The SECRET REASON I’ve been a half-assed blogger all of these years.

I can’t even believe this is true, but I’ve been blogging for 6 years now. SIX!

I realize this type of statement is the kind of things people (like me) start to say at a certain age when time suddenly starts flying by at record speed and they can’t believe the cashier at the register didn’t even card them when they bought wine and, even worse, they not only didn’t card them but quickly hit the “Recognized Over 40” button.

Other statements people like me (okay, okay, ME) say at this stage in life are, “I mean, I don’t fit into a bikini by any stretch of the imagination, but eh, things could be worse.” and “Oh my god, I have to work with the NEW person? The whippersnapper fresh out of college? Jesus, I’m not sure I have the patience for this” and “I’d go with you, but I’m not sure if my hip will hold up.”

Everyone else on the planet hears those statements and nods their heads and rolls their eyes and says, “yes, yes, all of this is expected, why are you blathering on about it?” and I know this because I’ve done it a million times myself – but for some reason when it’s ME, I just can’t help it. The words just unexpectedly come out of my mouth as fast and as furious as a bout of food poisoning – a regurgitated cliche.

I knew I’d get older, of course, but I didn’t realize that I’d never actually FEEL older. (Which is why older adults act just as petty and ridiculous as the whippersnappers straight out of college, or even the kindergarteners straight out of pre-school, but that’s an issue to take up in another post). It’s alarming, really, to look around at all the white-haired people around me and realize how much talent and insight and wisdom I had previously not noticed or ignored.

I’m sorry, I haven’t blogged in like 5 months and all of sudden I can’t stop talking to you. I digress.

I have always enjoyed writing and thought of myself as a writer, however, right before embarking on this blogging adventure it hit me that I hadn’t written at all since college – which meant 11 years of non-existent writing. Writers don’t like it when they realize they haven’t been writing, just like old people don’t like it when they realize they’ve wasted a lot of precious time.

I desperately needed to practice writing. And not just because of my age. But because of My Secret.

When I started this blog, I knew nothing about blogging. I didn’t read even read other people’s blogs. I started blogging because I needed to practice my writing and I needed a place to put it and because of my age I needed it NOW.  One of my friends started a blog and I thought, “Oh, there’s a place I could keep my writing all in one spot. On the internet! Sure, why not? I hear there is a lot of room there.” (She’s become a rich and famous blogger lady by the way, and here I am writing my first post in months.)

But, little did I know when I started that having this spot was paramount to keep me interested and invigorated and most importantly – WRITING. At first, I had no clue what to write about so I started writing about my horrific sleep and my insane dreams because those were a constant in my life – but it wasn’t long before I started writing whatever else came to my mind – and I was shocked to discover how cathartic writing about my issues with infertility, anxiety and depression were. I was shocked to learn that I really loved writing poetry. I was shocked to learn that people other than my mother started reading what I wrote.

I was even more shocked when writing about parenting gave rise to being published on Huffington Post, Working Mother, For Every Mom, Faith It, Motherly, Mumsnet, Parenting.com, YourTango, and actually being paid to write for Bottles and Heels, Sivana Spirit and Kids Safety Network.

But all of that was just a bonus.

The real prize was that I was making progress on My Secret.

Okay, okay, okay – WHAT SECRET? I can hear you yelling this from your computer.

I was secretly working on a project to preserve the life stories of my in-laws. They were in on the secret, but the rest of my husband’s family didn’t know. My inlaws didn’t at all live a life that I can relate to – they grew up as goat herders who lived at the top of a remote mountain in Greece – yet they themselves are so relatable.

And they are getting older.

There was no way I was going to let my children grow up without knowing who their grandparents were.

So, I started writing down their stories. I listened to all of their amazing memories and typed my heart out. Along the way, I was loved and my kids were being loved and we were all constantly FED. YOU GUYS HOW WE HAVE BEEN FED! So, I wrote and wrote and I ate and I wrote and edited and edited and screamed and cursed and gave up for awhile and started again and I ate again and gave up again and started again and eventually I FINISHED.

 

I wrote all of the stories they could tell me about their lives from birth until their arranged marriage in their early twenties and it turned into a book. Through it all, I wrote about the process of getting those stories, which was not always easy, I tell ya!

And I finished in time for them to read it. To enjoy it. To hopefully read it with their grandchildren someday. And I am so grateful for that.

So, now that you know why I’ve been here all this time, you can understand why I only had time, energy, and desire to post sporadically and why I am at a bit of a crossroads now that the book is finished. I’ve valued this blogging experience so much that I’ll probably keep doing it though.

So the secret is out – I’m excited I can share their stories with you soon, too, because it’s on its way to being self-published.

If you’ve liked what you’ve read here, or if you know what it’s like to have a parent or a grandparent who came from the Old Country, or who just lived a whole different life compared to one you have, I think you will be able to relate to what I’ve written about preserving their stories, or watching them impart their take on life on me and my kids or maybe even having a hard time understanding what the hell it is they are talking about because I can in no way relate to their experiences. Other than the human experiences of family and giving and love.

Also, if you love food. Because I’ve included a lot of her recipes.

Post to come soon with an excerpt and a link to where it can be purchased.

 

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8 Ways I’m Aging That Totally Snuck Up On Me

I’m no longer young.
This awareness didn’t hit me all at once, it occurred gradually over an extended period of time. You know how old-school glass windows flow downward, but the flow happens so slowly you can’t see it happening, it just eventually becomes obvious that the bottom of the window is much thicker than the top? The accumulation of evidence that proved I am passed my prime happened sort of like that.These are the types of things that have been slowing increasing in frequency and intensity:
 
Explanations.Younger people have started explaining simple things to me because they assume I’m too old to have an understanding of them on my own. I’m a high school teacher so I’m surrounded by teenagers. The other day, one of my students looked at me and said, “Your haircut is fresh!” before sitting down at his desk and flipping through the pages of a book. After a moment, he paused, looked up and added, “That means it looks good”. If I overhear a group of students talking about something they saw on Instagram or Vine, inevitably one of them will turn to me and give me a simplified synopsis of what Instagram or Vine is. They’re shocked if they find out that I know how Group Me works, or that I use Snapchat. Similarly, I find myself explaining what it was like back in the day when we used encyclopedias and didn’t have Google.
Fears. Things I never thought twice about when I was younger I now have to purposefully push out of my mind to keep from losing it. Having an aneurysm. Getting murdered while out on a jog. Anything related to my children getting hurt. Most of my fears seem to be health-related. I now even view the equipment at the playground as dangerous. I often catch myself holding my breath when my kids go down the slide by themselves, even though my rational self understands that the damage would be minimal. Me, though? The last time I went down a slide I tweaked my hamstring badly enough to make me terrified of getting seriously wounded if I were to ever try that again. Which I won’t.
Wrinkles. I remember waking up in the morning several years ago and noticing a couple of deep horizontal creases across the entire width of my forehead. I thought it was because I had slept particularly poorly the night before. Now, the horizontal creases are in no way correlated to the quality of my sleep. That’s just how my forehead looks now. It’s not just my face, it’s my entire body. I work out regularly but no matter how fit I become I’ve got an undeniable sagging situation going on. Under my belly button. Above my knees. My skin’s elasticity used to be as snappy as a rubber band, but now its resiliency is more on par with silly putty.
Aging: WRINKLES and GRAYS! Oh my.
Aging: WRINKLES and GRAYS! Oh my.
Ouchies. I have a few bodily injuries that have been progressively getting worse. These afflictions can not be explained by any sort of trauma, they’re just happening because my body is starting to wear out. I can no longer sleep on my side in bed because my shoulders begin to ache. The joint on my right foot has been bugging me; I think I might be developing a bunion. I’m not even entirely sure what a bunion is, but I can’t deny that I am aging when I start using the word “bunion” in any sentence referencing myself.
I.D.s. I’ve stopped getting carded. If I am asked to remove my license from my wallet, it is due to a strict policy rather than a legitimate query. When this transition began, it shocked me more than it should have. I must’ve been in denial that others could see the gray hairs and crow’s-feet. I’ve crossed over into acceptance and now I’m comfortable being referred to as, “Ma’am” instead of, “Miss” by the bartender. I find myself getting annoyed on the rare occasions when I do get carded because it means I have to wait 30 seconds longer for my server to get my beer.
Hangovers. While I certainly still enjoy having a drink or two, I can’t drink all night long anymore. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. My stomach gets too full or I end up with a headache or I stay up way too late, and then I get pissed off because I end up wasting the next morning not feeling well or sleeping in. Two nights in a row of staying up late and drinking is pretty much out of the question. It’s a good thing I’m okay with that because my metabolism is no longer capable of keeping up with all of those extra calories.
Aging: Hangovers are the worst and metabolism is SLOOOWWWING DOWN.
Aging: Hangovers are the worst and metabolism is SLOOOWWWING DOWN.
Confidence. I’m comfortable in my own (saggy) skin. I do not care if other people think I’m good-looking. In fact, I hardly even care if I think I’m good-looking.  I haven’t dyed my hair in a decade and it is not uncommon for me to go an entire day without brushing it. I don’t have time to care that much about looks because I’m busy focusing on things that actually matter. Not being fixated on the mirror allows me to target what is truly invigorating and important to me. This is incredibly liberating.
Happiness. I’ve settled down. I have an occupation, a home, a family. I’m passed the stage of figuring out what I’m going to do with my life and I’m able to focus on how I’m going to live it. I’m beyond self-consciousness and self-doubt. I okay with who I am, flaws and all, and that allows me to focus on fostering happiness. As a result, I’ve never been more content than I am now.
It’s no longer a sneaking suspicion, it’s been confirmed that I’m no longer young.  And I’m okay with that

5 Reasons Your Thirties Are Your Best Decade

My little sister turns thirty today.  THIRTY!  I’m pretty sure that even though we used to be seven years apart, she’s catching up to me and we’re getting closer and closer to converging at the same age.  That’s possible, right?

I remember waking up on my 30th birthday and startling myself by starting to cry.  I wasn’t even sure why, but for some reason turning thirty hit me much harder than I thought it would.  Maybe it was because I didn’t know what the next decade would bring and the unknown can be scary.  Maybe it was because I wasn’t measuring up to the expectations I had set for myself by this milestone.  Maybe I was panicking about the fact that I could no longer deny that I was actually an adult, so I knew I had to start acting like one.

Little sister, if you’re having any of those anxieties, don’t fret.  Your thirties are going to be the best decade.  Here’s why:

1. The panicky “What am I going to do with my life?” self-questioning ends. At least sort of.  Resume creation turns into resume updating and job interviews become easier because you actually have relevant experience you can expound upon (much better than having to make up bullshit about how your job waiting tables has prepared you to be an excellent project manager). After your first “real” job or two you have a trajectory to follow, a sense of where your current job could lead to, something you couldn’t fathom when you first graduated from college.  Each piece of training, each gain in proficiency is a unique little snowflake, and you continue to build your repertoire of involvement and competencies, creating a gusty little success storm.  Before you know it, your self-assurance and your expertise snowball into an avalanche of amazingness.

2. You stop renting with roommates.  Finally you escape the financial need for roommates and you get out on your own, or you start living with someone because you actually like them and you want to, not because you found them through a desperate newspaper ad because you had to.  Now you only have to deal with your own dust, your own dishes, your own pile of hair stuck in the drain at the bottom of the tub.  (Why is your own pile of hair so much less disgusting than your roommate’s?)  It’s true that home ownership can be a huge pain in the ass at times, but it’s worth not having to split the cable bill with a potential psychopath.

3. You decide whether or not you want to have kids. For some of us that decision can be hard, agonizing even, trying to weigh the pros and cons of maintaining freedoms like endless traveling, drinking margaritas at the bar until 11:00 pm every Thursday night, and comfortably retiring at an early age, versus bearing the great responsibility of having little mini-yous running around the house, ruining your furniture and obliterating any chance you might have had at staying up past 9 pm (even on the weekend) or buying that yacht when you’re in your fifties.  It’s an important decision.  A defining one.  So, it’s a relief when you figure out where you stand.

4. You become comfortable in your own skin.  You’re in good shape (quite possibly the best shape of your life) and you finally figure out what kind of clothes flatter your figure, which is no longer changing as wildly as it did in your teens and early twenties. You’re fit and you’re cute, and to top that off you begin to understand that looks don’t actually matter all that much, so you stop wasting time meticulously anointing yourself with eyeliner and foundation, or applying, taking off and reapplying mascara, or trying on a million outfits before deciding what to wear when you go out.  You free up a lot of valuable time and you master the art of the messy bun. This combination of physical strength and mental confidence make you the sexiest you’ve ever been.

5. You figure out how to prioritize your time. This is the decade when you acknowledge that having a steady paycheck and a job with benefits is important.  But you’re also beginning to notice how nutrition affects your energy levels, how good friends and work-life balance affect your well-being, how spending time with loved ones and how exercise and books and yoga (or whatever your hobbies of choice may be) are what enable you to fully inhale. And after you notice, you start planning and scheduling those things in. In other words, you finally figure out how to take care of yourself. This is the decade where you begin mastering the art of adulting.

The Thirties might be intimidating to the youngins who are worried about being over the hill, but those of us who have already crossed that hump know how awesome this decade really is.

Happy 30th, little sees.  Welcome to your best decade yet.

5 Reasons Your Thirties Are Your Best Decade
5 Reasons Your Thirties Are Your Best Decade

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