Owning Crazy

I think there are seemingly tiny moments in our life that burn bright and lasting in our memories.

One of those memories for me was from years ago, watching another woman on the treadmill at the gym.
I remember it so clearly, because we were the only two people on the cardio equipment that day (which is REALLY weird at an on-post gym.) She had chosen the machine in the front row, so I decided to take advantage of the extra space and chose a machine a couple rows behind her. I had the full intention of completely ignoring her that day---but y'all, she wouldn't let me.

I don't know if you've found this to be true for yourself, but I've decided that treadmills are about the loudest machines on the planet earth. There's no way to run with a dainty, light step on a treadmill. The thing whirs up, and you start running: Thud, thud, thud. If you're super lucky, you get one of the machines that rattles a little when you speed it up: Clickety-thud. Clickety-thud. Anyway, I must have landed on one of the winners, because I could tell the woman was pacing with me.
I would crank the thing up a little Beep, beep, beep! and she would answer a few seconds after me Beep, beep, beep! There was only two of us in there, but it sounded like a crazy herd of elephants on those treadmills THUD, THUD, THUD!!!

Now I'm not proud of it, but I admit I felt fully threatened by that lady on the treadmill. I was just trying to mind my own business and have a leisurely jog! How dare she try to compete with me?! Does she think she's going to BEAT ME?! Well, in that case...GAME ON, SISTER!! BEEP BEEP BEEP!!!
I refused to stop running before she did. That lady kept me on my toes for a solid ten minutes longer than I thought I could go. When she finally cranked down her machine for a cool down (with me following suit moments behind her,) she did the strangest thing...

She clapped. A lot. Like, several times.
Real big and loud over her head so I could see.

We never spoke a word to each other. Our entire interaction was race, clap, and leave. It was literally one of the most bizarre encounters I've ever had.

Basically, one of two things had happened here:
1. I imagined the entire "competition" and that lady just gave me a solid lesson about openly rooting for yourself.
2. I did not imagine the competition and that lady just gave me a solid lesson in pushing others past their comfort zones and cheering them on.
Either way, it was so wonderfully weird, I've never forgotten it.
***

Today will be another one of those tiny moments that burns bright for me.

You see, I started this blog in 2011 on a total whim. I maybe thought about it for a grand total of 15 minutes before I did it. I posted my first entry at 11:05 p.m.--which is confusing because I'm usually done being productive by about 6:30 every day. A whopping 19 people read it. It wasn't very good (for many, many reasons.)
Thankfully, I didn't realize it wasn't any good, so I kept on posting in it. Beep, clickety, thud...

My blog has been a spot for me to navigate thoughts about motherhood, deployments, moves, hopes and ambitions, simple musings, big scares, and maybe even a few identity crises. Seven years later, she's still here. I've had to knock the cobwebs off of her a few times, but I think she still shines up nicely.

It's a big day for my little blog. Maybe you noticed when you clicked on the link, but in case you missed it, look up at the web address.

See that?
The Crazy Woman Driver is finally legit!!
I'm so proud, I could clap really loudly over my head for everyone to see!

I have always had a hard time investing in myself. Always. For years I have basically been the girl positioned a few rows back trying to get some good work done, but not really trying to push myself or be seen. You know what it costs to own a domain? Twelve bucks.
Y'all, for seven years I had told myself that my thoughts weren't worth twelve bucks!! That is the level of self-doubt I was working with.
That is why this little entry is actually a big one.
That is why the weird, hand-clapping stranger is my champion (and probably why her lessons stuck after all these years.)

This flagship entry signifies so much more to me than simply writing under my dot-com. It's the day I rooted for myself. It's the day I pushed the girl I used to be past her comfort zone.
It's the day I finally owned my crazy :)

Who knows if that woman meant to clap for me or just herself. The fact is, she clapped for me anyway whether she meant to or not.
I don't know if there's something that you are hesitating to take on. I wish I could push that button for you to help you make the climb. I wish I could challenge you to do more than you thought you could. Friend, if I knew it would help, you better believe I would clap loudly all around you!!

I want you to own your moment too!
You are worth every bit of the investment.
Let's use little moments to do big things.
Beep, beep, beep!

Always cheering you on!!
Liz

Beauty Marks

When I was a little girl, my mom did a really fabulous job of making me feel beautiful. Every morning I would go into her bathroom and she would brush and style my hair according to my requests: curly, straight, crimped. High pony, topsy-turvy, "half up-half down." Finish with a bow and some Aqua Net. She had these really awesome vanity bulbs lining her mirror that made me feel like a movie star.
(Ahhhhh, the '90's!)

She called our little skin imperfections "beauty marks." I counted each one of them with pride. I honestly remember my younger self feeling concerned about the fact that my little sister had a beauty mark on her foot and I didn't. Every time I found another one, I was excited and not ashamed.

I remembered thinking it didn't matter that I had crooked teeth, because I still had a nice smile. It didn't matter if my hands were a little bit sweaty, because that meant I worked hard. It didn't matter if my elbows twisted out all double jointed-like, because that was just a neat trick I could do. It didn't matter if my arms and legs were too gangly for the rest of my body. That meant I was going to be really graceful one day.

My mama might have been a little too good at her job.
She once put me in an etiquette class at the mall, but I was convinced it was only because she wanted me to be in the fashion show at the end. I didn't pay much attention to the instructions about table manners or speaking quietly or walking down the stairs without looking at your feet. I was more concerned about rocking that sequined star baseball cap with my red tank top and denim skort. (Seriously, y'all. The '90's were the very best.)

My teenage years were as awkward as anyone's, but I didn't know it. These days I can't even fully describe how much I appreciate the fact that we didn't have Internet tutorials to show us the proper way to do things. I'm forever grateful I didn't have to master the smoky eye or painting on my eyebrows. I didn't have to have a clue what haircut was right for my face shape or what in the world highlighter did. In fact, I didn't have to know anything save "that's what Rachel from Friends did."
If I could gift that kind of freedom to teenage girls, I would have spent all of my money on presents by now. I firmly believe that every teenage girl should make the mistake of wearing a shade of eyeliner solely because it is your favorite color. (Lime green, and I wish I was kidding...)

A chronicle of me through the years. Top left: please note the wooden skewer holding up my hair. Bottom left: because nobody told me perms were a bad idea. Right: ombre before it was cool. I had bleached my hair completely blonde, and this was the final stage of that catastrophe.
Also 1. vest, 2. overalls, 3. That 70s Show.

But back to my mama.

I'm not sure if it was the deployments or my genetics, but I started going noticeably grayer in my late twenties. My mom had dyed her hair for as long as I could remember, but I had sworn it all away after the blonde fiasco. When I went to my mom for advice, she did what she had always done so well: she made me feel beautiful. Then she told me to consider letting nature take its course. (All these years later, it is still like mama is fixing my hair.)

At first going gray was exciting. I honestly didn't know a lot of people in my circle who were doing it, and so it felt like a special thing---like my double-jointed elbows! But after a while, the gray hairs kept coming in and I started to feel more...I don't know...alone?
What started out special began to feel like a blemish. People started commenting on it. A lot.
"Are you going to dye it?"
"You look so young! Are you sure?"
"Good for you! I would, but I'm afraid I'll look like a hag."
One time a complete stranger came to my door to try to sell me something, stopped mid-sales pitch and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't help asking. Are those gray hairs real?"

Boy, you best get yourself off the porch step!

I don't know what it is about going gray, but people find it confusing. Why would you want to look old? Why would you let your flaws show if you could fix it? And to their benefit, we really don't have many examples of people who choose to just let their hair alone. I figure I'm about as weird as a person with unicorn hair would have been to me in the '90's. I get it. It's different.

But letting nature take its course isn't giving up on beauty.
And aging isn't a blemish that has to be covered up.

The funny thing about feeling alone is that you almost never are.
So to all of my friends that may be feeling flawed:

Your gray hairs glitter just as much as any highlight.
Those wrinkles? Some of the best ones are the laugh lines that you earned. The furrows on your brow are from caring about things.
Those sun spots are there because you've spent days in the sun!
Your hands will start to show some wear, because you've done some good things with those hands.
Those marks on your belly are evidence of the life it held.
The scars on your body declare the battles you've won.
Your tired feet are carrying you through a life well lived.

Those things you think are imperfections are really just your beauty marks.
Number them, and be proud.

The Timer

Hi, sweet friends! How have y'all been?!

I decided there would be no truer version of myself to deliver to you than to write a New Year's post at the end of February. So if you've already fallen off your resolution wagon, or you're a procrastinator like me and are just getting started, this one's for you :)
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I just want to declare it once and for all: January is a stupid month.

It knows it's stupid, too. Out of bitterness, January makes us stop having fun on December 26th. All of the magical Christmas decor gets shoved into a corner of a store in a hasty pile and forgotten, all the twinkle lights come down, and all the kale comes out. And listen, I don't have anything against kale--I just get agitated that for two solid weeks after Christmas it is impossible to navigate through the produce aisle *and* I get judged for buying eggnog 70% off.
Why can't we have fun and goals, January? Why can't I work and celebrate? Why do we have to forsake one for the other?

I didn't agree with the message it was sending, so I basically boycotted January (which was fun until the eggnog ran out.) The problem with "taking it easy" while the rest of the world is busy setting goals is that it inevitably makes you feel like a lazy turd. Goals are good and ambitions are necessary for a life well lived.
But after living as an outsider these past months watching everyone else perfect their "hustle," I can fairly say that not everything needs hustle. Hard work and hustle are not always synonymous. In fact, sometimes hustle just makes things harder.

I recently just completed a 30-day ab challenge in 60 days...because my abs do life at their own speed.
The first time I did this workout series, I completed every workout on its specific day, and I ended up straining my obliques and had to see a doctor. Even after my doctor's visit, I kept doing the workouts LIKE AN IDIOT because I didn't want to lose progress or get off pace with the program. Did I complete the program? Sure! Did I maximize the health benefits from those exercises? Heck no! In fact, it took me a while to be able to work out at all after that because I needed serious rest and healing.
This time around, I listened to my body the whole time. Some days I could add additional weights. A week later, I needed to modify and reduce back down again. Sometimes I could squeeze more reps in than the instructor. Sometimes I needed an extra rest day. Sometimes, I needed to do an easy run instead of doing a floor routine. Sometimes, I needed a beer and a taco.
Did I complete the program? Yes! Did I maximize the health benefits from those exercises? I'm not sure, but I do know I'm not laying on the floor like Joey Tribbiani. (Dang you, fifteens!)

The craziest thing in my quest to achieve the "it" that I'm looking for in this season of life is that I'm acting like I'm racing against timer--and then if the timer dings, that somehow means I have to stop trying. Some things in life are like that, sure. But I'd bet not as many as we think there are. In fact, I believe second chances come around way more than two times. And if you'll grant me the license to dream a bit here, I'd venture to guess that a good many of our goals and aspirations don't come with an expiration date. So long as we're pursuing them, we just get a little bit closer...however slowly...till it's ours.

Our problem is that we either wear ourselves out racing the imaginary timer; or we think the imaginary timer dinged, so we just stop trying.


Let's live in the land of "what if" for a minute...
What if you don't complete your New Year's Resolution by December 31st? Would that mean your goal stops being achievable?
Does it stop being a goal for you after that? Would you not want it just as much for yourself a week later? A month later?
Who told you that good goals would be any less good if they were reached in two years? Five years? Ten years?

Who told us that goals had to be accomplished neatly in a 365-day window?!?

Here's the deal. Maybe we aren't going to make the December 31st deadline this year and we already know it. Maybe these two months have just been the absolute busiest, or the absolute worst...or even the absolute best in an unexpected way that skewed your schedule. (Or maybe you boycott January like someone else I know.)
Let's shatter the illusion that goals ding on a timer and then we have to stop moving. Let's quit believing the lie that aspirations have an expiration date. Let's use our days, one at a time, to just get a little bit closer to the things we're reaching for...however slowly...till they're all ours.

Sometimes it's hard to see what those small, slow steps are doing. But I guarantee you those small steps matter, friend.
Take it from the girl who uses 60 days for her 30-day programs but has been working out consistently for ten years.

The only way your timer really dings is if you quit.



Happy New Year, y'all ;)