1. Went to Target today and bought Outlast lipstick, per bloggers' recommendations. Looked at Colorstay as well but Outlast had a coupon. (And not one of those "$1 off NEXT purchase" piece of shit coupons, either.) Plan to do extensive testing to see if lipstick really stays put. But not anytime soon because...




2. Am fucking sick. Which, incidentally, means Bitch City. As in the noun, not the verb.




3. Watching MacGyver tonight. My brother gave Rob Season 4 on DVD. Kick ass.

Resolution

Last year's resolutions were so good that I'm keeping all of them. And also adding one: Spend more time with grandparents.

Favorite photo from 2005

Rob took this one. Click it to see more of our favorites.

As for the third category - what I'll be glad to leave behind in 2005? Right now, at this moment, I would have to say THIS MOTHER-FUCKING SINUS INFECTION. (I'll spare you the photo for this one.) Perhaps in my current state I am lacking perspective because, granted, that isn't actually the worst thing that happened in 2005. Although it might be a close second. All in all, it was a fantastic year.

I guess it's pretty standard this time of year to reflect on one's life. I'll admit that I never used to do this - I've always known right where I'm headed and exactly how I'm going to get there, and so there was never any need to stop and check the map.

I'd decided the destination in high school. I entered college confident that I'd found the man I wanted to marry and confident I'd chosen a career for which I was perfectly suited. And I wasn't wrong in either case. When I left teaching, it wasn't because I wasn't right for it. To the contrary, I'd say teaching is what I do better than anything else. But turns out, it wasn't right for me. So I took a detour, not knowing where it would lead. I'm still not sure where it will lead. And five years ago, that not knowing would have been too much for me to handle. But now, I revel in the freedom.

Because the thing is, I'm not the same person I was in high school. Or college. Or last year. And that's good and that's normal and that's life. But as a result, I sometimes catch myself wishing that I was navigating an entirely different map.

Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure novels? I always read each of those books multiple times so I could choose a different option every time and eventually get to experience them all. I had to know what all the possibilities were, what all the endings might be. And when I think of my life, I see it as a Choose Your Own Adventure. Except I don't get to try out all the options. I don't get to do it all. After I live this life, I don't get to go back again and have a different adventure. This time, I actually have to CHOOSE. And with each choice, I create more possibilities but I close the doors to just as many.

Sometimes when I really think about what I want to have experienced in my only life, it seems very clear to me that I won't be satisfied if I don't live the lives I long for. In those moments, relocating to Paris doesn't seem so far-fetched. Dropping everything to write a novel seems perfectly plausible. I only get one chance, so why the hell not go for it? The problem is that many of the adventures I want aren't compatible. I can't live my life in close proximity to my family and also experience the romance of starting over in a new place. I can't experience motherhood and also choose a child-free life. I can't be a teacher and a National Geographic photographer and a novelist and a doctor. I can't be a sexy single and still share my life with the man I love, a man who, incidentally, I believe is one of many 'soul mates' I might have met. I can't possibly live all the lives I can dream up for myself. And that kills me because I hate missing out on anything. I hate being held back - and yet what's holding me back are the other things I want for myself.

I know the answer is to be happy with what you have. And I am in no way suggesting that I want to swap lives. But, to be honest, I'm not sure I can feel fulfilled knowing I'll never get to experience all the stuff I'm missing. I guess that's the tragedy of mortality - that looking back over a lifetime and treasuring all the things that happened all the while wondering about all the things that didn't. That couldn't.

Awhile back Cat wrote a post that really resonated with me. I don't think I've found what I'm looking for, either, but I guess that's because I'm looking for too many things.

Among the stuff Doreen got me for Christmas? BACON BAND-AIDS. I know, right? Awesome. And also...a bacon air freshener! That smells like, you know, BACON.

As a kid, searching for the perfect Christmas tree was quite the event. My parents would take us to the Christmas tree farm and we'd wander around and size up every single one. The best part was getting to help saw down the tree. You know, with one of those little handsaws the farm people give you. My brother is five years younger than me, so there were several years that I got to do all the sawing because he was too little. Of course, he wanted to help, so my parents, in their infinite wisdom, let him help "hold" the tree while I sawed. My dad was actually holding it, but my brother got to wrap his little mitten-covered hands around the trunk, too. His arms were too short to reach through the branches, though, so the only place he could grip was at the bottom. You know, where I was sawing. And yeah, the year he was three, I totally sawed into his fingers. I am not EVEN joking, people. I sawed right into his teeny toddler fingers! And he SHRIEKED. And WAILED. And BLED. And my parents were pissed at me. But it totally wasn't my fault! What genius puts his hands in the path of a handsaw, especially one being wielded by one's older sister who has NOT forgotten one's hair-yanking and Barbie-snatching shenanigans? Okay no, I actually didn't do it on purpose. Truly. Although I have to say, looking back on it, that's one of my favorite holiday memories. Probably not among my brother's Top Ten, but that's just because he has no sense of humor.

He also has no sense of aesthetic, at least when it comes to trees. My brother and I could never agree on which of the many trees at the farm should be our Christmas tree. As a result, there was always much bickering and bribing and threats of finger sawing. One year my brother chose a tree that was particularly terrible - it was crooked and scraggly and ugly. Even my parents thought so. But my brother insisted that my dad put his handkerchief on it to mark it as The One while we looked around at other options. So my dad did, and then when my brother wasn't looking, my dad switched the handkerchief to the tree I wanted which was not crooked or scraggly but beautiful. It's not that he was playing favorites - it's just that my brother's tree sucked. I would think my brother would have been perplexed by my sudden willingness to reconsider "his" tree followed by my exuberant agreement that in fact "his" tree was indeed quite lovely. But perhaps he chalked it up to Christmas goodwill. Or perhaps he believed in the amazing conversion powers of his ugly-ass tree. Or perhaps he was quite simply a nimwit. Point is, his ignorance was my bliss. And that was the day I determined that my dad was totally cool.

Now I know that sounds sorta sneaky of my dad, but when you think of the Santa lies that parents tell their kids, you realize that deceit runs rampant during the holidays. I learned this lesson early on when, at age four, I discovered the truth about Santa. I had asked my mom if reindeer really fly. I was not a skeptical, scientific child, and knowing myself as well as I do, it seems obvious to me that this question was asked in awe, not as a request for empirical evidence. But my mom took my inquiry as a sign that I was ready to hear the truth - which, yeah, I totally wasn't, because when she told me that not only do reindeer not actually fly, but Santa Claus does not actually (gasp) exist, apparently I did not speak to her for several days. I do not remember this AT ALL - certainly I blocked my mother's transgression from memory in order to cope. But I can imagine how enraged I must have been that she'd had the audacity to tell me that Santa didn't exist and then, once that fact had sufficiently sunk in, how furious I must have been all over again to realize that she had lied to me from Day One. You can see how the whole thing would have caused a bit of an existential crisis. However, the next year, in kindergarten, I remember feeling much smarter than all those poor suckers who still believed The Santa Myth and so I suppose that made up for it.

***

Rob and I wish all of you - our in-person friends and my blog family - a very happy holiday.