Adding insult to injury, he was wearing his last resort, worn-out socks, and they had once again slumped to his heel. Exasperated, the man yanked the limp cotton stockings back to their proper position. Then, with unbridled passion, he bellowed his rage to the world.

“These SOCKS are RUINING my LIFE!”

I’m excited at the possibilities—but I’m not at all enthusiastic about taking that journey in public.

Strangely, my biggest fear is that the surgery will accomplish exactly what it’s supposed to do, and people will notice. And talk about it.  And think things about me. And ask questions. And I hate that.

He wasn’t spooked, not even for a moment.

Instead, he put down his hammer just long enough to send a quick reply: “Nothing like what you are saying is happening; you are just making it up out of your head.”

It was my last week, the end of a nine-year tenure for a job into which I’d poured my heart and soul. I was sorting through files, determined to leave everything in perfect order for the person stepping into my role. I wanted nothing more than to end well and set him up for success.

I should have seen it coming. After all, communicating persuasively runs through her genes.

My husband and I were adamantly opposed to my 16-year-old daughter getting a job – at least during the school year. We were fine with the occasional babysitting gig. What we didn’t want was for her family time/homework availability to be dictated by minimum wage. However, my daughter seldom sees "no" as the final answer.

44 is the new 24. Just because I’ve used a rotary phone, inserted a floppy disk into my IBM, and I once placed a two-for-one order for the soundtracks to Pretty Woman and Romeo and Juliet (Leo!!!) from Colombia House means absolutely nothing.

She was the epitome of a “plain Jane.” Faithful and unassuming, Jane attended weekly church services with her family, and she gave regularly to those in need. Her dad was a pastor, and two of her brothers followed in his footsteps. Jane, meanwhile, was more likely to put her thoughts on paper than to preach.

I picked up my phone and texted the group, starting the confession with a gif of a woman covering her head in a box of shame. It’s me. I did it. I’m the problem. Crawling into a hole now.

Not too long ago, I had someone say to me “How do you do all that you do? You must be Super Woman!” 

In that moment, I wasn’t proud; I was embarrassed – and apologetic. 

Glamping in a 20-foot trailer has accentuated what I’d already discovered during 3 months of quarantine in our two story house:

Family is really hard, because love is really hard.