sitting comfortably for 3 days, and surfed for the first time ever. We got rained on at least once a day but learned to call it a "blessing" and walked whenever possible so I could indulge in Shave Ice daily without guilt. (As a quick aside, I found a Shave Ice hut here in Phoenix last weekend. The guy had signs posted all over his little shop stating I was about to receive, "real Hawaiian shave ice". Thrilled I asked him how he got into the business, thinking he must have been to Hawaii fallen in love with Shave Ice (who doesn't?) and came back home to start his own shop. Instead, he told me he'd never been to Hawaii but while at school in Utah he would frequent a shave ice shop. Deciding he wanted to start his own, he researched the best markets for it and found himself in a little shack in northern Phoenix schlepping syrup covered ice shavings.)

Snorkeling in a place called the Tunnels was quite possibly the most surreal experience I've ever had. I never realized how many fish are actually floating around near your feet while you enjoy the cool rush of water embracing your toes as you get a respite from the sun. But shoving my face into the water (masked of course) right at the shoreline proved to be a surprising experience. Hundreds of fish bounced lazily right at the water's edge, expertly weaving in and out of people's feet. Some looked about intently, waiting for someone to consider feeding them to be a great idea. In fact, at one point, an odd woman with a penchant for rolling up onto her head while sitting on the sand, much like Mork from Ork, did decide to feed them. Ironically, the fish in their frantic attempts to obtain the food bit someone else. Needless to say, Someone Else wasn't very happy.

Tunnels is this intricate weaving of lava rock where 5 feet in one direction will take you over a shallow network of coral and 5 feet in the other will have you hovering over a valley of water and deep caverns full of shadowy, bubbling rock. Hovering way above a bottom that’s blurred by sand particles and rays of sun conjures up images of Jaws in even the most unimaginative. Fish dart and dash among the crags and dance on the current and I try not to blink so I don’t miss a thing. The colors are radiant almost like an accident in a kindergarten class, spilled on the floor and turned into a finger painting event. Fish of all sizes take their turns investigating interesting occurrences among the rocks. The only downfall to this beautiful place is that everyone wants to be there. And who can blame them, really, when it feels like a once-in-a-lifetime experience?

Californians littered the beaches (not literally, Californian’s are generally an environmentally-conscious bunch) and a sense of release fills in the gaps. You can practically see the tension and stress and the need to hurry lift up and off each person and become a question of, “what was I so worried about again?” It was nice. Everyone was happy to be and shared their happiness by allowing others around them to relax as well.

The best part of the trip was surfing. I was really nervous as we drove up to the beach at 8 am. I was certain that I would be eaten or at the very least, injure myself in some embarrassing way. But I didn’t! I actually got up on the first try and I fell in love with the sport. Our instructor was great, a really nice guy originally from Kauai but studying architecture in Oahu during the school year. He was patient and encouraging and cheered me on as I caught wave after (little) wave. Of course, he didn’t remind me to put sunscreen on the back of my legs and after 2.5 hours of surfing, my legs looked like I slept the morning away on a George Foreman. Before I realized my predicament, I predicted I would leave Dan to marry a surfboard. Of course, this whole living in the desert thing really dampens that love affair.

We also took two separate hikes, one in the Waimea Canyon and the other on the Napali Coast. Lost from the start in Waimea, we found a group of women hiking on a trail. After explaining where we wanted to go, they let us tag along with them until they could point out our trail. After 4 hours of walking barely defined trails, staving off starving bugs, and witnessing Nature’s work from the ridge of the canyon, we finally came out of the loop and tiredly climbed back into the car for the 1.5 ride back home. In comparison, the coast trek was by far the most stunning coastline I’ve ever seen. It was a collection of blues and greens so bright it seemed like God put food coloring into the water, just to make it look more interesting. Who knows, maybe he did. But the coastline was etched with reefs that would darken the surface in pockets along the water line. It created a depth and mystery to the water that made me want to fling myself off the ridge top just to see it closer. Wisely, I decided to walk a few miles to get to it instead. But after a 3.5 hour round trip hike, we climbed giant rocks, navigated around mini-waterfalls, and explored caves teeming with little critters.

All-in-all, it was an amazing trip. Even if restaurants capitalized on tourism (really, should sushi in Hawaii be more expensive than in the desert? I think not!), and the one road that (almost) surrounded the island was full of people from the mainland who weren’t all that courteous (until day 3, when the stress started to be relieved), I’m so glad we went and so glad it was the trip it was. Now if I can just figure out how to work and live there so I can afford a ¾ acre piece of land (that’s right, no house) for 2 million dollars. Man, I hope this MBA thing pays off.

OK, granted, he’s studying counseling but I could have sworn that They wanted people to have life experiences before they counseled people. Was that something I heard in counseling? I have no idea.

So here’s the thing, I took the Strong Interest Inventory test and found out that I am an EAR. Yes, an ear. If right now you’re thinking, “Hey, that’s great! You might finally stop talking and start listening!” You suck. But if you’re thinking, “Oh! You’re Enterprising, Artistic, and Realistic.” You’re way smarter than most people I know.

Yes, I’m Enterprising, Artistic and Realistic – surprised? Anyone? I was. Realistic? Come on. You know me better than that.

Oh. Let me give you definitions.

Enterprising: The E type usually has leadership and speaking abilities, is interested in economics and politics and likes to be influential. The E type likes to work with people and ideas more than things.

Artistic: The A type usually has artistic skills, enjoys creating original work and has a good imagination. The A type usually enjoys working with ideas more than things.

Realistic: The R type usually has mechanical and athletic abilities, enjoys working outdoors and likes to work with tools and machines. The R type generally prefers to work with people or things more than ideas.

Reading these definitions can anyone gather why I’m so fucked up? I mean apparently I like to work with people and ideas more than things or is that just ideas more than things? Oh no, It’s people or things more than ideas. WTF?

Regardless the top career listed that I was told I should investigate (though Investigative wasn’t one of my stronger attributes so I’m not sure how I’m gonna work this out): Attorney. That actually makes sense to me – and I’m sure, to my parents. I can’t recall how many times I was told I should be a lawyer. Of course I thought it was a sarcastic response to my need to argue about everything. In fact, is Fucking Lawyer really a profession?

Sure, there were others. I could be a Technical Sales Representative, and Operations Manager, or a Top Executive. I think Top Executive is the job I’m going to apply for though. Who wouldn’t want to be a Top Executive?

OK, so maybe I sound like it wasn’t all that helpful, and believe it or not, 25 or not, it actually was. I mean, I learned a lot about my answers and my need to explain them to complete strangers. I also learned I could make friends easily with other confused, striving-to-define-themselves individuals. I also found that I can ask a potential counselor a lot more questions than he might be prepared to answer about himself during a workshop meant for me. Oh. And the other girl in the class. But mostly for me. Right? I mean….

Right, so I learned a lot. I learned I have to find out more. I learned that I answered this test more like flight attendants than Interior Designers. Though that can’t be right. But Ryan (the 25 year old PhD) said that just means I’d have more in common with Flight Attendants than Interior Designers. Does that mean I’m more likely to condescendingly ask you to remove your headphones during our conversation? Or will I simple have the need to pass out nuts everywhere I go?

All-in-all, it’s another good experience and I’m feeling the heady lightness of knowing I’m doing something about it all – even if I don’t find all the answers at once. I am also going to start asking 25 year olds everywhere what THEY are doing with their lives. Damn it.

If the buzzer were to indicate something positive, I think this could be a useful trick. You know, like my orgasm is ready or it’s time to put the penis in. But I think much like me, my vagina gets bored and the buzzing is really all about needing some excitement before it gets turned off.

I suppose my vagina is fickle. One minute it’s all happy and in love with being a vagina and then all of a sudden it’s angry and pissed off that it’s JUST a vagina. And then dissatisfaction sets in. And then it’s a downhill race of complaints. Like the discontent about being a little bit of an outie vagina. Or that it’s not getting enough attention or adoration or conversation. Or maybe that it hasn’t won awards. You know, public awards. OK, fine. I might as well blatantly state that my vagina is a euphemism for my entire person. It's just a lot more fun to say vagina repeatedly.

My point is really about being itchy. And no, this time I’m not talking about my vagina. It’s just that I want to explore. I want to learn. I want to find my thing, my purpose, my passion. I want to get to know more about everything I possibly can and life seems to have a nasty habit of getting in the way of that. Or at least, the practical side of my brain gets in the way. So maybe I have this awful habit of getting in my way. Shit.

I hate to admit that I might just get interested enough in things not to do anything about it. It’s like the egg timer is really set to distract me from finishing anything. Or to remind me time keeps passing by and I haven’t done anything yet. I’d like to think it’s boredom that keeps me wandering, but if I had to answer honestly, I know that’s not what it is. I just use the egg timer as a good excuse for not figuring it out.

I guess it’s time to turn my vagina on and enjoy the ticking of the clock. There are no overcooked eggs to worry about – there’s just me and my vagina on a life adventure trying to figure it out together. And you know what? It really doesn’t get better than that.

For the last few weeks (and if I were honest here, I'd say for the last few decades), I've really been struggling with my Point or Purpose. I’ve tortured myself in a desperate attempt to define my talents, cried over being overly soft on the skill set, whined that changing careers is impossible without reeducation and generally, found myself depressed at the prospect of trying, again, to find that thing that might be home to the passion in me. I've named it a lack of career focus or Career Aspiration because, well, that makes sense, right? It seems an easy way to package up years full of lingering doubt and uncertainty of where exactly I can supernova in my universe. It also seems to be how a statistician would package it. I'm American, I’m female. I am part of a single letter generation (X? Y? I’m not sure), I feel entitled to titles without earning them, I spend at least a third of my waking life at work, I define myself by the work I do, I commute an average of 30 minutes a day and I’ll probably wait until all my eggs are dead before I attempt to have kids.

But I digress.

For the last more than a few years I’ve been told to read What Color Is My Parachute as it supposedly addressed many of the questions I’ve persistently pursued. I’ve had it on my book shelf for as long as it’s been referred and every once in a while, in the throes of some work upheaval or a particularly annoying day full of retarded email or Dumb Questions people keep telling me don’t exist, I’d take it off its perch, thumb through it in a half-hearted attempt to make a change and put it back once the wave of job dissatisfaction passes.

Here’s the thing. I have read it this time. Well, OK, not all of it. But I’m reading it. Here’s the more annoying thing. It really does address all those stupid questions I’ve been suffering through all this time. Seriously. And you know what? All I can say is WHAT THE F?! This guy has taken my suffering and pain and made millions of dollars by writing about it. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s taken pages straight from my journal and pasted it into chapters 4 and 5. What a jerk. Worse, I can’t even take this life experience and profit from it because he’s already done it. Now what am I supposed to write about? Thanks a whole hell of a lot Richard Nelson Bolles.

Actually, I don’t hate him. But I do think his sense of enthusiasm about his approach is optimistic. A huge aspect of his method includes networking. Sure, that works great if people actually think you’re worth referring. But what if they don’t? What if people think like I do in my pool of pity and party of self doubt, “Yeah, she’s great but what exactly can she do?” Take THAT Mr. Bolles. Bet you haven’t had to deal with cynicism like that before. Unless you really are reading my journal, in which case, I’m sure this is covered in a chapter I haven’t read yet.

Regardless, I’m still reading. And I’ve got ideas. I’ve got dreams. I’ve got things ‘a brewin’ as They say. These things are encouraging and if not to me, then maybe to the 4 of you that read this and are patiently waiting for me to change topics.

I’m still not quite ready to take the risk to make it happen. I’m wading in the daydream and distressed about my relationship with time and impatience. But I’m struggling with the question, “Can I really be happy being poor?” Sadly, I can’t easily answer that. Do I really have to be poor to be unhappy? Can’t I just immediately become famous or awesome or expert at whatever I try next? Can’t God simply send a memo to the world and let them all know I rule?

My father once told me (as I’m sure father’s everywhere do), “You can do anything you put your mind to.” I always took that to imply that you had to find that one thing to occupy your mind. Maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe he should have said, “You can do everything you put your mind to.” And maybe it’s just time to start.

What I wouldn’t give to have a tangible skill or a deliverable that is concrete. Like, I wish I was a dentist. Dentist’s go into work every morning and know they are going to look in mouths, fill some teeth, poke some gums, remind you how important it is to floss (again). Sure, they might have a high depression rate from all the mercury they huff, but still. They know what they do day-to-day. Life is predictable. Their work is predictable. Maybe there are rare days when someone comes in with an emergency cavity or bleeding gums. And maybe that throws off the schedule, but that’s about as hectic as it gets.

But I don’t have mad dental skillz. I’m left with the soft skills. Sure, I can talk to people. I have “excellent communication skills”, I can be “flexible”, a “team player”, or a “fast learner” but what does all that give me when I don’t have an MBA or my mom to vouch for me?

Now that we agree I have these things (ahem), how do I SELL these things?

Honestly, maybe I don’t care about selling these things. I’m sure this is just another tangent in my quest to find My Thing. But while searching, I would still like to figure out what my marketable skills are – and maybe that will lead me down the path to discovering it.

I’ve had two distinct pieces of advice offered to me recently. The first was to ask God for direction – and if I keep myself open to what is offered, the right path will be revealed to me. But how do you know when God speaks? For example, last night, I very clearly said, “God, can you let me know which direction I should be taking here?” and nothing. No spark of realization, no epiphany, no burning bush. And now my mom has her prayer group praying for me (thanks, Prayer Group!) I think I’m going to ask her to make sure she keeps the lines open.

The other was a bit less, well, ethereal. In fact, it would be practical if it weren’t so elusive. I was told to find my passion and then, even more importantly, find the environment that allows me to embrace my passion and make use of it. Ahhh… ok, first, the ever annoying “find your f’ing passion” comment. OK. Right. I get it. I’m supposed to find what I love to do. I’m trying, OK? I’m looking. I’ve identified soft skills. That’s a start. But! BUT! This is the first time I’ve had someone acknowledge that the place you’re in has to appreciate your passion for your passion to grow – and that’s not just any place – it’s got to be the right place.

Great. Now I have two questions I need to answer – what is my passion and where can I share it? But for some reason, I feel closer to it somehow as if knowing that the place it needs to live is just as important as the birthing of it. That means it’s a combination of things that make it work – it’s not just me or something I’m doing or not doing that I don’t know about that will make it all come together. And for some reason, that relieves me greatly.

And while I search for yet another answer, I’m gonna get hard. Or at least think hard. And who knows, maybe even realize that soft isn’t so bad after all.

OK, maybe he didn’t DECIDE to fall so much. But he did it with enough conviction that he couldn’t be put back together again. That’s gotta count for something.

I’ve always been good with my sense of balance and Lord knows I love standing on top of things and checking out the view. Some say I’ve turned the act into an art. And after years of rigorous practice and intense focus, I would confidently call myself a professional Fence Sitter.

Some of you out there may read that and judge me. If so, quit that. You know who you are and you’ve done it too. But I admit it. I spend a lot of my life straddling decisions. I like to call this the ‘Gathering Information’ phase. Mostly, because it makes me feel better about this process I go through. Yeah, I will ask questions, ask more questions, consider options, and then some other options, talk about the options, share my thoughts about those options with others, pine over outcomes, harness every outcome I can, future trip – with a full luggage ensemble trailing behind me, wonder if I’m doing the right thing, if there is a right thing and then, when I really need to make that decision, still be confounded about which direction to choose.

My friend loves to tell me I have one foot in everything but both feet are cold – and that I just need to jump in with both feet and see what happens. Maybe she’s right. I think somewhere along the way I learned that by not committing to any one thing, I could partially commit to all things. Or maybe that’s how I like to dress it up and I am just terrified of commitment. The irony of course, is that I’m acting committed. I’m doing all the committed things, I’m just thinking non-committed thoughts. You know, just in case. And in my 7 years of collecting elective courses (what?), I called this the Hummingbird Approach. I mean, c’mon. The world is full of pretty flowers, how could I choose just one?

This approach was great for a career undergrad and it worked out really well for man-jumping through short term relationships where someone (uh, him) always smelled of soup or laughed a bit too much like Howdy Doody. Most importantly, it’s done wonders for my artistic expression. Seriously, I love being tortured by the act of deciding. It’s slightly healthier than a drug addiction and it creates great self absorbed writing material. But I think at some point, ya just need to take a chance, right? You just need to say, I’m gonna risk this and see where it leads me. And man, I love that idea.

Don’t get me wrong. I do make decisions. I do it all the time. In fact, I’m almost spontaneous about the decision. For example, it took me MONTHS of torturous second, third, and fourth thoughts to decide to move to Arizona. But finally I just said, “fuck it” without having any saner or more sensible reason to do so. And here I am, melting in the sun. So really, it’s just the process of deciding that takes me a long time. It’s going through the rigamarole, navigating the obstacle course of choices, and hoping some divine intervention will find me worthy of The Message that will set me on my true course.

It’s true, I’m still waiting for God to provide me the path and I have a lot of faith that he’ll be coming to me in some form soon. Just so you know, I tend to walk slowly by bushes – just in case. Until then, I think I’m going to employ some other decision making techniques. I’m making a concentrated effort to live my life by the toss of a coin, by instinct, by faith, and by hope. I don’t know about you, but I’m excited to see where this leads me.

I have nothing in common with George Michael - though I wish I could be more like him. No, I don't want to be found in a public restroom investigating a glory hole, but I do want to have faith.

Having spent much of my life anticipating it, I’ve found that I try to control the outcome of, well, everything. I’m sure there’s a deep seeded psychological reason for it based in fear. Most issues are, right? Right? But the truth is, I think it’s because I lack faith.

Faith has the power to remind us that we can handle any situation. I mean, I’ve lived through stuff. I’ve proven I can survive disappointment, heartbreak, a father’s backhand. I’ve had bad bosses, bad boyfriends, bad roommates. I’ve dealt with broken homes, broken cars and break ups. I’ve had pets die, friends die, family die…. So why am I convinced that I need to prevent it or manage it or control it all before it happens? Is it a vain attempt to prevent some possible pain?

Sometimes, before I go to sleep, I close my eyes tightly and ask the Universe to show me its will. I lay there capitulating to the Universe, trying to offer myself up to whatever I’m supposed to learn. But I’m a liar and the Universe knows it. What I really want is to have the Universe take care of me and make everything better and make it easy. What I really want to ask is, “How can I get what I want?” or “How can I win the lottery?” Not, “Will you reveal your will?” I even bargain with it, in my head. Not unlike a 4 year old child who really wants a last story read to her, actually, “Universe, I promise I’ll learn this lesson if you just read ONE more story….” The irony is, My Universe is reading the story, I just happen to be the main character and can’t see yet, where the story is going.

I want to believe there’s something good waiting for me. I want to believe there’s something good happening for me *right now*. I want to believe that there’s a lesson waiting to be learned and there’s a lesson I’m learning as I type. I want to believe that there is a power greater than myself taking care of things so I don’t have to. I want to say, as Carrie Underwood sings, Jesus Take the Wheel. OK, I watch American Idol and I don’t really care if it’s Jesus who’s driving – I don’t even know if he’s a good driver. But I want to believe he is and that he might even be better at it than I am even if there were no such things as cars when he was alive.

I just want to believe: in something, in someone, in you, in the beat, in the children being our future, that when you fall in love it will last forever, in what your heart is saying, I can fly, that I’m walking on air and feel so fre-e-e, that for every drop of rain that falls a flower grows, that you and me can turn a whisper to a scream, and the angels listen, god hears us pray. Most of all, I want to believe when someone claps a faerie lives. Damn it.

I think it’s time to start shaking it, whatever the IT is that makes Faith real. I need to start looking in those places the lucky devout find it. The soapbox, the rock, the hill, the mount. I want to go to the Church of Unshakable Faith and judge and pity the world around me for not being blessed by God but feel fucking incredible KNOWING I’ll be saved. I want to feel sad for those without God’s presence and ye of little faith. Hell, I’ll pray at the Church of Elvis and wiggle what God gave me if I can find harmony in the rhythm of the world.

Faith is all I want. Universe, when you get a second, could you tell me that story?

I can still look down at my hands and be amazed that they belong to me. I can’t quite get past the idea that I am in me. I am, enthralled at the idea that I have this physical part that is connected to my mental part and it does what I want it to (most of the time) when I think it. It’s like I have a movie camera mounted on my shoulders and I have this incredible ability to capture the most surreal aspects of an every day occurrence and blur it just right or spin it this way or that to capture something. A truth, a look, a fantasy….

And I’ve been watching a lot lately. This isn’t different than most times except that this theme keeps recurring. I want to know what exactly is that me part that drives the me-you-see part? I want to know how to define the director in me. What AM I? Who AM I? What’s the point?

A part of me knows I’ve been asking this since kindergarten. But I never got the answer so I keep asking.

I asked a good friend of mine recently, a friend who is very ambitious high powered career man, how he defines himself. He works 16 hour days. He has a family. He doesn’t sleep well. He drinks an exorbitant amount of coffee daily. While reflecting in a way that showed he was trying to come up with something good, he said he does non-profit stuff and that’s really what satisfies him. And in a very magical series of words, he tried to convince us that the job he spent 16 hours a day dedicated to, the job he neglects his family for, the job he sacrifices his body, his relationships, and his health for, is only a means to an end. A means by which he’ll help house orphaned children.

I love the idea. I love the good idea that it is a means to an end. But how much do we sacrifice for that end? And if we lose everything along the way, does the end actually justify the means? Maybe it’s OK to simply say, “I’m defined by my job. I love what I do. I am a XYZ and this is what I feel I’m meant to do” Maybe it's OK to say, “everything else is less important to me.” Maybe it will be possible to look back years and years from now and say, “Man, I wish I would have made that meeting. That meeting may have made all the difference…”

I’m conflicted. I want to know at what point are we more than what we do for a living. I can’t recall how many times upon meeting someone the first of the three questions asked is, “what do you do?” And there’s no need to explain the question. Most people answer directly about work (or look appropriately uncomfortable depending on their situation) and provide the summary of the resume. And it’s accepted. This is what we are – this labor we dedicate to our economy. And our value is assessed by how much money our time costs. You’re an engineer you say? Oh, you must be worth X hours per week. You are probably more valuable than me in the grand scheme of life….

But what if we have no other answer? What if someone says, “what do you do?” And there’s nothing to say? There’s just a blank stare and an uncomfortable shifting of weight and an unspoken plea to get passed the question and onto other topics of insignificance? What if there’s nothing to fill the gap and that you actually are nothing unless you do something?

And that’s where I wonder. I think it’s true. We are nothing unless we do something. But the question becomes, what do we have to do to be worthy or valuable or interesting or acceptable? Do I have to work for someone else? Do I have to have a cool job? Do I have to make money? Do I have to make a difference? Can I simply do things? Explore things? Wonder about things? Create things? Be passionate?

So Who AM I? I keep asking the question and the answer keeps changing, so I probably should. But when the question is asked, who do you think I am? And at the end of the day, whose answer is important?

I wonder if it will hurt.

I wonder what I'll think about.

I wonder what you'll be doing.

I wonder if I can change.

I wonder if you can.

I wonder if I could ever not be afraid.

I wonder if I could take a chance.

I wonder if I could tell you what I was thinking. Really.

I wonder if I could show you.

I wonder if you'd be brave, or happy, or angry, or sad.

I wonder if you knew all the secrets, the dark ones too, if you'd still want to know.

I wonder if things were different, where would they be.

I wonder how about a lot of things. I wonder if you do, too.

I wonder why I can't feel sometimes.

I wonder why I can't remember sometimes.

I wonder how long I'll feel your hand on my back.

I wonder in the power of the pinky swear.

I wonder if I'll start a fight, just to end it.

I wonder if I love the tumultuousness of things enough to create it where it's not.

I wonder how long we can sit in silence and pretend.

I wonder how many times I'll ask myself.

I wonder how many times you'll ignore it.

I wonder where we are going.

I wonder if you wonder that too.

I sat there and waited for a minute. I let the sun dry my feet. I shook the lake off and watched the fish swim away, happy that the disturbance was over. I was my own hero today. I saved the disc, all by myself. But a part of me wishes I was still waiting on the hill.

Alright, so I have an over inflated sense of my hilarity and a healthy belief in my relative good lookingness. I mean, when I purse my lips while looking in the mirror and cock my head just so and tuck in a bit or two this way and that, I'm fucking gorgeous. Smoldering hot, even. Pictures might not reveal it nor will a camera of any kind actually capture it, but trust me, it's there. Besides, I hang out at the International House of Pancakes frequently enough to know there are some freakin' ugly folks out there. Or maybe I should call them beauty disabled. Attractively challenged? Regardless, up until now, I thought I was dealt a strong hand. Maybe not the winning hand, but a hand that would keep me in the game. Now I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that I might not be so cute after all. First sign, when asked how you look, your friend responds by telling you your outfit looks like “you” and can’t explain what “you” means.

OK, so if cute were all attitude, I'd be a supermodel. I mean, I have attitude. I have lots of that. But I'm guessing it has less to do with 'tude and more to do with symmetry, big eyes, a penchant for vomiting after eating and a drug addiction or two. Oh, and The Walk. If there's one thing I learned on America's Next Top Model, it's the walk has to be fierce to sell it. At last count, I'm definitely missing at least 4 of the top 5 things that would make me sexy. I'll let you decide which one.

And then there's hilarity. I think I have to come to terms with the idea that if no one else laughs, it just might not be funny. I mean sure. I can double over with mirth at the fact that it just, you know, sounds funny. For example, last night someone suggested a plastic rubber bit looked like a womb innard. I mean, she said womb innard. That's funny! Who says 'womb innard'? Ever? But blank stares might be an indication that all isn't so humorous after all and that what I see as uproarious might not be so universal. Sure I can sit here and think to myself, "dude. you just don't get it." But at the end of the day, if I'm laughing by myself, am I really laughing?

Finally, I'm old. Fuck. When did that happen? This is truly a surprise. I was shocked, like most, when 32 had me sliding down the wall and body parts in various places got stuck up or down in ways I couldn't imagine. But it was last night that drove it home. After a night out among a throng of 20-somethings, I now know that I'm old. Watching children, yes, kids, gyrating to songs mixed with the formative songs of my youth in a new, hip and oh-so-urban way proves it. Suggesting I "do the Molly Ringwald" and receiving uncomprehending looks, also a sure sign. Being the oldest person in the room and looked at as a potential MILF, totally disturbing. Even more disturbing? Hoping and wanting to be acknowledged at least as a MILF even if I don’t have children. Waiting for the night to end just so I can get home and pet my dogs and stop yelling, "woo" at the top of my lungs... all signs of old.

I'm beginning to realize that I've been making my friends an accomplice to my delusion and that might not be such a good thing, after all. So if I ask you, "how cute am I?" or "am I hilarious or what?" and I'm not, for the love of God, let me know. Help me see the reality of my world and put me in my place. Really, you'll be doing us all a favor.

Then there's the rock star or members of the band. These are the people that actually write and play the songs. They run in their new shoes, the paint on canvas, they build with their materials, and beadazzle where ever possible. These are the people who do.

I have spent a lot of time in my life dreaming of being the rock star, but collecting the gear like the roadie and I think it's time to start playing the music.