Day 40: What's an Addict Without a God to Blame it on?

Because I apparently love to write about addictions, today’s blog is about addiction therapy, specifically, ore to the point, the ever-popular 12-step program. I have a huge problem with the “steps.” From the outset, this program is biased and guaranteed to fail for the segment of society that does not believe in a higher power. The program is specifically designed so that each . . . stepper(?) must turn his or her life over to their higher power in recognition that they are not in control and helpless over their addiction. I have so many problems with this philosophy, but I also have issues with some aspects of group discussion as well. Let’s break it down, shall we?

First, let’s talk loss of control. Isn’t this concept a convenient little cop-out. So I get to behave badly, alienate friends and family, act irresponsibly, and generally cave in to self-destructive gluttony as long as I also acknowledge that it’s not my fault. I was acting under the influence of a disease. I am helpless to fight my own compulsions because I am powerless to stop them. Well, how fortuitous, when you feel a big weekend coming up. Silly, I can’t control my (insert bad behavior here), I am an addict. I just had to eat three large pizzas/drink a bottle of tequila/bang the rugby team/gamble the mortgage payment away I’m an addict!

Whatever happened to self-control? Are we no loner accountable for our own poor choices if there is an argument to be made for addiction? For that matter, wouldn’t we all like to be compulsive about some things? Painkillers are fantastic. The bottle of vicodin the doctor gave me for my migraines almost made me believe in God on a daily basis it felt so good. Vegas practically makes me want to sell my unfertilized eggs for the possibility of one more bet. Whiskey . . . well, what don’t I love about my beautiful caramelized friend? My point is that when you find something you love or do something that makes you feel good you want to keep doing it. We could all be addicts if it weren’t for a little think called self-control.

Blaming your actions on being helpless to stop them is like bashing your evil, annoying Stepfather in the head with a baseball bat because his skull was there and the bat was in your hand. Who are you to decide that your behavior is wrong and proactively make a decision to not do something destructive? It’s not your fault. It’s not like you have free will and are accountable for your actions. Oh wait, yes you are. In every aspect of life we are expected to tow the line and be a productive, law-abiding part of society. If I just get blind during a particularly devoted night at the pub no one is going to give me a pass the next day. I am still expected to fulfill my obligations, but if I am an addict it is beyond my control. I have a disease.

So fine, I have a disease, what’s next? Oh, the 12-step program. Okay, so I do this, this, and th—wait, what? Seven of the 12 steps are revolve around the acceptance, belief, and devotion to God or a Higher Power. I’m perfectly willing to ignore some glaring conflicts with the steps as written, but this God thing is killing me. So if I am an atheist and an addict, then what, I am just fucked? Come on, there isn’t anything you can do. There’s not some extra credit “I’m powerless” homework I can do to compensate for the God is the only thing that can save and fix me? This program sucks!

Here’s my favorite step, it’s number five: Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. Well hell, if I knew the exact nature of my wrongs I wouldn’t need this stinking program. Clearly I’m hear because I’m screwed up and have taken more than a few wrong turns. By the time I get to the point where I’ve got all that figured out isn’t the program pretty redundant? Also, if God is all knowing why do I need to admit anything to her? Shouldn’t God already know that I’m fucked up and why; do I really need to have that conversation laying it all out? I don’t know, I just don’t get it.

If it works for some people I’m glad, but it really scares me that if I do develop an addiction (and I hope it’s a fun one like to gambling or donuts) then am I just doomed because I do not believe in the higher power as it pertains to the steps? I am not a bad person just because I do not share mainstream beliefs, I certainly don’t think I should be doomed to suffer a life of uncured disease, but what choice do I have? Oh yeah, the choice to take responsibility and to hold myself accountable for my actions. We all have a choice; it’s just more difficult for some of us than others. For instance, I have difficulty not wanting to run the slow-moving idiots who consistently drive in the left lane off the road, getting out of my car and screaming at them, but I don’t. I make a deliberate choice to just flash my brights at them, scream from my car window and make rude gestures. Just because something is difficult does not mean you are powerless against it. Maybe you are just weaker or possibly because the destructive behavior always feels so good you don’t want to stop. Think about it, no one is ever addicted to unpleasurable things. You never see a 12 step program devoted to people who just can’t stop pumping gas in their cars, or waxing their bikini line, or talking to their in-laws (not you of course, Ma and Pa Bramlett). Shouldn’t addictions affect us in all sorts of behavioral ways and not just things that religious morality deems inappropriate or dangerous to your soul?

Lastly, the group discussions crack me up. For instance, a two-minute search online will describe meetings for sex addicts or sexaholics as they are sometimes called. These meetings are set up much the same as the typical substance abuse or gambling groups. A bunch of people sharing and admitting to the same behaviors sit in a room and recount their experiences. The best part, is that most of these meetings are mixed gender, although there do exist all female or male groups. So let me get this straight. I go to a meeting. I listen to other sexaholics talk about how they were out banging all weekend, busting a nut at every opportunity, and in every way imaginable. Then I get up (so to speak) and reveal my own out of control sexual antics and how I cannot resist the urge to open the vault to any willing takers. Hmmm. So, it’s kind of like a verbal porn? Seriously, isn’t this like having an open bar at an AA meeting? I’m in!

I am not belittling addiction or the recovery process. I am simply stating a much overlooked opinion that if one is not a believer in God or in the idea that one is not able to control one’s own impulses then there is no path to reform. I would like to believe that will power and self-awareness could be learned behaviors just as much as smoking pot is not a choice but an innate desire one cannot resist. We too readily buy into the addiction as disease argument without considering that possible, the disease isn’t the behavior, but the mindset that one is not strong enough or capable enough to be responsible. This is a more dangerous mindset in my opinion, for it weakens us as people and denies our most important right as human beings: free will.

Day 39: Get Corporate America Out of Your Womb!

I am getting more than a little tired of people popping out six or eight babies at a time and expecting others to help subsidize their island nation. If you choose to have a litter, rather than a child, than it should still fall on you to subsidize their feed . . . I mean, food. I do realize that having so many children at once is a tremendous burden on emotional and financial resources, I can barely support myself how do you support six at once? At the same time, no one forced you to go forth and propagate so readily. I would like to propose that henceforth, all corporations and charities focus their donations to the needy TO THE FUCKING NEEDY!

I’m not saying they don’t need the money, but what they need more is some common sense and a little restraint. When people have six kids the hard way no one gives them washers and dryers or crates of diapers. They support themselves because they chose to have a large family and are taking on the financial burden along with the emotional blessing. Please don’t tell me it was God’s will. They got fertility treatment and yes, if you believe in it maybe God did bless them with a stockpile of embryos, but first God also decided maybe they shouldn’t have babies, hence they were infertile. Maybe that was God’s will and the fertility treatment was science. Either way, the choice to pump oneself full of drugs and fertilize a pile of eggs is done through free will, not divine intervention.

Once the decision is made to spawn said litter it is quite apparent that at least one full-time care-giver will be required, so it is out of the question for both parents to go back to work, or if you are a single parent as is the case of the OctoMom, then you have no choice and no income. I get all this, but I also believe that having a child is a privilege and not a right. It is your responsibility to ensure that when you choose to bring a child into the world—and make no mistake, it is definitely a choice—then you are ethically required to provide for that child. You should be able to feed, clothe, house, and educate your children. If you cannot do this, than perhaps you should become a mentor or foster parent to share your life with a child.

Do not misunderstand, I am not saying that only the rich should procreate, I am simply stating that whatever your income level, you need to be able to provide. It makes no difference if their clothes come from Wal-Mart or Nordstrom’s. The point is that there is clothing, or food, or whatever. For most people this is not an issue, though certainly it can be hard. As a child growing up in a single parent family, my Mother earned poverty level wages and refused to accept welfare assistance, it was very difficult, but she did it. So we had “breakfast night” because eggs are cheap, or grilled cheese and Campbell’s soup, it didn’t matter to us and she did her best. No one wend hungry, but she did make some sacrifices.

I do not believe that it is our job or that of government or corporations to provide for the greedy. I am a “raging liberal hippy” as a friend once called me, so yes, I too believe in the virtues of welfare, but not for those who purposely put themselves in a situation in which they will need financial assistance. The Gosselins and OctoMoms of the world must rely on the assistance of a public that feels obligated to help. What most amazes me about this isn’t their generosity, but the fact that we have impoverished people in our own nation and around the globe that cannot feed themselves or even one child and we call them lazy and mock their condition.

I think any act of kindness and generosity is beautiful, but I also believe that we have an obligation to help those with legitimate need. How can we dismiss every homeless person the world over and yet feel it is justified to help an over-privileged few who could afford fertility treatments in the first place, not just to get by, but to have top of the line appliances, clothing, etc.?

Every time an OctoMom gets free formula or diapers it degrades the hard work of real parents struggling to make a life for their family. I’m not sure if our fascination with the overhyped and un-entitled will ever dissipate, but I hope along with the novel supersized families out there we start to see the real families in need. There’s a little place called New Orleans that we’ve all forgotten about and could use some help, there are families in crisis in every major city in the country, and I’m pretty sure there is more than a little poverty happening in more than a few third world nations. Maybe GE should send some of these people a dishwasher, maybe Gerber would care to feed some starving infants in Zimbabwe, and just for kicks let’s see if the Ace of Cakes or Orange County Choppers feel like visiting some people in real need instead of another TV family to pillage ratings. For that matter, let’s stop using our wombs as a PR tool and get back to caring about people who are already here and not for ratings or freebies, but because they are humans in need.

Day 38: Driving "the Husband" Crazy

Today I got a not so polite request from the husband to stop referring to him as “the husband.” Apparently, this is viewed by him as detached and disrespectful and he’s . . . well, let’s just say he’s not amused by my cavalier attitude. Which is interesting, because it amuses the hell out of me. I tried explaining to him that while I mean no disrespect, I also want to distance myself from the implied ownership of the phrase “my husband.” He’s not really mine. I mean, as of right now I am the only person married to him, at least to my knowledge, but he was a husband once before so to call him mine is really a little misleading. Luckily for Jeff (a.k.a. “the husband,” “my husband,” “world’s most patient man”), this is not my most annoying quirk. I have lots of them.

His favorite is probably my inability to let him drive anywhere, including down the street, without assuming he needs my direction and counsel. I don’t backseat drive to be annoying (why don’t they call it passenger seat driving I wonder?) I do it because I think he’s a shitty driver. I’m not just making this up, our records stand for themselves. Jeff has totaled at least one car completely as well as any number of other, more minor accidents. He is not forthcoming about his driving record so I can only assume it is because he has wrecked somewhere in the neighborhood of 37 cars, but I could be wrong.

I know for a fact that he has gotten way more tickets and been pulled over more than I have. True, I have the lead foot in the family, but I tend to notice the fuzz before they see me. Also, I suppose I should disclose that one of the reasons I have not been ticketed much is because I’m a girl with boobs and I can cry on cue. Get an older smoky who feels torn between wanting to be my Dad and ogle the goods and it’s a guaranteed warning. So to be fair, I have to admit that I probably would have a few more tickets if it weren’t for some genetic talent. Whatever, you’ve gotta use what nature gave you!

It’s not just so much that I give helpful advice while Jeff is driving, I also will criticize, yell, and mock with abandon. “Oh, my God! Are you kidding me? You totally could have made that turn, the other car was still like 20 ft away, just give it a little gas and try to only use two wheels. That really helps with the tight turns.” Comments like this are not as appreciated by the hus--, I mean, by my beloved husband as I would think they should be. I mean, if I were bad at something, I like to think that I would be grateful for the helpful advice of a skilled partner. Just because said advice is delivered with mocking derision and sarcasm doesn’t mean it’s not valid.

When we lived in the city owning a car was pointless until the last year when Major Bramlett began teaching at West Point and needed to commute. I never drove, preferring the merits of a bright yellow car that pulled up for you whenever you raised a magical hand. Wondrous vehicles the taxi, smelly, but lovely for their sheer convenience. Seriously, is there anything better after a night out eating and drinking too much with friends than to raise your dainty hand only to have a carriage miraculously appear to ferry your drunken ass home? I wonder on what day God created the taxi?

Anyway, the car came late and it wasn’t until our unfortunate move to Leavenworth, KS in 2007 that I began driving. Being behind the wheel is a sport I adore. Complete control, speed, power, and solitude, what’s not to love? Judging from Jeff’s reaction, I’m guessing he doesn’t love it quite as much. Driving is a chore to him normally, add my big mouth to it and it becomes somewhere between the seventh ring of hell and the childhood of Britney Spears’ kids. I’m sort of a lot to take on a good day, add to it my derision and sarcasm and it’s a wonder he didn’t forcibly remove me from the vehicle somewhere between Kansas and North Carolina.

Eventually, that wonderful husband that I have bought and purchased in the state of Nevada and branded with a band of platinum realized that it would be easier to just give in and let me drive. After the first few battles he decided the emasculation of being ferried about by a chick was nowhere near as harsh as my continual commentary. We had less uncomfortable moments after he just gave in. Now he sits passively in the passenger seat and to his credit he never says a word. I can take an exit ramp at 80mph and he will look at the window and comment on the cloud formations. I’ll go off the road slightly when I happen to notice a particularly pretty hydrangea bush and he acts as if driving down the middle of the road is normal. I’ve taken ice at full speed, speed bumps at 50, interstates at 127 and he never says a word.

I am starting to think that being MY husband is not the joy I always assumed it would be. Maybe I am, in actuality, a huge pain in the ass. I mean, if it takes this much inner strength just to tolerate my driving, what else must he be enduring. We have lived together for five years. Is it possible I am not the joy I thought I was? Could my insistence on control in most things mean he is secretly plotting my murder? Maybe I’m not that bad. Then again, maybe I’m worse. Then again, if he’d just learn to drive, I wouldn’t have to keep trying to teach him myself. Oh, that husband of mine. For $250 and a trip to Vegas you too can own a husband. Just remember to claim him properly, definite articles are apparently a very big deal.

Day37: The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable

Lying. Today I delve into the deep pits of secrets and lies and why we do it. This is actually my second blog about lies, but the first was more about honesty and had a different perspective. So I'm repeating myself, bite me. We all lie, every one of us, and if someone tells you they don’t, well then they’re lying. That’s not to say that all lies are equal. Certainly lying to your 87-year old Grandma that the pot roast she’s been cooking for approximately three days is not, in fact, dry is much different than say telling your Mom you got hit by a car to cover up the fact that you went riding on the back of some random’s crotch rocket after she expressly told you not to and then he wrecked and you limped home bloody and bruised . . . um, just hypothetically speaking. Also, yes I’m aware that might have been the longest, most poorly written sentence of my life.

Lying can be done to hurt or help. We cover up our own bad behavior as well as the actions of others with a well-placed lie. Sometimes we lie for no reason as in a story exaggeration. Then too, are the lies we tell to protect the people we love. This type of cover-up can be done for both selfish or caring reasons. A friend you betrayed would be hurt to know of your deceit just as much as she would be to find out you saw her girlfriend on a date with another girl. We never want to purposely hurt someone – well, that’s not true, in a fight with your partner around the age of 23 saying whatever is most painful always seems like a winner, but that’s beside the point. Lying tends to be born out of a self-protection instinct.

As children, our first lies are told when faced with getting in trouble. I still remember the exact moment I learned to lie. My older brother and I were playing in the living room when he broke a vase. Unlike family rooms living rooms were only meant for company and not for any actual “living,” so if something got broken it was usually something nice. Anyway, when Mom came into the room brandishing the wooden spoon she’d been in the middle of stirring the homemade beef and noodles with, he got spooked and said he didn’t do it. I should make it clear that it’s not as if she were going to actually hit him with it, the spoon just happened to be in her hand, but it was enough to convince Tommy that a lie was just the ticket. Being at an age when “the Mommy” still represented all that was powerful and just in the world, I was shocked that he not only lied, but that he got away with it. She didn’t punish either of us that day. I knew right then, that lying was for me and we’ve been pals ever since.

I lie about all kinds of stuff. I lie about liking or not liking certain food just to get out of eating it or to seem agreeable to my host. I lie about when I sent in the credit card payment when I accidentally answer the call from Skip, my friendly Indian customer service rep. Sometimes I lie about things that embarrass me. The dentist who asks if I floss always gets and enthusiastic yes despite my not even owning floss, just as when I trip over my own too-high heel I pretend it was something on the ground rather than a loss of girl-tration. (Girl-tration, is what I call the specific things women focus on, like walking in stilettos, keeping your legs together or crossed when in a skirt, not emasculating our men --even when they are being complete idiots, you get the picture.)

Lying is like a silent partner in life. You call on it for support, reassurance, escapism, protection, you name it, a lie can help you with it. Except when you suck at it. Personally, I can craft a detailed lie without a second to think ahead. I can cry on cue, add just enough detail to make it seem real, but not rehearsed, I’m a pretty damn great liar. Great that is, until you ask me a yes or no question. Because once you do that, the pretty little story I just made up goes south and I admit the truth. I don’t why I do this, I just have always been really bad at that part of lying. I think it’s because my Mom was so great and sweet and honest. I’m sure she lied too, but probably just the good kind.

Because I know I will crumble if questioned about the validity of any lie I tell, I learned at a young age to tell the truth, but in a way that people will take for sarcasm. When I would come home after curfew to find my Mother waiting up in the kitchen. I would flippantly tell her that yes, I was absolutely out drinking, having sex, and riding on a motorcycle and that tomorrow I planned to investigate the merits of marijuana. Shocked by my directness and doubting that I would admit to such things I was given a stern, “Oh Ame!” and off to bed she went. I did the same when I used to wait tables. Those annoying customers who ask for things one at a time instead of just thinking ahead used to aggravate me beyond belief. After an hour of constantly running back and forth for these plan averse idiots I would say something like, “ okay now, take stock while I’m here and decide if there’s anything else you might need, because I’m not ever coming back to your table." People loved this. They thought I was so funny with my witty banter. I thought they needed a drinking straw pummeled through their temple.

However we do it, lying is a part of each one of us. I try to be as honest as possible, sometimes brutally so, but karma’s an even bigger bitch than me, because sometimes the truth hurts more than a lie. I look back on my choices now and realize there are a few things maybe I should have lied about, but didn’t or at least lied better about them. Friends won’t always forgive you for things, partners can’t always understand, family isn’t always by your side. We have to earn these things and sometimes we’re just not good enough people to get the job done right, so maybe a well-crafted lie is the kindest thing you can do. Unfortunately, you never know that until the cat’s out of the bag and shitting all over your house.

Day 36: Why is That Fat Girl Beating Me?

I have an eating disorder. It’s not what you think, my problem is that I can’t stop and don’t want to, even when I’m full. Food is my great love and over the years I have devoted an enormous amount of time and calories to this happy pursuit. Lots of people like to eat, but most are able to control their portions, their choices, or at the very least, themselves. The alternative to loss of control when it comes to noshing on tasty fare, is the eventual weight gain. Well, here’s the thing, I don’t really gain all that much weight. I know, cry me a river, I have a good metabolism, but as I get older the choice between being healthy and eating deliciously bad food stops being a “should” problem and becomes a “must” problem.

I typically gain or lose five pounds max. I don’t know why this is, but it’s been that way since high school and my body is pretty much the same size as always. True, I might lose some lean muscle mass due to inactivity when I am lazy for a long period, but overall, my body size stays about the same. The strangest thing about this is that I do eat crap, lots and lots of carbs and random bad food choices. I have actually gone entire days in which the only thing I ate were carbs. Imagine a day that begins with Lucky Charms or chocolate chip pancakes, a lunch of mashed potatoes, a dinner of risotto and a snack of popcorn. That should probably make me feel bad about myself, but when I get on the scale and I weigh the same, all the bad goes away.

My metabolism has always been a gift, but about 15 years ago my doctor diagnosed me with Hypothyroidism. Hypo, as opposed to hyperthyroidism is really not so big a deal. No major health risks, I’m just a little more tired, intolerant to heat and cold, my big toenail keeps falling off (gross, I know), and oh yeah, I have a slower metabolism. So what the hell? If I’m eating fried chicken now then if I didn’t have this stupid thyroid thing, would I finally be at my goal weight? It’s a blissful, happy place in my cluttered mind, but since my thyroid levels are not that off base, I stopped taking the medication years ago and just live with it.

So now here I am, rapidly approaching the hill to 40 and still eating and living like I’m 25. I may look the same in some ways, but I am undoubtedly doing irrevocable harm to my physical well-being with each gallon of salt consumed and pile of mashed potatoes devoured. I think this is where will power and self-control win out over good genes and appearance. I have let myself get in physically poor condition because I still look okay on the outside. Whereas an obese person has physical cues to warn them and motivate them, I allow myself to be lulled into an unhealthy place by focusing on the superficial.

Many victims of diabetes worse side effects look in shape. They are thin, they seem healthy, but they lose limbs, go blind, and ultimately lose their lives, but they’re skinny, so it’s all okay. We are so consistently motivated by fat or thin, that we forget about inner health. The last time I ran on a treadmill at the gym, I was motivated and humiliated because the girl I purposely ran next to so that I would not look as bad at running as I am, kicked my ass in both time and speed and she weighed at least 100lbs more than me. Shallow as it sounds, I was shocked to realize that girl weighing so much more than me, was actually so much more fit than me.

So yes, I still eat poorly sometimes and I rely on whatever good genes biology handed me to counteract the effect, but it’s just a mirage. Am I skinny or healthy, and why do more doctors and health professionals not make the distinction. Of course, obesity is always going to carry more risks, but if a girl weighing 225lbs can run six miles, while I’m panting through three, then clearly there is something wrong with the way we define health.

Day 35: I'll Name This One Tomorrow

I’ve been meaning to write about my tendency towards procrastination, but kept putting it off. Why do we do it? We know things must get done and yet for many of us, waiting until the last minute is mode de rigueur. Putting things off is a lifetime habit for me. I don’t know where it came from, my Mother was always early for everything, be it paying bills, arriving for a meeting or knowing what she wanted in life. The Pops used to be late getting places, but he was certainly not a procrastinator. So where did I pick up this nasty little habit?

Putting off unpleasant things like cleaning, writing that 20 page paper or starting your diet are no brainers. Who wants to do things they dislike? In high school and college I knew I could write a paper without much prep so I would do the research ahead of time, then pull an all-nighter writing the paper. I would go from note cards to draft to final for a 20-page in a matter of hours. I tend to do the same with this blog. I always have a few half finished that I start and put away for another time, but usually you’ll find me working on it between the hours of 10pm and 3am. It’s not that the writing is hard, it’s just that sometimes stopping the rest of my life to sit down and focus is daunting. The work is easy, the settling into myself is the hard part.

What I find most amusing and interesting, however, is that I do not just put off the distasteful or difficult. Nope, I even delay pleasant things or necessities. When I was a child, I hated to pee before bedtime. My mother would sit me on the toilet and wouldn’t let me up until I went. This proved to be a good strategy for keeping me from wetting the bed, but a frustrating one when your opposition is as stubborn as I am. My mother, became more insistent over time and devised ways to combat my will. Tactics included drinking a glass of water in front of me, making me drink a glass of water, talking about the ocean, and the coup de grace, turning the faucet on to a slow trickle. Eventually, she won out, but some nights we had quite the battle going on and I still hold to the belief that the reason I currently suffer from restless leg syndrome (RLS) is due to nerve damage from sitting on the toilet for 30 minutes every night.

To this day, I hate to urinate. I try never to go in public restrooms and even dislike using other peoples’ facilities. At home I will sometimes delay and at work it was a constant, “I’ll just do this one thing first and then go” scenario. I have started to relent, but only because I read an article about how it can cause kidney damage to delay the inevitable. I’m not sure why I am loathe to do something so simple and necessary, or even if I actually do hate it. I think it’s more just a part of my lifelong procrastination.

There are other things, more pleasant things that I like to procrastinate. When I am eating I typically save my favorite part of the meal for last. This stupid little habit is responsible for a lifetime of overeating. Mothers everywhere would be proud because today I do, in fact, finish my vegetables. In fact I finish everything, making sure to end each meal on the best bite possible. So while I may enjoy the meal and end it on a satisfying note, I am also ending it bloated, overfed and hating myself for the extra calories. A sane person would eat the best parts first then walk away. Since we’ve already established my crazy, you understand why this is not possible.

One of my favorite methods of procrastination without guilt is to make lists. I’ve made hundreds of lists over the years. I will write down everything I need to do in a week, my cleaning schedule, what I plan to pack for a trip, my workout routine. I write these things in detail, spending as much time on the list as I might in actually accomplishing one of these goals. I have even written out a list of lists I need to make. Anything is better than actually tackling the tasks themselves. Am I lazy? Perhaps, but I think it’s more a fear that once accomplished, each deed will leave me feeling no less fulfilled than before. As long as I know I have things to do, I will always have something to do. Ame logic. You’ll get used to it.

There are topics for this blog I am putting off as well. Deep, dark secrets I know I will reveal, but am waiting for a better time. Maybe in a few months when you all know me better and will not be as shocked to discover just how far I can and have taken things in my life. I tell the husband pretty much everything, but I will delay it, until he starts guessing at whatever I might have done, spent, said, etc. I recognize my patterns and it does nothing to curtail them. I’m sure I will continue procrastinating until death takes me. I can only imagine how many things I will leave unfinished when that day comes.

Pops used to say that I would be late to my own funeral. I have no doubt of the truth of this statement except I don’t plan on having one. I’d like to go out in a fiery motorcycle crash or skydiving accident, something that suits the “world on fire” way that I live my life. When that time comes I’d like to be cremated and scattered somewhere. I’m not in any hurry though, that can all wait until another day.