Well, here I am again. As spring emerges, I find myself in the annual "panic." My summer clothes don’t fit!

Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. I worked out in the morning and went grocery shopping around lunchtime. Grocery shopping! After putting the food away and throwing a load of laundry in, I sat on my couch scrolling TikToks filled with people partying in bars, Irish music blasting in the background, yelling things like “Slainte” or “Pog Mo Thoin.” Sitting there in my sweatpants, it suddenly dawned on me that I had entered yet another new phase of life. I had become the polar opposite of the St. Patrick’s Day girl I used to be. How in the hell did I get this old?

I have a love-hate relationship with airports. I love them because if I’m in them, it typically means I’m traveling somewhere, which is a passion of mine. But I also hate airports because I have a pretty significant fear of flying. My stress and anxiety begin at least ten days before I get on a flight.

It’s been at least five years since I’ve gone to church. Lots of reasons, none of them good ones. I’m feeling tremendously guilty. I’m not sure if I’m done with being Catholic, done with physically going to church, or done with traditional religion. It’s been a constant source of contemplation for me.

I'm a diehard Gen-Xer. I learned everything I needed to know growing up by watching John Hughes movies (My favorite is Pretty in Pink - best soundtrack ever!) I have a lot of pride about being from Generation X and all that entails: our independence, laissez faire attitude, love of life, values. A large part of what goes along with being a Gen-Xer is our music.

I recently sold the curio cabinet that my husband and I have had for years. I’ve always hated it - dark wood with glass doors and shelves, not my style. It was, however, the perfect piece of furniture to hold all of our “good” stuff. You know, the Tiffany & Co. vase that my dad’s client gave us for our wedding, the commemorative church candles from each of our kids’ communions, the Wedgewood china ‘fruit and cream’ set sent from England on our first anniversary.

Today, I’m overthinking posting on TikTok. I’ve already started, and I am catching myself. What kind of lighting do I need? Should I get one of those ring light things? What should I say? Should I write a script? Who would sit through two minutes of me talking? How do I market my book on TikTok? How do I put a filter on? Will a filter hide my wrinkles? How many likes will I receive? How does one make a TikTok?

Mom didn’t like to be photographed. (Do any of us, really?) She never liked the way she looked in pictures, and therefore rarely volunteered to be in them; she much preferred to be behind the scenes.

Pouring through photographs a few days before my mom’s wake, I felt a sorrow separate from her death. I felt sadness that she saw herself as not “selfie worthy.”

What started out as an idea to help my high school daughter from crying over social media posts and spare her the embarrassment of not filling a function hall full of high school “friends,” turned out to be the best sixteenth birthday gift we could have given our kids.

Long before rollerblading was a thing, we had roller skating - with two wheels! In my hometown of Augusta, ME, my friends and I spent multiple evenings at “Happy Wheels Skate Center.” It was a whole thing: staking out our table and putting our jackets there so no one else could claim it, eating crappy pizza from the snack bar, popcorn peppered along the dark carpet with neon swirls, the smell of sweat in the air.

You’d think growing up in Maine, I’d be a winter bunny. But alas, I really belong in the south - in the heat and humidity and 90-degree weather. That’s my jam. Growing up in Maine winters meant shoveling, wood stoves, frozen hair after leaving YMCA swim practice to walk to the car, dry skin. I never embraced winter sports and was always cold. I couldn’t fathom how people would willingly be outside when the temperatures were below freezing.

Ken Coleman says, “your sweet spot lies at the intersection of your greatest strength and your greatest passion.” I quoted that to my sixteen-year-old son the other day as we were discussing what he wants to be when he grows up.

Just when I think I’ve sufficiently suppressed my Covid anger, resentment, and hurt - something pops up to bring the memories all back. Today it was the simple act of doing laundry. I washed my daughter’s “Covid hoodie.”

I’m now trusting in my belief that if you get out of your comfort zone, your real life will begin. “Leap and the net will follow” is what I've always told my kids. I am putting it to the test and buckling up.

I’m still a mom, of course, but a mom to adults, which is really strange.

They still need me, which I'm grateful for. They text me when they have arrived at a destination late at night or if they need ideas on how to answer an email or what medicine to buy for a head cold.

But, instead of reading them good night stories, I'm now reading their resumes.

College loans. Come on, people, is it just me?

Can we talk about people's personalities when they're walking, running, exercising on my local rail trail? SMH

I took a three-mile walk this morning around my neighborhood. It was 27 degrees out, but I was layered up and determined to stick to one of the many resolutions I had made for myself: exercising every day.