I’ve about had it with my phone. Almost every time I want to use it, it’s dead.
Some people have suggested that there’s an easy solution: “Keely, why don’t you just charge your phone more?”
But I refuse. I believe my phone should just work when I want it to work.
How is it possible that we’re this technologically advanced as a civilization and I still have to do something as tedious as charge my phone?
It’s almost offensive, if you really think about it.
Okay, okay, I confess: none of this is true. My phone practically never dies because…
A few years ago, I found myself captivated. I was fully and thoroughly ensorceled.
Writing. Writing personal narrative style blog posts, specifically.
In the morning, I would sit down at the keyboard, sipping coffee while I mulled over whatever was going on in my life. Sometimes I’d dive into events from the past, trying to connect the dots on how and why things unfolded the way they did. Other times, I’d reflect on things that had happened more recently.
No matter what the topic, I enjoyed the process of creating. I liked crafting metaphors and playing with words…
My friend Martha was precisely three kids into child-rearing when she realized being a mom wasn’t for her.
Not exactly the best time to have that particular insight, eh?
But Martha doesn’t run away from things, so she faced the problem head-on and did what any self-respecting adult would do: she kissed each of her little cherubs on the forehead before releasing them into the wild, then went on to build the life of her dreams.
Okay, okay, that’s not exactly what happened. Everyone knows that it’s next to impossible to build the life of your dreams when the state…
For at least a year, I’ve been desperately begging the people in my life for permission to write.
“Please sir,” I’ve pleaded, dirt on my face and hunger in my stomach, “May I have two hours a day to write?”
“No,” They’ve said, throwing rubbish at me. “Get out of here, you filthy animal. Get back to work.”
Okay, that last part never happened, but imagining it did delight me. What would I even do if someone did that? Scamper away?
I suppose I’ll never know since everyone in my life is far too kind to throw rubbish at me…
The refrain that runs through my head most frequently is, “Please stop talking to me.”
Except it’s not so much a simple sentence as it is a begging prayer: “Please stop talking to me, please stop talking to me, please stop talking to me…”
Again and again and again.
I’m an introvert, writer and Enneagram 5 wing 4. People talking to me is frequently torturous, especially if they’re yammering away while I’m trying to do something that requires focus, like writing or thinking.
The trouble with my, “Please stop talking to me,” mental prayer is exactly that: it’s a mental…
It’s 9:30 on a Friday night and my fiancé, Sam, and I are getting rowdy. By getting rowdy, I mean we’re casually strolling the aisles of Whole Foods.
We’re wild, I know.
Sam stops in front of an end cap, delighted. Chocolate peanut butter filled Clif Bars are on sale and he loves them.
“This is such a great deal!” He exclaims, putting 5 in the basket. Then he pauses, contemplative. “At this price, should I get a whole box?”
“Absolutely,” I respond without hesitation.
Then he glares at me. Yep, that’s my man. The only person on the planet…
“I’d like some decaf coffee with cream, please.” I smile at the waiter, trying to discern if he’ll be generous with the cream. For years, Sam, my fiancé, has thought that I should simplify things and just ask for, “Cream with a little coffee, please.”
The waiter looks like the heavy-handed-pour sort, so I trust that he’ll take care of me and let it drop.
Usually, it’s best not to draw attention to my creamer habits. I like a rich coffee and my healthy friends are horrified when they watch me fix my cup. “Full fat creamer? Real dairy?” My…
The most delightful thing happened to me in the shower last night.
I was at my yoga studio, doing a quick rinse off before heading home. I go to a hot yoga studio so I get very sweaty.
Twenty seconds in, another woman came into the bathroom. Immediately, she said, “No rush, just a heads up that I’m waiting for the shower.”
My jaw dropped. What a brilliant thing to say! What an excellent way to phrase it!
I responded by telling her so. “Thanks for the heads up. And what a wonderful way to say it!”
She didn’t say…
How an over-reaction helped me sign my own permission slip.
Fun fact: earlier today when I left my house, I was 30 years old. When I returned home a few hours later, I was 44 years old.
Here’s how it happened: I was driving in South Florida (as people typically are when they age 14 years in the space of a car ride). …
One of the best things about getting sober is that the interventions stop. You no longer have to worry that every encounter with your family is a potential ambush, that they’re going to waste their breath trying to convince you that maybe there are better options for life than being a non-functional alcoholic.
Unless you’re in my family. Because with them, a pesky little fact like “I’ve been sober for 8 years now, guys” means nothing.
I know because earlier this week, one of my younger brothers, Thor, sat me down for an intervention.
“I’m really concerned, Keely,” he started…
Human guinea pig, lover of learning in public.