The Road Not Taken

Another semester has come and gone and I finished with my fifth consecutive 4.0 semester and the promise of a paper getting published in the near future. But my pride in my achievement isn't the point of this blog. The point is how I finally learned how to stop being down on myself and start being my own number one fan, and that's a lesson far more valuable than any grade ever will be.

Let me back up a bit.

For a long time now, I have been obsessed with the idea of what I "should have" done with my life. I "should have" plugged straight through college right after high school. Okay, so I hated college ten years ago, but so what? In my mind, it didn't matter that I hated it, I "should have" done it because in the lineage of life, it was the thing that was supposed to come next, therefore I "should have" sucked it up and kept going. I have spent the last three years absolutely hating that I have to worry about homework and tests when I had a family to take care of. I "should have" been putting every last ounce of focus and energy on them, and none of it (or at least a minimal amount of it) on myself. There was a way that I "should have" been living my life and I wasn't. As far as I was concerned, you only get one life and I was messing mine up. Royally.

Here's the thing. Deep down, I know that there is no right or wrong way to live your life. But knowing that on an intellectual level and actually believing it are two very different things. I've spent a lot of time beating myself up, looking regretfully back to the past, and generally feeling less than good enough  because I was absolutely convinced that I was living my life the wrong way. I hated telling people that I was still in school and that I was only just getting around to earning my bachelor's degree instead of a masters or a PHD. I dreaded the "what do you do?" question because I hated saying I was a student, like I was a carefree nineteen-year-old instead of someone who ought to have it together by now. I wasn't supposed to be a student, I was supposed to be the next Tina Fey by now! And because I was so down on myself, I assumed (absolutely wrongfully) that everyone else was down on me too and that people thought I was stupid or unmotivated for being where I was in life. Worse, I felt that by putting so much of my time towards school and by extension towards myself, I was doing my children a grave injustice and not giving them enough of my time, attention, or even love. I would lie awake at night, imagining the awful day somewhere in the future that my kids would come to me and tell me that they wished I had been a better mom, that I hadn't been so selfish and self-absorbed and had managed to get my act together sooner in life.

I never once thought for a minute that my kids (or anyone else in my life, including myself) would ever be proud of the fact that I was working really, really hard and trying to accomplish something more. When I first went back to school, I killed myself for my grades, not because I cared and wanted to feel accomplished, but almost as a penance for my prior scholastic offenses. It took a long time for me to realize that I was punishing myself for a crime that I never committed. I was so blinded by my perceptions and negativity that I couldn't see how much love and support I actually had around me. If anyone would express happiness or pride at my hard work or grades, I would assume they were just being nice and didn't mean it. I have no idea why I thought this or why I continuously came down so hard on myself when I was surrounded by nothing but positivity. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't feel good enough.

The point of all of this is that I know I'm not alone. I think a lot of people beat themselves up for not living their life the "right" way or the way they had planned, but maybe great things can come from being thrown into situations and having to fight your way out. Only recently, I have realized that this whole concept of  "should have" is bullshit. It doesn't exist. We trick ourselves into thinking that there is a right or wrong way to life your life and that there is an order that you are supposed to follow. I've realized over the last year that "should have" is nothing more than a lie we tell ourselves for no other purpose than to make ourselves feel really, really bad for absolutely no reason at all. It took a long time, but I got tired of working hard and still feeling terrible. The only person who was being hard on me was me and eventually I decided to stop living my life that way. The past belongs in the past and the "what if" game is pointless and harmful to any kind of life that you are tying to live. That much I know is true.

I've finally (FINALLY) realized that going back to school doesn't make me selfish or a bad mom and that thinking that those things are in any way connected is nothing short of outrageous. I realize now just how proud of me my husband and kids are, but how proud of myself I am. I'm proud of my hard work, dedication, ambition, and let's face it, kick ass time management skills. I may not be taking the easy road in life, but "easy" and "right" are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I'm not lazy or stupid, I'm just a late bloomer and there's nothing wrong with that. Earning a degree while juggling two kids, a husband, and a job certainly isn't the easy way, but that doesn't make it wrong. I know now that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. And that's an amazing feeling. 

 I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 
~Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken 

Real Life Lara Croft

I never really write about celebrities, but I wanted to say that I take back every snarky thing that I have ever said about Angelina Jolie. She's amazing and let's face it, I was probably just jealous when I said those things anyway.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

This morning I got on to Twitter to find my feed clogged with slightly varying versions of the same screaming headline: Angelina Jolie Gets Double Mastectomy. I'm not hugely into celebrity news, but this shocking headline was coming at me from every direction of my social media life, in all-caps with excessive exclamation points. So, like the good little internet sheep that I am, I picked a link and clicked on it, which led me to Jolie's post in the New York Times. In a nutshell, Jolie carries a gene called  BRCA1 (which she refers to as a "faulty" gene) that puts her at a ridiculously high risk of getting breast and/or ovarian cancer. Rather than sit around for cancer to strike, she chose to be proactive and had a preventative double-mastectomy. She briefly described the surgical process and why bothering with any of this at all was important to her. I sat dumbfounded at my computer, as all of the work I had planned on doing this morning came to a screeching halt. I read the article, cried and then reread it and cried harder.

I thought the best part of the piece was when Jolie wrote about how she watched her mom suffer through cancer and knew firsthand what a horrific thing it would be for her kids to endure. Her mom was only 56 when she passed away and if that was the case for me, that fact would always be hanging over my head every single day. Jolie wrote that she would do anything to get more time with her children, which I relate to for obvious reasons. I would undergo surgery to become the next Wolverine if it meant I got to spend 30 extra seconds on this planet with my kids, so yeah, I get it. Overall, I felt like this whole piece made her seem so human, less like the perfect, leggy movie star and more like the mom who loves her kids and would do anything for them. And there's nothing not to love about that.

I'm sure that a preventative double mastectomy is a ridiculously expensive procedure, which most of us probably wouldn't be able to afford (though I'll spare you my liberal, tree-hugging opinion on the state of health care in America...for now). But if having a preventative double-mastectomy could significantly decrease your risk of breast cancer, would you do it? Is this taking advantage of the awesomeness of modern medicine, science, and preventative care or are you just playing God? Just some food for thought.

Either way, I feel that I have a whole new respect for someone that I (wrongfully) blew off as just another Hollywood actress gazillionaire. It might sound cynical, but people don't surprise me very much sometimes, and it's nice to be proven wrong (in a good way) and also to remember that what you see on your TV isn't the full story. My mom always said that you "never know what goes on behind closed doors" and that lesson applies here perfectly.

Above all, I think that both having the surgery and writing about it was brave, honest, and downright bad ass. Like a real life Lara Croft.

Where'd All The Good People Go?

A few weeks ago, I read a disturbing article. Nearly two-thirds of Americans are on some form of anti-depressant. Anxiety is at an all-time high. Nearly 30,000 Americans committed suicide in 2012 alone. I think the point of the article was to demonstrate America's dependency on pharmaceutical companies, but what I took away from it is that we are all walking around like open wounds, hurt, confused, terrified, and desperate for some form of escape from an increasingly violent reality.

I don't know about anyone else, but ever since 9/11, I find it nearly impossible to relax on an airplane. Ever since the 2007 London Bus bombings, I'm weary of city buses. Ever since Aurora, I've kept one eye on the exit every time I'm in a movie theater. And ever since Newtown, I have hated dropping my kids off at school every morning, wondering if that day will be their last.

And now Boston.

I would like to make it clear that I realize that violence, terrorism, and senseless tragedy is an every day occurance in other countries. Many people's first reaction to events like yesterday is "This happens all the time, all around the world and no one cares, so what's the big deal?" and honestly, this is a horrible reaction. Fighting apathy with apathy is pointless. The fact that violence occurs other places doesn't take away from what happened in Boston. If anything, it's a reminder that we all live on this crazy, messed up planet together and we should empathize with everyone who is a victim of violence, whether it occurs in your hometown or thousands of miles away. Have a heart. Show some compassion.

Speaking of compassion, in situations like this I have noticed two kinds of people: The good and the parasitical. The bad people are not just the obvious characters like the bomber(s) but the people who try to take advantage of an already horrible situation by creating fake Twitter accounts to "accept donations" for victims or to spread false reports or conspiracy theories.Why create chaos out of chaos? It's beyond me. People like this are not only showing a complete and utter lack of respect for victims and families, but for the human race in general. But I don't want to focus too much on the bad people. They don't deserve the attention.

The good are the best kind of people out there, the amazing first responders who ran towards the smoke and flames, into the chaos, intent on staying calm and saving lives while everyone else froze. The good are the marathon runners who kept running past the finish line, straight to hospitals to donate blood. The good are the spectators who, though injured themselves, helped others to safety. One of the best things in life is being pleasantly surprised by the kindness and humanity people are capable of expressing. Maybe it doesn't make everyone feel safer on an airplane or worry less about sending their kids to school every day, but in some small way, it's reassuring to think that there are people who are willing to put their lives on the line for the sake of someone else. That in the worst of situations, you can find the best in people and it doesn't get much better than that.

I'm only one person, a couple of thousand miles away from Boston, but I wish it was physically possible to hug the whole city right now and to let them know that people across the country are standing with them.We care about you, Boston, all the way from Albuquerque, and everywhere in between. 

If anyone is interested in helping, please check out the American Red Cross or my personal favorite good-doers Humans Helping Humans . Don't hang your head in fear, be proactive and help the world carry on. Hug your families, be grateful for what you have. Talk to your friends who are going through a hard time and don't be afraid to talk to someone about your own hard time. And turn off the TV every once in awhile. The bad news will still be there when you come back.

Most importantly, remember the helpers. See the good in life, humanity, and each other, no matter how desperate it feels. The good people haven't gone anywhere. You just have to look a little harder to find them.

Tom Hanks Is Great In An Airport

Airports are strange places. Every time I'm in one, I find myself waiting impatiently for Tom Hanks to leap over the turnstile, dash straight past the lone security guard (who delivers the limp, half-hearted, "Hey, you! Come back here!"), and beg me not to go (Where? I don't know. Why? I don't know). It has yet to happen, and because of a heightened level of security post 9/11 and a non-existent level of Tom Hanks in my life, it probably never will. Not to mention the fact that Tom and I are both happily married to other people and this is a situation that really only exists in Nora Ephron movies. Sadly.

Despite their obvious lack of Tom Hanks and general sense of inconvenience, airports are one of the best places for people-watching, mostly because they tend to bring out the absolute worst in people. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the recycled air, the TSA pat-downs, the nagging fear of accidentally leaving your bag unattended. Whatever the reason, tensions run tend to run high, making for some quality entertainment. And last week, when I found myself there to pick up my in-laws, was no exception. 

While waiting I overheard (read: eavesdropped on) a conversation between a mother and her daughter, who was to my best approximation, about thirteen or fourteen. From what I could gather, the mom was the one who was about to fly, but her flight was delayed so she was hanging out with her family outside the security checkpoint while she waited. The girl spent most of her time texting, her thumbs a wild blur, and looking like she'd rather be anywhere in the world than at the airport with her mother. For awhile, they weren't terribly interesting to watch. Then the mom decided to drop a bomb, in a conversation that went a little something like this:

Dad: "Oh look, your flight's boarding."
Mom: "Great" (turning to her daughter) "By the way, I'm chaperoning your trip in May. I signed up last week."
Daughter: "Mom, no. Mom. This is a joke. You're kidding, right? You're not seriously doing this to me, right? Do you have any idea how humiliating it will be to have you on this trip?"
Mom: "How could it possibly be humiliating? I'll just be a chaperone! I'll be there in the background. You won't even notice me! There will be ten other chaperones there!"
Daughter: "No. No! You'll like, knock on my hotel door in the morning and tell me to take my vitamins. Or you'll like, give me sunscreen to put on or make me wear a sweater when I'm cold. It's going to be the worst. You will ruin the trip. You will ruin my whole life!"

Needless to say, their conversation wasn't exactly quiet and at one point I made eye contact with the daughter. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, and threw her arms up in exasperation as if to say, "Parents! They just don't understand, right?" And I felt an instant wave of sympathy and solidarity.

With her mother.

Ten years ago, I was nineteen years old. If nineteen-year-old me had been in that airport, I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that she would have sympathized with the younger girl. It is embarrassing that your mom wants to go on your trip! If my mom was going on my trip I'd like, totally die. Your mom will come into your room and tell you to take your vitamins and offer you a sweater! My mom would have done the same thing and my mom was the worst. Ugh, I can practically hear smug nineteen-year-old me, with her stupid boundless energy and eye make-up so dark you could see it from space saying these things to herself (probably out loud under her breath without realizing it, because some things never change). Sometimes nineteen-year-old me makes twenty-nine-year-old me want to hang her head in shame.

Back then, I probably wouldn't have noticed the mom at all. How tired she looked, how rejected she felt by her daughter, how she had probably been both dreading this conversation and anticipating the result. I definitely wouldn't have noticed the dad's deer-in-the-headlights, "Oh dear God, we're having this conversation now?" look on his face. I absolutely wouldn't have picked up on the fact that this mom's "Disapoint-N-Dash" maneuver was brilliant on a thousand different levels. But most of all, I wouldn't have felt sympathy for her because I had no idea how hard it was being a parent. How hard it is to put someone else before yourself, care about them constantly, worry about things like how much sleep they get or if they'll put on a sweater when they're cold, only to have them roll their eyes at you. I didn't have a clue. No one ever does.

Almost exactly two years ago, I started writing this blog, but I didn't really start it so that I could chronicle my life, per se. I started it so I could chronicle the gradual shift of my perspective. Parenthood is a huge factor in my changing perspective (obviously) but getting older and figuring out who I am and what I really care about is a part of it too. I started this blog because I find the metamorphosis from idealistic, energetic young person to exhausted, idealistic (but in a biting, cynical kind of way) older person both fascinating and terrifying. I'm writing it because I like to think there is more to me than meets the eye and I like to explore that. I'm writing it because I saw a "Saved By The Bell" episode for the first time in about a million years, and all I could do was glare at the TV and wonder where the hell their parents were and why they weren't doing something to stop all of these teenage shenanigans, and frankly, I have no idea when I started to think that way.

And of course, I write it because I'll do anything to get a laugh.

We all change as we get older and begin to see things in a different way. I guess it's all part of this whole "growing up" thing that I've heard so much about. And who knows? Maybe someday I'll write about how I've given up singing Brown Sugar every time I make oatmeal or how I've finally stopped casting myself in the Meg Ryan role of my Tom Hanks airport daydream.

Then again, maybe not.

Thongs For Toddlers

There are two physical versions of women in my family: The voluptuous, giant-boobed-Marilyn-Monroe looking-type and the flat-chested-vaguely-underfed-looking type.

I have always fallen into the latter category. But because I also grew up in a family that valued the size of your brain over the size of your bra, no one has ever held the size of my chest against me and as a result,  it's never bothered me much. In fact, as I get older it bothers me less and less. Boobs are just boobs, in the same way that an apple is just an apple. Whether you have them or not, it's really no big deal.

Maybe I'm completely naive for thinking this, but I like to think that not caring about my physical attributes (or lack thereof) will have a positive influence on my own daughter. Maybe if I can pull off that whole "leading by example" thing I always hear so much about, she will grow up to be comfortable with her own body, regardless of how it turns out.

There's just one problem. It's called society. And the internet. And crazy, whack job bloggers who are trying to get famous by calling themselves "conservative" and then proceeding to pitch the world's worst idea whose sole purpose is apparently exploiting young girls under the guise of doing something "cute" and "innocent".

Okay, that's more than one problem and I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit.

This morning I was on the computer doing research for a completely unrelated story that I'm writing when a headline caught my eye: "Mom Says Victoria's Secret Okay for Tween". Curious, I clicked on it and, like most things I randomly click on, I immediately wished I hadn't.

Here's the short version of the story: A "mommy blogger" (I detest this phrase, by the way) made a big stink on the internet (i.e. a huge statement to garner attention that will lead to her eventual book deal) that her nine-year old daughter has no options when it comes to underwear and that there should be a tween (a phrase I detest even more than "mommy blogger") option at places like Victoria's Secret for little girls who (unfortunately this is a real quote) "Want cute panties and bras from the big girl store".

Good God, lady. Where to begin? First of all, I'd like to point out the fact that if you need to refer to it as a "big girl store" that means your daughter is too young to shop there. More importantly, a nine-year-old doesn't need a bra and won't need one for about three years. If she's lucky. If you are trying to make a valid point, you're not doing it very well. At all.

And in the grand scheme of people not knowing when to shut up, the madness was continued when she added that "No one wants to be the girl with ugly underwear" Interesting. Does your daughter walk around all day showing people her underwear? Because maybe you should be teaching her not to do that? Just a thought. Or better yet, maybe you should teach her that the focus of her world shouldn't be what's covering up her butt. Underneath her clothes. Where no one can see. Also, I would seriously like to meet these children who care so much about the underwear of their peers, mostly because I don't think they exist. Nice try, but I'm not really buying whatever point it is that you're trying to sell with that one.

Her next attempt at a point? "You see half naked women on the sides of a bus. It's part of our culture" Okay, sure. Our buses have been known to feature some scantily clad women. But the key word there? Women. Not nine-year-olds or tweens. Half-naked women. Also, while we're on the subject, that's some great reasoning you've got there. So when your kid asks to jump off a cliff you'll say "Sure, honey! Why not? All of your friends are doing it! And no one wants to be the kid in the ugly underwear who doesn't get to jump off a cliff! It's all part of our culture, so go for it"??

Listen, I'm not trying to tell someone how to raise their kids. But take a look around. Young girls are becoming sexualized every day. The already small window of childhood is getting narrower and narrower. Bodies, faces, chests, skin and clothes are constantly compared and found lacking. As difficult as it is to be a woman in this crazy, mixed up world, it's even harder to be a little girl growing up in a world where The Bachelor is considered a love story and Kim Kardashian is considered a celebrity. It's confusing. Instead of continuing to blur the fine line between childhood and adulthood, let's try making it more distinct. Perhaps we could start by not pronouncing ourselves "conservative" while mentally sketching all of the thongs for toddlers we plan on selling at Victoria's Secret. Just a thought.

My point is this: Growing up, 50% of my family could have done nothing but tell me that I was as flat-chested as a 12-year-old Kenyan boy and that I would never be sexy because of it. Thankfully, that's not how it panned out. Instead I was taught, rightfully, that my body's sole purpose of existence was so my smart ass mouth wouldn't look funny floating around by itself, flapping all day long to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen, and that this was a good thing. Value was placed on the right things. 

And absolutely no one cared what my underwear looked like.

The Wintern

I have really exciting news. But first, a confession.

There's no way to sugar-coat the fact that the life of a writer can be a difficult one. I like to make jokes about being rejected by every one under the sun, shamelessly self-promoting myself ad nauseum and how if my mom didn't read my blog, then no one would, but we all just know it's "Tears of a Clown" syndrome. I can laugh it off all I want, but it's only to save my dwindling sanity and faulty self-esteem. The truth is that the last few months I've had more "What am I doing and why am I doing it?" conversations with myself than ever before. The ugly shadow of doubt had become a regular presence in the corners of my mind. I began to question my motives, the way I was using my time, and whether I was doing nothing more than banging on a locked door. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was becoming harder and harder to catch a break.

Until I finally caught one.

Catching a break all kicked off as I was trolling Craig's List for houses a few weeks ago and wound up noticing a link for writing jobs at the very end of a long list of employment opportunities. I was intrigued and, despite the fact that I had never considered Craig's list for much of anything before, I found myself clicking on the link to see what I could see. There were only four jobs posted and only one that looked remotely appealing; An internship.

But here's the thing: I was immediately intimidated by the notion of an internship. Not because I'm such an awesome writer that I consider myself above an internship, but because I felt like I didn't fit the bill. I don't know about you guys, but when I think of the word "intern" I automatically think of a super smart and crazy energetic twenty-year-old, a la Rory Gilmore, who get internships at their boyfriend's father's newspaper, only to be told they suck as a writer, leading to an affluent, attractive girl's G-rated version of a nervous breakdown. That's an intern. Not a twenty-nine year old mother of two who drinks one hundred pots of coffee a day (mostly in vain) just to keep her eye lids at half-mast and makes obscure Gilmore Girl references.

Any other day I would have left it at that and gone about my business of using any means possible to distract myself from doing homework. Instead, I pushed my intern insecurities and fear of unavoidable murder as a result of answering a Craig's List ad (I watch Dateline, okay? I know what's up!) and applied. And amazingly, despite my utter lack of all things Rory Gilmore, I got it (and I didn't get shanked or turn into a walking Breaking Bad character, which is always a bonus).

I could stop this story right here and it would still be one of the coolest things that's ever happened to me. But in a rare twist of life imitating a Kate Hudson movie, it went uphill from here.

A quick question: What do you think of when you hear the word "intern"? Rory Gilmore references aside, I mostly think of a Hollywood stereotype version of someone running around making coffee and copies, getting very little experience in the actual field they're interning for and even less respect from everyone around them. In other words, in my mind the word "intern" is synonymous with the the phrase "Overworked, unpaid biotch" and I'm guessing my perception isn't too far off from everyone else's.

Fortunately, I'm happy to report that this particular internship is nothing like that.

The internship is with a brand-spankin' new online magazine called The ABQ Sun Post which, in a time where murders and rapes and various other scary events dominate your average news sources, will provide the world with positive news stories. That's right! Positive news! Remember that? Some very cruel (and very wrong) people may be quick to call it "fluff" news, but I beg to differ. Think of it this way: Your local news does a (terrifying) story about a bank robbery in which multiple people were shot an injured. During the shooting, a woman was using herself as a human shield to protect the children in the bank. We wouldn't write a story about the shooter (like most people would) we would write a story about the person who did the right thing at the right time. It isn't the obvious story, but it's the better story, the story that you have to dig a little deeper to find. It isn't as glamorous (aka bloody) as the other story, but it's much more meaningful. That's what we'll write about.

Hypothetical situations aside, this is what my internship boils down to: Two stories a week written and researched by yours truly with my name in the byline (AWESOME), the ability to work mostly from home (Super awesome), and a press pass (awesome, as long as I remember that it will probably NOT get me backstage at a Vampire Weekend concert in Denver, and will probably result in taking some pepper spray to the face. Which in case you're wondering, would totally be worth it). I will be writing about exceptional schools, programs and teachers around the city, as well as awesome kids who are making a difference in their community. It's going to rock. It's been a couple of weeks since I got this amazing opportunity and it still feels like a huge win for me.

Speaking of scoring a win, you may be wondering where the term "wintern" comes from and the short answer is that, regretfully, I don't exactly know. The long answer is that it was originally coined by a ridiculously cool guy whose band may or may not be responsible for pepper-spraying my face in the near future. The problem is, I forget the exact context he used the word (he says a lot of clever things, sometimes it's hard to keep up. But I try not to hold his plethora of clever against him). So in this case, "wintern" either means "winter intern" or "winning an internship" but either way, I feel like it applies to me. So I'm giving credit where credit is due, because the only thing worse that being pepper-sprayed in the eyeballs would be plagiarizing someone I admire. Unless of course one of the meanings is an Abbey Prentice original in which case, I should be writing your songs, buddy! Totally kidding, only one of us could find words to rhyme with horchata and it sure as hell wasn't me, so I think we're both right where we should be.

Anyway.

The ABQ Sun Post launches March 18th and I sincerely hope everyone will support it. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about anything, which includes finding out that Walter White's house on Breaking Bad is directly across the street from my friend's house. This is huge. And I feel, deep down in my bones, that this is going to be a game-changer, the event that sets all other events in motion.

Finally. 

Stop This Train

In one of my earliest memories, I'm riding in the car with my dad. I have no idea where we're going or why we are going there, but I remember that it was night time and my dad was listening to the Bruce Springsteen song "Born In The USA" over and over on a cassette tape. There's nothing particularly significant about this memory, save for the fact that it involves someone I have very few memories of and that every time I hear that song, I'm right back in that car. I don't know if the occasion was a happy or sad one, but I always get the same feeling in my stomach I get when I'm on a boat or riding in the middle in the backseat of a car; mild nausea and a sense of anticipation.

This random memory doesn't have much to do with anything except to remind me that it's been a year and a half since my dad passed away and I'm no closer to understanding who he was or why he made the choices that he made. What I have realized is that life isn't a predictable scene in a movie where I dig around in some boxes in an attic for five minutes, find a journal, finally understand everything, and have full and instant closure. The fact is that I may never understand anything about my dad. The trick is learning to be okay with it.

Most days I can convince myself that it's impossible to miss something you never really had. Today was not one of those days.

Today I attended the funeral of a friend's dad. He was a great guy, warm and inviting and so enthusiastic about everything that you could always hear him talking from at least two rooms away. I only saw him a few times a year at summer barbeques and at Josh's fantasy football drafts, but he always greeted me with a big hug, like a long-lost friend that he was thrilled to see. He was one of those people that everyone liked; a person the world could use more, not fewer, of. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that he will be greatly missed.

Maybe it was because it was the first funeral I've been to since my dad's, but it ripped the delicately-placed band aid I cover up my grief with right off of me. As selfish as this may sound, I sat in the church unable to stop thinking about my own dad's funeral. I distinctly remember the weather was beautiful that day and I kept seeing all of these people walking around outside, and I couldn't stop thinking that it was just a normal, ordinary day for other people, but I was standing in a stuffy room with my dad's body feeling like the bottom had dropped out of my life. I recognized that same sentiment in the grief-stricken faces I saw today. The only difference between what the family was feeling today and what I felt a year and a half ago is that they were mourning a great man who was always there for them, and I was mourning a fleeting shadow, the fading strains of a Bruce Springsteen song, a person I never really knew and there's nothing I can ever do to fix that.

When I allow myself to really stop and think about it, it's scary that I'm getting to an age where my parents and my friend's parents are beginning to pass away. It seems surreal, and it also seems wrong. Those are the grown-ups, not us. We're all just playing house, but they're the real adults who really know what's going on, what advice to give, and how to make everything right. How are we supposed to carry on in a world without them? I can't imagine life without my mom, mother-in-law, and father-in-law. I hate thinking that it's a reality I'll have to face someday and I don't want any of my parents (birth or in-law) to ever doubt how much I love them. I don't want to make that mistake twice.

So as I stood there today with the snow falling lightly, watching a great man be laid to rest all I could think was this: We all go sometime and no one ever knows when. Don't squander your life. Holding a grudge isn't worth it. If someone wants to apologize to you, or love you, or even just talk to you, let them. Hear them out. You have nothing to lose by accepting people for who they are and not letting your pride get in the way. Take it from someone who turned their back on a person who wanted to offer them nothing more than an apology: It doesn't matter if you feel like it's too little, too late. I didn't hear my dad out and he died, and now I never can. My dad did terrible, hurtful things and I could only focus on that, instead of his regret. And now I'm the one with regret. Don't be me. Turn off your brain and turn on your heart. No one is perfect, stop expecting them to be. Let people love you. Because you might never get another chance.