All Grown Up or A Tale of Brassieres

So, a couple weeks ago, it hit me that I am a full-fledged grown-up.

Now, you'd think that would have hit me, oh, about 25 years ago when I bought my first vacuum cleaner or had utilities in my own name.  That felt adult-ish.  Or graduated with a law degree. Meh. Or got my first job that had paid vacation and health insurance benefits. That felt pretty cool, but mostly like I was an imposter that I hoped no one discovered until I figured out what was going on.  Bought a house. Not so much.

My first inkling that yes, I am a grown-up came when I started a Roth IRA, a purely optional financial decision based on the idea that I might someday be forced to retire at least a few days before I die.

But what really drove it home was when I took my niece bra shopping this past weekend.  I felt my mother snickering up her sleeves from Heaven the entire time.

You see, as soon as I hit college I stopped wearing a bra except when I really, really had to, like, at work, working out, or wanted to display impressive cleavage.  My mother fought relentlessly against the idea of Free Bosoms, even trying to enlist the help of my benighted father to impress upon me the Necessity Of A Proper Bra. (He fled the room every time, BTW, occasionally calling over his shoulder, "Listen to your mother!" as the ignition turned.)

"Droop is coming," she would intone as ominously as a Stark contemplating The Wall.  I rolled my eyes at her, my perky confidence undiminished.

Fast forward to Present Day.

My darling college-student niece came to visit me and upon one glance at her underpinnings, I declared we were going Bra Shopping ASAP and I would not rest until we found her proper foundation garments.  She did not resist the idea at all. She welcomed it. Embraced it.  I felt properly shamed about the HOURS I spent in my teens and 20s in shouting matches with my mother on this very topic.

I heard a faint snort of laughter from the skies.  My mama was watching.

I knew this mission was blessed by my mother because not only were bras on sale at the store we chose, but parking was abundant. (My mother, FYI, is the patron saint of good parking -and excellent sales if her grandchildren are involved.)

Purchases made, my niece beaming with happiness over her presents, I admitted silently to my mom that she was Once Again Right and A Proper Bra Is Pretty Important and I Should Have Listened To Her And Not Been So Argumentative Sometimes.

The self-satisfaction she felt radiated around me, and made me laugh.

Most Beautiful

Got tagged today in a dear friend's post:

"Women can sometimes be mean, so let's change that and instead share the love.
All of the women that I'm nominating (you have been tagged) are strong, beautiful, smart, loving women whom I admire. These amazing women inspire me for a variety of reasons.
You're all beautiful. Life can present us with many challenges. Some are not so fun. And now I'm challenging you to something uplifting and encouraging.
Please upload 4 photos of yourself where you felt the most beautiful. Then nominate all the gorgeous Goddesses that you think are beautiful to do the same, build each other up instead of tearing each other down!! 💙💜❤💚
Let's see all the beauty! Tap and hold the status to copy."

Normally, I kind of ignore these things, but her gorgeous photos inspired me to think a bit about those times I felt the most beautiful.  Scanning my FB photos was a sweet trip down memory lane, as I realized the times I FELT the most beautiful, were not necessarily the times I was the most photogenic.

Here we (me, my BFF, her spawn) were sitting in the car, 

eating icecream and generally horsing around.  Such lightness!

CM Chicago! Happy-hearted group of people. On a trolley! Dancing!

Not at all a pretty picture, but it was the first time I dead-lifted over 200 lbs.  

I felt triumphant.

This photo was part of a set of professional shots taken after I had lost 150 lbs.  

Like most single women, I hadn't had professional photos taken since high school.  

My friend who was the photographer was so fun, and took amazing photos. 

I felt like a star!

and as I looked over the thousands of photos of smiling faces, I realized that it would take me all freakin day to tag every one of my beautiful friends and ask them to share their photos. So, if you read this, consider yourself tagged!

Hazy

I feel like I looked away and two years flew by.  Wasn't I just in Barcelona with my friend, Alicia?

I lived in a cute house next to a forest known for mountain lions and homeless people.  The house had a dog door and a dishwasher.  The forest had pine needles and sky.  I went for walks with Lori and drinks with Sandra.  I lifted heavy weights and carried the world, they said.

Was it a dream that I slipped away?

Did I step through some sort of portal?

I look forward and I am working in a small office in a large building in a mid-sized Hoosier city known for not much outside of the local university having a great football team.  It is humid here and the houses are tiny and quite old, which adds character, they say.

My friend, Hope, died.  That memory is oddly sharp in the midst of this haze.  I do not forget that.

I remember every moment of that phone call -how my head was tilted against the headboard, how the phone felt smooth and hot, how the sheets wrapped around my toes felt rough and cold, how Adrianne's voice seemed tinny and far away and so so tired, how the midnight snow made the world all blue and strange.  How I should have been there when it happened.  I do not forget that.

When the sun shines here, the whole world is impossibly green.  When the moon glows here, tiny lights skirt above the grass and blink away.  Lightning bugs, they say.

Fairy lights dancing in the haze.