I love making lists. The more detailed the list, the better. (Read: The more chances I have to cross things off said list!) Although I have a deep affinity for creating lists, I do not have a Bucket List—that is, a list of things I want to do before I die. If you have one, I think you’re forward thinking and organized, and I’m a little bit jealous. As of right now, the only item I’d know to add to my informal and undocumented Bucket List is this: 1. Make a Bucket List So I have some . . .
It seems like all eyes are on April these days. You know April—the incredibly pregnant giraffe who gets the least private birthing room possible. For days, people have been tuning into the webcast, hoping their timing is such that they’ll be able to watch April birth the world’s newest giraffe. I haven’t watched any of the footage, mostly because, BEEN THERE, DONE THAT. I watched a giraffe being born decades ago and I feel like I’m just sort of “good” in that department . . .
I’m 33 today. Thirty-three! That’s only 7 years away from 40, and 47 years away from 80. So I’m basically 80. Just kidding. I know I'm not ancient, but I do feel older. (Have you ever noticed that older people telling you you're young isn't really helpful? We all feel older when we reach a new age!) So I've decided that I love 33. I’m embracing it. I’m welcoming it with warmth and kindness, mostly because I don’t have a choice—33 is here. It’s been about a decade now that I’ll arrive at my . . .
Growing up, my family was heavily involved in a performing arts ministry at our church. One year, I was somehow wrangled into singing a [horrific] solo while wearing a gigantic sunflower on my head, complete with a hole cut out in the middle for my face. Sometimes saying “yes” takes us to the most unexpected places. I’m recalling this memory so vividly right now because I want to write about how we should be more like flowers. It’s a strange concept and not a perfectly formed analogy, so I . . .
My husband and I recently went to a NFL playoff game. I was a fair-weather Seattle Seahawks fan when I met Darren, but marrying him made me an all-weather fan—the kind of fan who drives 7-hours one-way to attend a playoff game in support of the visiting team. We were full of excitement at the opportunity to see “our” team and visit a new city, but I hadn’t thought much about what it would be like to stand as the “outsider” in the Atlanta Falcon’s Georgia Dome. We were not just outnumbered; we . . .
I never really did get into making New Year’s resolutions, presumably for the same reason I never collected anything as a kid: nothing ever caught on. I’d soon lose track of the resolutions I wrote, much like how I would save a couple of bottle caps, call it a collection, and then completely forget about it. So as you can imagine, the beginning of January is tough for me. I’ll often try to treat it just like any other month, but our culture doesn’t. Everywhere I turn, I’m faced with ads not . . .