I am officially the big three-oh. Honestly it doesn’t feel much different than twenty-nine. Some little things that have happened since my birthday have set me off a bit. For example, I watched the movie Baby Mama in which the main character has to hire a surrogate to carry her baby because, at thirty-seven, she is unable to conceive. A week ago I would have seen the character’s age as nearly a decade more than mine. But now at thirty, it is as if we are peers, and her plight could soon become mine. Plus I realized that I will have to check the “30-35” box when my demographic information is collected, and that just stings. But these are just little twinkles of frustration that pass quickly as I remind myself that I have decided that thirty is going to be my best year yet. It certainly can’t be worse than twenty-nine.
All-in-all I had a pretty great birthday. It started off early when I went to my favorite restaurant, Zoë on Friday. When I told the bartender I would be celebrating my birthday that weekend, he surprised me with a scoop of gelato with a candle in it. It was coconut, which I don’t usually like, but this one was delicious. It was so sweet of him, and it reminded me why that is one of my favorite places to go.
Because my actual birthday was on a Tuesday, I had my celebration on the Saturday prior. A dozen of my friends joined me for dinner at Spitzer’s Corner on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Another seven joined us for drinks after dinner at a bar called The Skinny. We had a big communal table for dinner, and a private area at the bar, so everyone was able to mingle and chat. I have several different groups of friends and I love when they can meet and interact. A couple friends came bearing gifts, which was a huge surprise and I was very thankful.
Despite being surrounded by such a large group of great friends, it was a little bittersweet. This may come off as really trite and ungrateful, but in the moments as we left the restaurant I thought to myself, “I would trade all these friends for one person who thought to tell the waitress it was my birthday so she would have sent over a little dessert.” It’s not that I wanted the sweets or for the whole restaurant to bust out a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” It was just a bit of a realization (one that I’ve felt often in the bustle of New York City) that amidst the crowd, I was alone.
Growing up I was never the kind of person who needed a huge circle of friends. My mom always thought it was weird when, as a child, I would have only one really close friend at a time: Sara, Devon, Erika, Lindsay, Becky, Erica. When one of us would change schools, or if we had a falling out, I would eventually find a replacement. When I got to high school and discovered boys, my one-track devotion often turned to the guys I dated. I was not part of any clique in high school. My (mostly male) friends were all very different from each other and not really friends with each other, like spokes on a bicycle, with me as the axis. Yet I was fiercely devoted to these individuals in rotating succession.
One prime example of this stands out to me to this day. In the spring of my junior year, I turned down an invitation to prom from a guy friend of mine because the girl who I considered my best friend at the time disapproved. Later that summer, she and I had a big fight. At the time, I had summer job working with the guy who’d asked me to prom and we had gotten very close. I realized that my ex-best friend’s opinion had really clouded my judgment, and immediately after the fight with my girlfriend I let the guy know I had been interested in him. We were together until I went off to college over a year later. To this day I still consider my relationship with my “high school sweetheart” to be the easiest and most successful I’ve had. But even with him, our relationship was pretty much the only one I needed.
I think it’s pretty common for couples to “drop off the face of the earth” and enter their own little world of two. I don’t really know what co-dependence is, but I’d have to think it’s something along those lines. I have tried to learn over time how to balance aspects of my romantic relationships, friendships and my Self, but it a struggle. I am a passionate person, and when that passion endears me to another, I focus in on that individual and give them my all.
For a time in college I became somewhat of a serial monogamist. I would stay in a relationship well past its expiration date, until someone new caught my eye. I would quickly end the first relationship and jump headfirst into the next. I think this stemmed from the fact that I was shy in relationships and did not want to stir up drama. So if something annoyed me, I would let it fester until I was so bothered that I was ready to move on. I knew it was not healthy and by the end of college had broken the pattern. However, now I have been told I am “brutally honest,” which I think is a good thing because I am putting my feelings out there. However, I have had my heart broken every time I’ve worn it on my sleeve.
In sharp contrast to my somewhat shy, loner childhood, I decided to join the Alpha Chi Omega sorority during my freshman year of college. I hoped that this group of girls would help me in part be able to develop better friendships with women and also have a group of friends to rely on, rather than one individual. It turns out that is exactly what happened. While the guys came and went, and as I developed friendships with various groups of people across campus, my sorority sisters were the one constant in my life. It is because of them, I think, that I gained any sense of confidence in social settings and interpersonal relationships. It is many of these women, some who live in New York and some who are scattered across the country, whom I still consider my dearest friends today. In fact, now that I think about it, the three AXOs who were at my party were the same guests who came with gifts in hand.
Given that my party was a few days before my big day, I had been really worried about how I would spend my actual birthday. I didn’t want to pester everyone who came out on Saturday to go out again on that Tuesday. Luckily, two of my best girlfriends here in the city were away on weekend trips the day of my party, so offered to take me to dinner on the seventh. It was a huge relief to me, to know I would not be wallowing alone on the sofa with my two cats on my thirtieth birthday.
The three of us went to a cute wine bar called Terroir in the East Village and sat at the bar. When we finished our meal, my one friend made a huge scene, having me pick out a dessert and telling the bartender very blatantly that it was my birthday. That totally made my day, and made me feel like an asshole for thinking what I did at my party on Saturday. Maybe everyone in the group of 13 assumed someone else would say something. Who knows. In any case, by the time I was blowing out the candles on my desserts, I had reverted back to my optimistic approach to being thirty.
In addition to my two evening get-togethers, I had many other occasions to feel blessed. On my birthday, my boss picked up a fruit torte and gathered the office together for a mid-afternoon fête. Throughout the week I received and overwhelming number of phone calls, e-mails, packages & gifts, e-cards and greeting cards from friends and family. I had about 50 messages come into my Facebook inbox or posted to my wall. For this latter surge of birthday wishes I was pleased for entirely kooky reasons. As an admitted Facebook addict, I had set (and reached) the random goal to have four hundred Facebook friends by my birthday. I also hoped that on that day, ten percent of my friends would write to me. I don’t know why exactly. Perhaps it harkens back to the notion of feeling alone in a crowd. Maybe I just need to feel connected.
On my thirtieth birthday, I definitely felt connected. The love poured in from across the country in forms electronic, tangible and physical. I am blessed to know more than 400 people – old friends, new friends, friends who aren’t even on Facebook, and of course family – who care about me and support me. I may not have seen some of them in half a lifetime, but I think our shared experiences connect us by gossamer threads across time and place. And for that I am truly, and forever, grateful.
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Friday, April 10, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
About this blog (Introduction)
As an angst-filled teen, and later as a Literature major in college, I wrote quite a bit of poetry. I enjoyed stringing words together, creating lyrical turns of phrase and evoking emotion and imagery. Lines of poetry would come to me in flashes, in the shower or while walking to class. I would carry a journal with me to scribble these fleeting thoughts down to later expand into a full verse.
In the years since, I have scarcely put pen to journal page. One day last year, my Gram asked me if I still wrote poetry, and it rather shocked me to have to respond, “No.” I still list it on my resume as an interest, but in reality I had not been inspired to write in quite some time. It was like my life was on Prozac: flat, listless, content with just getting by on an even keel. It seemed that the highs of first love and lows of first heartbreak had been lost. It shamed me to be leading an uninspired life.
At one point after my husband left me, I was suddenly struck with a flash of inspiration. In a single, crystal clear moment, I had a notion that I could develop into a poem. I was walking home from the bus after work one day, and had a bottle of water in my hand. As the wind blew over the top of the bottle, it made a low, plaintive whistle. That sound seemed to precisely mirror the howl that was building up inside me. This first metaphor stopped me in my tracks. Over the weeks more came, and I grew used to the idea that it was alright to feel the pain brought on by my situation and even more so to find some joy in life.
One day I was wandering the East Village of New York City. I had grabbed a bite to eat at a vegetarian pub (yes, New York has everything) aptly named Kate’s Joint. As I left the pub, I realized a friend I hadn’t seen in years lived nearby. I thought why not stop by since I was literally “in the neighborhood?” I popped into the bar next to her house where I knew she was a regular and asked the manager if she was around. He said he’d just seen her go into her apartment, next door, and dragged me over to her building. He shouted her name through her open window, and she welcomed me in.
Her friend, a poet and bookstore owner who I’d heard much about over the years, was in town from Buffalo for a poetry reading. As we drank wine, and the poet rolled cigarettes on her knee, we talked about men and life and poetry. I told her, “I am just getting my fragments back,” and she understood what I meant. She read us a poem she had written that day, and I felt a warm sense of being at the right place at the right time.
These chance encounters – my Gram’s question, meeting the poet – have germinated in me for several months. As I begin to process all that has happened to me over the last year (or five or thirty years for that matter), I feel the need to put all those experiences and emotions into the written word. My goal is to reevaluate my life and transform it into an inspired, fabulous, love-filled one. So “From Nerdy to Thirty” is the story of how I hopefully accomplish that as a single, thirty year old woman.
Perhaps it’s self-serving. Maybe it’s vindictive. Hopefully it is therapeutic for me in some way, and ideally will provide some insight to others. I am a bit nervous opening up my life to the world, and I hope that the stories I share do not embarrass those involved in them. It is my intent to tell the events of my life honestly, as I remember them occurring. I may not tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but the version of the truth as seen through the filter that is my slightly off-balance brain.
I don’t think anyone involved (with one glaring exception) will be painted in a bad light. Just in case, I will use pseudonyms for the majority of the characters in this story. My ex-husband, for example, I have given the moniker “James” because he drinks Jameson. His son, who was named after him, I will call “Jamie.” It may be a bit confusing to follow at first for anyone who knows me, but I think it is the best solution.
It is my ultimate dream to have my story published, as a memoir, and maybe even end up on Oprah’s sofa. I know my story is not entirely unique, but I hope it is one worth telling. For now I am posting my chapters in a blog format. The feedback I receive is invaluable and will shape the story as it evolves. So I invite you to read, enjoy (or don’t!), and comment!
In the years since, I have scarcely put pen to journal page. One day last year, my Gram asked me if I still wrote poetry, and it rather shocked me to have to respond, “No.” I still list it on my resume as an interest, but in reality I had not been inspired to write in quite some time. It was like my life was on Prozac: flat, listless, content with just getting by on an even keel. It seemed that the highs of first love and lows of first heartbreak had been lost. It shamed me to be leading an uninspired life.
At one point after my husband left me, I was suddenly struck with a flash of inspiration. In a single, crystal clear moment, I had a notion that I could develop into a poem. I was walking home from the bus after work one day, and had a bottle of water in my hand. As the wind blew over the top of the bottle, it made a low, plaintive whistle. That sound seemed to precisely mirror the howl that was building up inside me. This first metaphor stopped me in my tracks. Over the weeks more came, and I grew used to the idea that it was alright to feel the pain brought on by my situation and even more so to find some joy in life.
One day I was wandering the East Village of New York City. I had grabbed a bite to eat at a vegetarian pub (yes, New York has everything) aptly named Kate’s Joint. As I left the pub, I realized a friend I hadn’t seen in years lived nearby. I thought why not stop by since I was literally “in the neighborhood?” I popped into the bar next to her house where I knew she was a regular and asked the manager if she was around. He said he’d just seen her go into her apartment, next door, and dragged me over to her building. He shouted her name through her open window, and she welcomed me in.
Her friend, a poet and bookstore owner who I’d heard much about over the years, was in town from Buffalo for a poetry reading. As we drank wine, and the poet rolled cigarettes on her knee, we talked about men and life and poetry. I told her, “I am just getting my fragments back,” and she understood what I meant. She read us a poem she had written that day, and I felt a warm sense of being at the right place at the right time.
These chance encounters – my Gram’s question, meeting the poet – have germinated in me for several months. As I begin to process all that has happened to me over the last year (or five or thirty years for that matter), I feel the need to put all those experiences and emotions into the written word. My goal is to reevaluate my life and transform it into an inspired, fabulous, love-filled one. So “From Nerdy to Thirty” is the story of how I hopefully accomplish that as a single, thirty year old woman.
Perhaps it’s self-serving. Maybe it’s vindictive. Hopefully it is therapeutic for me in some way, and ideally will provide some insight to others. I am a bit nervous opening up my life to the world, and I hope that the stories I share do not embarrass those involved in them. It is my intent to tell the events of my life honestly, as I remember them occurring. I may not tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but the version of the truth as seen through the filter that is my slightly off-balance brain.
I don’t think anyone involved (with one glaring exception) will be painted in a bad light. Just in case, I will use pseudonyms for the majority of the characters in this story. My ex-husband, for example, I have given the moniker “James” because he drinks Jameson. His son, who was named after him, I will call “Jamie.” It may be a bit confusing to follow at first for anyone who knows me, but I think it is the best solution.
It is my ultimate dream to have my story published, as a memoir, and maybe even end up on Oprah’s sofa. I know my story is not entirely unique, but I hope it is one worth telling. For now I am posting my chapters in a blog format. The feedback I receive is invaluable and will shape the story as it evolves. So I invite you to read, enjoy (or don’t!), and comment!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Chapter 1: From Nerdy to Thirty
Around this time last year, my twenty-ninth birthday was approaching, and I realized that meant thirty loomed close on the horizon. I began to think about the state of my life and what I could do to improve it. While my life at the time was seemingly stable, there were kernels of unease, malaise, insecurity, and latent ambition that left me wanting change. With that in mind, I set out to improve myself and my life. I set up a blog, made concrete plans, and for about three months stuck to them. This is the story of how, a year later, I am still searching for that change. Reading my first blog post takes me back to where I was a year ago:
Looking back on this entry, I am both refreshed by my optimism and crushed by my naïveté. Perhaps one of the unspoken reasons behind my desire to change was caused by a narcissistic husband who, in an effort to offset his own insecurities, would do his best to belittle me. James (a moniker I have given him for this narrative because he liked to drink Jameson) would regularly tell me that he was, essentially, better looking, smarter, and thinner than me; that his friends and family were more supportive than mine; and that I was basically lucky to be with him.
The vows we wrote and recited at our wedding in September 2007 were three promises we would make to the other. Mine to him were:
I promise to always support you in your dreams;
I promise to always hold you when you have a bad dream;
and I promise to always try to be the woman of your dreams.
I have to think that my promise to always try to be the woman of his dreams means that I knew deep down that I inherently wasn’t. I know now for certain that I could never live up to his impossibly high, ever changing standards. And yet in February of last year, I set out to do just that. I told myself, of course, that I was doing it for me. In a way I was, as an effort to save my already failing marriage rather than admit it was doomed from the start. Our honeymoon period had ended about three days into the honeymoon, and the following months were a struggle. I chose to focus on the good times, and not dwell on the battles. I had made vows (in front of a pastor, no less!) and I intended to keep them, for better or for worse. It just sucked that there was so much worse.
After deciding to change my life for the better, I set up some ground rules as to how I was going to accomplish my big change.
Come April 7, I was facing a challenge and some very hard truths. I figured one of the easiest rules to abide by would be number two. It was also one of the issues that resulted in much of the conflict between us. So I viewed my birthday as a bit of a last hurrah.
James' birthday was in fact the day before mine, so we had a joint birthday party. Of course his friends are based in Long Island and Queens, and mine are based in Manhattan, so to encourage everyone to come, we held the party in western Queens. At this point, I was still making up for the fact that so few of his friends had been able to attend our wedding in Chicago, so encouraging their attendance at any event we held was my way of trying to make that up to him. (We had even had a local party following our wedding, so that he could celebrate with his friends. One of his best friends couldn’t even be bothered to show up to that event!).
From: Katie
To: Recipients Surpressed
Date: Fri, Apr 4, 2008 at 11:07 AM
Subject: Katie & James' Birthday Party!
Hey All,
We're getting older. (One of us more so than the other.)
So come celebrate with us on Saturday (tomorrow) starting at 5, and going till late!
As of now, we will start out at Pizzeria Uno in Long Island City, where they will be showing the NCAA finals and offering an all-you-can-eat pizza special. Tip-off is around 5pm, so that's when the party will kick off.
After we get full or antsy, we will move on to some other local bar, likely with a pool table, so give us a call when you are heading over. We will try to stay close to the N/R/Q/W or 7 lines (or provide rides to subways) in western queens for all you commuters. Please RSVP on Facebook to help us figure out who will be joining the festivities.
See you tomorrow!
Katie & James
The crowd that showed up to the party was mixed, but our friends generally kept separate, like some sort of middle school dance. It started off fine, everyone enjoying pizza, booze and NCAA basketball at Pizzaria Uno. We ended up going to a second bar, with a DJ and enjoyed more drinks and some dancing.
Towards the end of the night James went to the bathroom with his friend Bruno and came out with a giant gash on his palm, with no recollection of how it had occurred. The bartender offered my husband whisky to clean the wound, which I recall him drinking instead. Needless to say, with one prior DWI under his belt, there were so many reasons he should not drive home that night. So I did.
When we arrived to our apartment, James and Bruno were both asleep. I roused James and asked if he would mind getting out and moving his mother’s van (she was living with us at the time) so I could pull into the garage. My husband’s response?
“Fuck you!”
I tried to reason with him a little, but there is no reasoning with someone in that state, so I told him I was going to find a parking spot on the street. My husband's response?
"Fuck you!"
So I drove around the block and upon parking, tried to wake the guys up to get them in the house. Bruno, in the back seat, was out cold, and my husband’s response?
“Fuck you!”
The next thing I knew, James' hands were around my throat, choking me against the car seat. I struggled to pry them off, but the more I resisted, the angrier he got. Finally I gave up and played possum. James lost interest in me, this mouse no longer fun prey for that cat to play with, and fell back asleep. I quickly and quietly gathered up my handbag, the car keys and my high heels, and literally ran in a panic back to the house. I deadbolted the door and sat wondering what I should do when they inevitably came home. That moment arrived, and I of course let them in. Neither of them seemed to remember the altercation in the car. I wondered then if they were playing it off, but came to later learn that neither actually did recall what happened.
Two days later I turned twenty-nine. James gave me a beautiful pair of aquamarine earrings, I was setting out on my new life, was willing to write off the events of the weekend as a drunken mistake, and all seemed right with the world. For the month of April, I did not touch alcohol. This worked out great for James, because it meant he had a designated driver at his beck-and-call. I managed to lose ten pounds in that month, probably by cutting out the calories from alcohol and the late night diner trips associated with a night on the town. By the end of April I was proud of my accomplishments and was waiting for James to notice and appreciate them. I had not told him of my plan, for two reasons. I wanted him to acknowledge my efforts without prompting, and I didn’t want his disapproval were I to fail.
Needless to say, he ultimately did not appreciate my efforts, but instead found alternative reasons to criticize me. There was no “Gosh, baby your body is looking great!” Instead there were demands that I not eat a piece of cheese straight out of the fridge, sans cracker. This pretty much destroyed my motivation to change, rather than encourage it.
Two months later, while vacationing at my parents’ house for the Fourth of July, James informed me he was leaving me.
Looking back on this entry, I am both refreshed by my optimism and crushed by my naïveté. Perhaps one of the unspoken reasons behind my desire to change was caused by a narcissistic husband who, in an effort to offset his own insecurities, would do his best to belittle me. James (a moniker I have given him for this narrative because he liked to drink Jameson) would regularly tell me that he was, essentially, better looking, smarter, and thinner than me; that his friends and family were more supportive than mine; and that I was basically lucky to be with him.
The vows we wrote and recited at our wedding in September 2007 were three promises we would make to the other. Mine to him were:
I promise to always support you in your dreams;
I promise to always hold you when you have a bad dream;
and I promise to always try to be the woman of your dreams.
I have to think that my promise to always try to be the woman of his dreams means that I knew deep down that I inherently wasn’t. I know now for certain that I could never live up to his impossibly high, ever changing standards. And yet in February of last year, I set out to do just that. I told myself, of course, that I was doing it for me. In a way I was, as an effort to save my already failing marriage rather than admit it was doomed from the start. Our honeymoon period had ended about three days into the honeymoon, and the following months were a struggle. I chose to focus on the good times, and not dwell on the battles. I had made vows (in front of a pastor, no less!) and I intended to keep them, for better or for worse. It just sucked that there was so much worse.
After deciding to change my life for the better, I set up some ground rules as to how I was going to accomplish my big change.
Come April 7, I was facing a challenge and some very hard truths. I figured one of the easiest rules to abide by would be number two. It was also one of the issues that resulted in much of the conflict between us. So I viewed my birthday as a bit of a last hurrah.
James' birthday was in fact the day before mine, so we had a joint birthday party. Of course his friends are based in Long Island and Queens, and mine are based in Manhattan, so to encourage everyone to come, we held the party in western Queens. At this point, I was still making up for the fact that so few of his friends had been able to attend our wedding in Chicago, so encouraging their attendance at any event we held was my way of trying to make that up to him. (We had even had a local party following our wedding, so that he could celebrate with his friends. One of his best friends couldn’t even be bothered to show up to that event!).
From: Katie
To: Recipients Surpressed
Date: Fri, Apr 4, 2008 at 11:07 AM
Subject: Katie & James' Birthday Party!
Hey All,
We're getting older. (One of us more so than the other.)
So come celebrate with us on Saturday (tomorrow) starting at 5, and going till late!
As of now, we will start out at Pizzeria Uno in Long Island City, where they will be showing the NCAA finals and offering an all-you-can-eat pizza special. Tip-off is around 5pm, so that's when the party will kick off.
After we get full or antsy, we will move on to some other local bar, likely with a pool table, so give us a call when you are heading over. We will try to stay close to the N/R/Q/W or 7 lines (or provide rides to subways) in western queens for all you commuters. Please RSVP on Facebook to help us figure out who will be joining the festivities.
See you tomorrow!
Katie & James
The crowd that showed up to the party was mixed, but our friends generally kept separate, like some sort of middle school dance. It started off fine, everyone enjoying pizza, booze and NCAA basketball at Pizzaria Uno. We ended up going to a second bar, with a DJ and enjoyed more drinks and some dancing.
Towards the end of the night James went to the bathroom with his friend Bruno and came out with a giant gash on his palm, with no recollection of how it had occurred. The bartender offered my husband whisky to clean the wound, which I recall him drinking instead. Needless to say, with one prior DWI under his belt, there were so many reasons he should not drive home that night. So I did.
When we arrived to our apartment, James and Bruno were both asleep. I roused James and asked if he would mind getting out and moving his mother’s van (she was living with us at the time) so I could pull into the garage. My husband’s response?
“Fuck you!”
I tried to reason with him a little, but there is no reasoning with someone in that state, so I told him I was going to find a parking spot on the street. My husband's response?
"Fuck you!"
So I drove around the block and upon parking, tried to wake the guys up to get them in the house. Bruno, in the back seat, was out cold, and my husband’s response?
“Fuck you!”
The next thing I knew, James' hands were around my throat, choking me against the car seat. I struggled to pry them off, but the more I resisted, the angrier he got. Finally I gave up and played possum. James lost interest in me, this mouse no longer fun prey for that cat to play with, and fell back asleep. I quickly and quietly gathered up my handbag, the car keys and my high heels, and literally ran in a panic back to the house. I deadbolted the door and sat wondering what I should do when they inevitably came home. That moment arrived, and I of course let them in. Neither of them seemed to remember the altercation in the car. I wondered then if they were playing it off, but came to later learn that neither actually did recall what happened.
Two days later I turned twenty-nine. James gave me a beautiful pair of aquamarine earrings, I was setting out on my new life, was willing to write off the events of the weekend as a drunken mistake, and all seemed right with the world. For the month of April, I did not touch alcohol. This worked out great for James, because it meant he had a designated driver at his beck-and-call. I managed to lose ten pounds in that month, probably by cutting out the calories from alcohol and the late night diner trips associated with a night on the town. By the end of April I was proud of my accomplishments and was waiting for James to notice and appreciate them. I had not told him of my plan, for two reasons. I wanted him to acknowledge my efforts without prompting, and I didn’t want his disapproval were I to fail.
Needless to say, he ultimately did not appreciate my efforts, but instead found alternative reasons to criticize me. There was no “Gosh, baby your body is looking great!” Instead there were demands that I not eat a piece of cheese straight out of the fridge, sans cracker. This pretty much destroyed my motivation to change, rather than encourage it.
Two months later, while vacationing at my parents’ house for the Fourth of July, James informed me he was leaving me.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Happy Birthday to me!
Happy birthday to me! I am 29 today. I think I will have to stop by the Duane Reade to get some hair dye to cover up the grey!
My husband gave me a beautiful pair of aquamarine earrings, that I just adore. They really are perfect, made from my favorite stone (in my favorite color), in a tasteful, classic style that I can wear everyday. Putting them on this morning made me smile, and I am optimistic about my future.
Tonight I plan to go home and drink one of the last bottles of wine I have in the house. I have saved these bottles for years, from back when I worked at a wine shop. Hopefully the bottle has aged well and not spoiled. I plan to savor every sip, and then call it quits on the booze for quite some time, if not forever.
Cheers to me and my fresh start. And here is hoping that a year from today life is nothing but better!
My husband gave me a beautiful pair of aquamarine earrings, that I just adore. They really are perfect, made from my favorite stone (in my favorite color), in a tasteful, classic style that I can wear everyday. Putting them on this morning made me smile, and I am optimistic about my future.
Tonight I plan to go home and drink one of the last bottles of wine I have in the house. I have saved these bottles for years, from back when I worked at a wine shop. Hopefully the bottle has aged well and not spoiled. I plan to savor every sip, and then call it quits on the booze for quite some time, if not forever.
Cheers to me and my fresh start. And here is hoping that a year from today life is nothing but better!
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