Horsing around in Hockley, Texas

It annoyed me when I was still alarmingly unprepared for the familiar sound of my alarm clock this morning. I felt in need of not only another day off, but perhaps a week-long yoga retreat to an unpopulated area in Bali.  I had the familiar realization that less than a year ago, my pace of life was entirely different- I was regularly clad in Lululemon, carrying a yogamat under my right arm and spending my afternoons in a yoga class, levitating myself five inches off the ground in crow pose.  Now? Well, it seems apparent that the only reason why I’m ever five inches off the ground is solely a result of my stiletto heels.  (Heck, at least I’m still getting some air. As for this working girl’s “yoga abs” equivalent? All I have to say is God bless whomever invented Spanx…)

In the past six months, I went from hardly working to working harder than ever, putting in 40+ hours a week at a job once occupied by a 40-year-old (making him 16 years my senior.) Translation? Bye Bye Lulu, hello drive-thrus. Sometimes, the closest I come to an overseas getaway is my French fries: not exactly Bali, let alone France. I often sit on my sofa with my laptop, looking at photos of friends still in college or outside of the 40 hour-a-week realm, downing the lump in my throat with just one more red Sour Patch Kid.

It’s no surprise I find myself at war with my new schedule, trying to squeeze in all of what I used to have time for in fear of no longer being able to squeeze into my favorite jeans. Needless to say, this isn’t the first time I’ve had this kind of case of the Mondays - I go through the same thing every Monday. In the morning, I’m exhausted. At noon, Im revved up, ready to head to yoga after work. Six hours later, Im asking myself if it’s possible that squatting, using my couch for support (otherwise known as sitting on my couch and watching TV) counts as my yoga for the evening. Today was no different. 

Rather, I was.

I made small changes.  I woke up this morning an hour earlier than usual - I took that time in the day to not be with work, but to be with me. I got home and, no, I didn't go to that damn 7:45 p.m. yoga class across the street from my house that constantly beckons me; however, I did 30 minutes of yoga in my living room.  I made tea afterward.  Then, I called my friend Rob.

"It's weird," I said to him over the phone. "I did all of these things I don't usually do today, and what do I feel? Not good enough. I feel like I should have gone to the damn class. It's not like it's my fault I'm not mosey-ing around all day anymore," I yelled into the phone. "I'm doing my best here!"

It didn't take long for me to realize I was talking to myself, not Rob.   I pulled out a tea bag for the water I'd just boiled.  The bag of my fresh Rooibos read:

Perfectly balanced tea.

I went noticeably silent on the phone.

"What's up?" Rob asked, like he usually does when he notices I'm somewhere else in my head.

"Perfectly balanced tea," I chuckled.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Tea.  Tea is perfectly balanced ... not humans."

"Yeah," he responded.

Oh, I thought to myself. I forgot ... I don't have to be perfect. Thank goodness.

And I helped myself to a red Sour Patch Kid.

Anyway, I was back at it tonight when I told my best friend Nico that I wanted a tattoo. She told me about her two-year-long process in coming up with hers: choosing the location, finding the right artist, mocking up the design, and finally going for it. Me? I’ve had my perfect tattoo in mind for all of two days. Sure, I’ve been thinking about getting one with some kind of writing in it for a while now, but two days ago, I finally came up with the perfect words and location - two very important factors in actually getting a tattoo with writing in it. 

So, in true Laura fashion, it appears I have made my decision. No, I haven’t planned it out for two years, and no, I’m not about to spend my days contemplating what aging and weight gain will do to my future body art (we would be here for days…) I’m comfortable with my faith-in-net-appearing strategy. Now, there's only one problem:

I have a Jewish mother.

Growing up, I was always promised I wouldn’t have to worry about going to hell. Jews didn’t believe in hell and thus, neither did my mother.  But, there was one exception: hell would magically appear in our living room and swallow me whole if I ever even considered riding a motorcycle, or getting a tattoo: they just weren’t kosher. So, I never really asked myself if I wanted a tattoo, or if I wanted to ride a motorcycle for that matter.  If they hadn’t been banned from my early existence, would I have considered them?

In short, I think the answer is yes. However, when one is faced with the threat of Satan (satanowitz?) himself, these desires tend to burn in the flames - decisions seem more challenging than necessary, instincts lose their sharpness. All Satans (Kosher, Christian and otherwise) aside, what would one choose if these threats evaporated, I ask myself? Perhaps underneath the pencil-skirt-wearing-employee there’s a tattooed, leather jacket wearing badass in all of us if we just stop being so afraid and take a look.  Heck, maybe I’ll even ride a motorcycle with my new ink… 

Don’t worry, Mom: I’ll wear a helmet.

1. Be the leading actor in your life, not the leading re-actor. This is not about control, or about being a control freak - this is about action. This is about doing your part to change the things you can. Don’t wait until someone asks the question to come up with your answer.  No, “I don’t know, you pick” doesn’t count.  You do know. Pick.  Advocate for yourself. Make choices that resonate with you. What is it you really want? Find people who can help you figure out your answers, not people who tell you what they think your answers should be.  Make the call. Send the application. Finally tell your date yes, you did decide on a movie, and no, you remarkably don’t want pizza for the 11th night in a row. And, although I'm a huge fan of the song "You Keep Me Hangin’ On,” let’s get one thing straight: no one is keeping you hanging onto anything. You get to set yourself free … why don’t you, babe?

2. Phone a friend.  Regis Philbin made a good point when he called this a “lifeline.”  It is. What’s troubling you?  Talk it out with someone. Get some perspective.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten on the phone hysterically crying and gotten off the phone hysterically laughing.  Perspective changes everything. But, it’s not a DIY job. Cringing at the thought of telling your inner circle of your inner conflict? Join a support group. Hire a paid professional. Become part of a group or club that calls out to you. Give yourself permission to find people who let you be you.

3. Be Selfish: martyrdom is so two millenniums ago. The word “selfish” has gotten a seriously bad rap in the modern world, but being selfish is not the same thing as being self-centered.  Being selfish is about making yourself your own first priority. It’s about self-esteem. Can you find me one person in this world more important than YOU? How easy it is to cross ourselves off of our own Christmas lists, thinking of ourselves as the one person who won’t mind. We mind. We get depleted until we have nothing left to give. It’s a shell game. Think of giving to yourself as giving to others: by nurturing yourself, you get to be of better service to other people. You have more love to offer because you have more love within you. You are worth it.  Take the action: get the manicure, the new shoes, that item on the menu that you really want - not the one that’s two dollars cheaper. If you don’t feel like you’re worth it, you’ll feel a lot more worth it afterward because you did it.  Parenting? I can’t say I’ve been there.  But, I have been a kid, and I can say that I’m not sure there’s anything more valuable than the power of example.  Show your kids what self-esteem means by demonstrating it.  Actions speak louder than words. Act.

4. Get quiet. I like to think of prayer as talking, and meditating as listening.  I love talking.  Listening? Perhaps less so.  So often our answers are right there, but we’re too frantic to hear them clearly. Make time to get still, to listen, to write, to just breathe. There’s something about taking even one deep breath that brings me back into the moment and reminds me that whatever’s going on in my head isn’t happening right now.  Right now, I’m just breathing. I’m alive. No, I’m not going to be fine: I already am.

5. Embrace your inner whatever. By whatever, I mean absolutely what. ever. In his latest book Super Brain, Deepak Chopra writes that “having a bad thought isn’t the same as carrying it out.” They are just thoughts, not actions. So, you daydream of dangling your boss out the window? Join the club. In my experience, most of my deepest darkest thoughts have usually been met with rip-roaring laughter by friends who I’m comfortable enough to share those things with.  We are all human.  We all have those thoughts. (Yes, even that one you just had.) Liberate yourself. Embrace your humanness. Join the land of the living.

Free yourself.

A recent purchase from Tesoro Jewelry, www.tesorojewelry.com.

Given the one year anniversary of decisiongate, shall we call it, it felt like time to reflect:

It all started in December of 2011 - I was in London at the time.  To say I was merely conflicted would have been an understatement; moreover, I felt at a loss for anyone who could truly understand what I was going through. In my search for my own answers, I was keeping in regular touch with friends who could mirror me back to myself. A result of my constant contact in a time of unrest is that I now refer to one of those mirrors, Rob, as a best friend (hey, anyone who can stay on the phone with a rather hysterical me for essentially two months, with a few breaks for napping and snacks, deserves that title.)

At the time of decisiongate, I was engaging in a daily practice called “The Morning Pages.” "The Morning Pages," created by The Artist's Way author Julia Cameron, is an exercise in which the participant is asked to wake up every morning, put a pen to paper, and write continuously on three pages (front and back) until those pages run out.  The point of the pages, among other things, is to remove blocks to one's inherent creativity.  The pages are to be written every single day, essentially until the end of time.  In my case, they were done every day for nearly three years, and now on an as-needed basis. Every morning from early 2010 to mid 2012, I wrote down every fragment of a thought that went though my head in the first half hour I was awake (I did most of this writing on my computer, so how I still have any room on my hard drive is a miracle...)

About six months after decisiongate, hindsight was 20/20.  What felt like an impossible choice was now a clear decision – now that I’d already made it.  So, in my curiosity, I went back to read my morning pages from the time of my crisis.  I was shocked when I read them and realized this: 

I was completely lucid the entire time. 

No, I did not find the ramblings of a mind trapped between two separate yet equal options. As I read my past writing, I saw I'd actually known exactly what I wanted, and how I wanted it.  I was amazed that, no, I was never really torn: I was just terrified.

That incident taught me a lot about listening to my inner voice. I now notice that the time between an inner or outer conflict arising and me knowing instinctively what to do is continuing to get shorter and shorter. My gut reaction is far easier to go with. In my relationship with myself, I've gained more of the most important ingredient in any relationship: trust.

I also learned this:

Our truths cannot be avoided.  Or rather, they can be, but they will still remain until we honor them.  When what we know in our hearts to be true for us is abhorrently inconvenient, it can lead to denial (which in my case took a solid, and hellish, two months, to wear off.)

In my experience, even with all we do have control over in this world, we, ourselves, are non-negotiable. 

Well ... I mean ... at least for me, that's true.

Two things I find extremely helpful in recovering my own answers: The Artists Way and Rob, of course.

As I sat on my couch yesterday with my laptop in my lap, writing down my reflections on the year gone by, I was thwarted back to nearly one year ago – January 2012 – on a cold day in Long Island, New York.  I was visiting my best friend, Nico, at what I can now identify as the height of my eighth quarter-life crisis. I had just graduated college, was in the process of a relationship coming to an end, and, like many young 20-somethings, I was completely uncertain of anything one is used to feeling certain about.  

I remember everything about that day: what I was wearing, what my body felt like. I tend to lose my appetite in times of stress, so I remember feeling somewhat bony, nervous and cold.  I was sitting with Nico in her car, and I was wearing a furry vest over a black, long sleeved shirt that fit me too loosely. The rings around my fingers were as cold as it was outside in New York in January.  I knew I was in there somewhere, but I felt like a shell of my former self.

I remember driving in her car, looking at the road ahead of me. Rain was pouring down on her windshield and we were driving right into it – something in me knew it was foreshadowing.  As we drove through the downpour, I hashed out the details of my dilemmas with Nico – everything from where I would live after college, where I would work and the mere week I had to find a new apartment in Anywhere, USA. Nico looked me in the eye, grabbed my hand and said something I wouldn’t soon forget:

“Laura, I don’t know what the future looks like for you, but I know that in six months, it will look much different than it does now.”

In spite of how I felt, I knew she was right: it would stop raining eventually. It seemed the best I could do – the only thing I could do - to just take things one step at a time. 

And so I did.  I spent this year, 2012, doing “the next right thing.” I made choices that I could have sworn I’d sworn off. They made sense. I cried my eyes out. I laughed my ass off. I got my thighs back. I “moved” to New York City, and then moved back to Boston again. I went home to Houston for what I thought would be a couple of weeks. I never returned. I put the pieces together. I threw some of them away. Later, I picked up new ones.

I entered last year as a Bostonian, and this year as a Houstonian. I went from walking everywhere to walking only from my apartment elevator to my car in the morning, driving thru everything else (I mean, even in the office, I’m now scooting down the halls in my office chair, pretending it’s a Hoveround, avoiding the treachery of a day spent walking the workplace in six inch heels…) After waking up this morning and dressing to the nines to go grocery shopping, I assumed it would only be a matter of time before one of the Central Market employees came over the intercom and said some version of “Houston: We have a fresh Texan on Aisle 9."

I don’t usually pay much mind to the idea of the new year symbolizing a turning point.  This year, however, feels much different. In some significant way, it feels like some dust has settled: the storm has calmed, and I can see the pavement in front of me more clearly.  When I sat down yesterday to write, I saw something I hadn’t seen in a while: choices. Without my noticing it, somewhere in the end of 2012 my feet began to touch the ground again. Life got less chaotic, and thus, ahead of me were a million things I could choose from to set my sites on in the New Year. Suddenly, I realized Winnie the Pooh (and Nico) were right: I was braver than I believed, stronger than I felt, smarter than I thought.

So, with that, here is my biggest cheers to a 2013 filled with choices for all of you.  May it be a year of joy, success and abundance. And, if it happens to be a year of rainstorms, may it remind you of perhaps the greatest thing 2012 showed me was within myself:

Resilience.

With love,

Laura Max

I was filled with sheer terror as I drove home from buying my new spectacles this evening, taking them on and off while I drove and observing the difference. What main difference did I find when my glasses were off? Well, let me put it bluntly:

I couldn't see sh*t.

Perhaps the most interesting part of my unknown prior night-blindness is that I never would have thought to get my eyes checked if it wasn't for a middle-of-the-night drive to the airport with my dear friend and regularly-mentioned-in-this-blog Rob.  Noticing that I was nearly missing most of my exits on the freeway, he came out and asked me if I could actually even see in the first place. It was only when I put my new glasses on this evening that I realized what a valid point that poor man, who entrusted me with his life in a moving vehicle, had. 

So, I got to thinking (how unusual, I know...)  I thought about how I look at life, and how many times I've read or been told that I have a choice as to which perspective I want to have on it. I can look at the world though foggy lenses, through no lenses at all (which for me is apparently quite dangerous and can lead to road accidents...) or, I can look at life through clean lenses (perferably Pradas, if I may.) But, how can I possibly make a choice if I don't know my lenses are foggy in the first place?

Just like everything else, I needed a nudge on this one, a reminder.  It couldn't have come from within me, because how could I have seen there was an issue if I couldn't even see? I needed someone with clearer vision to point it out.  And how many times, when I am all tangled up in my own head, completely at a loss for perspective, do I try to work it out on my own, begrudging the fact that a mere phonecall to a friend will do much more good than going at it solo (if my head made me crazy in the first place, my head probabaly ain't gonna fix it. Just saying.)

I believe in all those people, those books, that tell me I have a choice.  But, when I saw clearly this evening, after buying glasses I didn't even know I needed, I was reminded that we don't have to make that choice alone. We need people. (I can only assume that's why there are nearly seven billion of us here ... just a thought.)

So, I write this post tonight in gratitude - gratitude to those who help me see clearly (literally) when I can't tell I've lost my way.  To the army that gives me perspective, you are the greatest friends a girl could have. 

And, perhaps most importantly, thank you for giving me an excuse to snag another pair of Pradas. As I mentioned on Facebook this evening, Pradas are truly much more fabulous when your insurance is covering most of them.

With love,

Laura Max

Then college reared its head, and there was rarely a night when you didn’t sleep with a friend in the room (or arch nemesis in the room, depending on your luck with the housing lottery system.) If your friend and/or bitter rival wasn’t sleeping in your room, then he or she was at least living in your apartment (by Boston standards, this could mean living anywhere from the second room in the apartment to the “converted kitchen area.”) By the time college was over, even with all the fun of snuggling with your besties for four years, life felt like an endless succession of sleepovers.  Finally, instead to begging your parents for just one more night of slumber party fun, you were simply itching to live on your own.

If you were me, then your wish was granted.  After years of countless sleepovers, roommates, and turning living rooms into rather humble abodes, I finally moved into my very own apartment about three days ago. Not only do I have a living room that isn’t also my bedroom/closet/office, but I have a non-Fisher-Price-sized kitchen. There's even this weird box in it that heats up when I turn it on, allegedly turning my slice-and-bake cookie dough into real-life cookies. Sidenote: I haven’t yet tested this mystery box, apparently known as an oven, because ruining the cookie dough would be a travesty.  I also have a dishwasher, which would be great if I could stop ordering takeout from PF Chang's and actually use dishes to cook something (it looks great though, I must say.)

Houston, my new home city, differs in many ways from Boston, my college town.  Most obviously, it's a part of Texas, where everything is bigger. I could live in a two-bedroom apartment in a nice part of Houston for the same price as a bathroom-from-1912-converted-into-bedroom in Boston would have cost me.  Does that mean I would have taken any of my Boston experiences back? Not for a second.  But, the upgrade isn't a bad thing. The main downside is probably that I can still hear the reverberations of my freshman year environmental science professor preaching the inherent evil of underpriced and overly-convenient suburbia. I guess I'll have to take that with the lot I've been given - no pun intended.

And what's the other downside?  Well, not that I'm not fabulous company (me and myself crack each other up on a regular basis), but I actually miss sleepovers. A lot. So, just as I was wishing on my lucky stars, similarly to how I wished for my solo living quarters, I was informed that my fairy God-fairy, dear friend and personal shopper, Rob, is jetting into Houston for my birthday on Friday. 

Cue the sound of cash registers everywhere.

I've chronicled many of the retail and restaurant adventures of Rob and Laura in this blog, but never have we ever taken on the Lonestar state.  Consider this post a promise that I won't leave any details out this time either, and here's to hoping that an extra year means extra laughs, extra deliciousness, and extra big shoes.

My birthday last year with my friends Julie and Rob.

I have two more days until the big 2-4, so I haven't wished on any candles yet. But, if year 23 has taught me anything, it's that often we don't even need that one extra candle to let the magic happen.

Until my "next year",

Laura Max

In my new office, Texas sun shining through the window.

‘Hmmm,’ I thought to myself, ‘I can’t possibly relate to that…’

said Laura never.

A quick assessment of my photo collection will demonstrate that there are virtually no pictures to be found of me in the periods following undesirable incidents in my private life.  I'm sure you can understand that when I’m reigniting my relationship with some old BFFs - Russell Stover and Lady Godiva - I’m not exactly enthused about smiling for the camera (or, taking my clothes off - A.K.A. writing a blog post.)

I last posted nearly two months ago when I was in the middle of a trip home to Houston. That trip turned into an official move to Houston, and I've since moved into a new apartment, acquired a new (and might I add adorable) car, and gotten a brand new job in a brand new field.  Nearly every aspect of my life has changed since September 1^st when I thought I would just be moving to another place in Boston, the city I've lived in for the last five years.

At the risk of sounding like Derek Zoolander and longingly exclaiming “Who am I?”, it’s safe to say that given all of the major changes in the last sixty days, I’m slightly less comfy in my own skin than usual (sort of like downgrading from silk pajamas to sleeping in jeans.)  As a writer, this effects things. Finally, I asked myself today, why is it that I find it so challenging to write during tougher times? Perhaps it's for the same reason we don't see photos of our friends on Facebook in hysterics, or melting away along with the contents of a heart-shaped chocolate box. In times of unrest or transition, we retreat to our close friends and family until we're ready to share who we are and what we have to say with the world again (you know, once we're able to communicate that free of running noses and chocolate stuck to the corners of our mouths.)

So this morning, somewhere between my eyes opening and my Pike Place Roast, I finally felt like I was ready. If not ready, then simply tired of hiding in the corner. I mean, I was planning on waiting for my sacred writing desk to finally arrive on the oh-so-late moving truck from Boston, but given the recent weather implications that 2012 is in fact the end of the world, that's taking longer than expected.  Why wait? Desk or no desk, chocolate box as a decor item or chocolate box in belly, it's time to unbutton my jacket again, hoping the evidence of my hibernation period won't look too obvious underneath. 

And, with the Texas sun coming through my new office window, it's really perfect timing, I'd say.

Right. So anyways, not my waist. I'm talking about my hair. Up until a couple weeks ago, I maintained a strategically long mane. Inspired by an extensive list of style icons, which of course included the courageous Lion King Mufasa, I took a vow long ago to maintain my long locks. However, in recent years I've found myself regularly tempted to cut it all off.  This fantasy, when verbalized, was often met with a screaming "NO!" from friends and boyfriends past.   I was surprised at how often I was given the reason "men love long hair" as grounds not to take the leap, but I was probably more surprised at the amount of consideration I was giving to this idea.

Somewhere along the way, this little factor became far less important to me in my decision making process. Call it heightened self-esteem or an increased desire for individuality, I'm not really interested in acquiring your affection if it fades the second I pull a "P!nk" on my tresses. So I finally landed my tush in the hairdressers chair and made the big chop.

Hair: Before and After.

I've been bob-clad for about two weeks now and I'm loving it. Even if I hated it, I am still a highly-educated, self-respecting and intelligent young woman, and unless I missed something in Biology (okay fine, I missed a lot in Biology, pardon being right-brained...) my hairdresser couldn't have possibly effected any of that when he cut off my hair. 

Thus, when I saw this graphic earlier today, I was shocked:

Not only does the above imply that women have a certain obligation to maintain their appearance for men, but it also implies that mental instability is something to be ashamed of. Excuse me, but given that practically half of our nation is on anti-depressants, there's a significant chance that the guy, or heaven forbid girl, who wrote that thing was on Prozac him or herself. In other words: Girlfriend, please. 

Whether you cut off your hair because you're on the brink of insanity or because you want to look like Keira Knightley (Heck, I'm probably somewhere in between), do what works for you.  And whatever you do, do it knowing that the right person will love your short-haired psychotic ass anyways.

No matter what.

Recent Snapshot of Mother Dearest.

Or can we?

I have a friend who believes that we indeed choose our parents before we even enter into this life, and that we choose them based on the lessons our soul wants to learn. Be it a desire to learn patience, detachment or total self-acceptance, we choose parents who challenge us (the word "challenge" being up for interpretation) to find this within ourselves. According to my friend, we then spend our lifetime interacting with people - bosses, friends, teachers - who resemble our parents in one way or another, and we continue learning these lessons if we are open and willing. If we don’t get it all down in our alotted time, so says my friend, we keep coming back – we keep coming back to planet earth until our lessons are learned and our soul can finally find its rest.

If this is true, then know that I am doing everything I can to make sure I get my sh*t straightened out in this lifetime. Why? Because, to be quite frank, I have no intention of having to relive junior high.  Once was enough.

So when your new boss not only represents your mother, but is your mother, that’s when things start to get very amusing. Yes, you read that correctly: among my many ongoing creative projects, I am now officially working as a content creator (otherwise known as rad blogger and photographer) for my mothers Houston-based tech company.

This should be interesting.

Though the likelihood that I'll be sentenced to return to this planet with a spray tan and awkward highlights has now increased about five-fold, I have to admit, I'm totally looking forward to what awaits. My mom might be intimidating to many of her employees, but I know her as the woman who wears flannel pajamas and does crosswords while watching TV at a deafeningly loud volume. In other words, let the immature stunts and office pranks begin. (Just kidding, mom.)

All challenges aside, it goes without saying that my mom is my biggest champion, which is the biggest reason why I'm looking forward to our new "work relationship."  However, know that when she came down on me about my rather youthful office attire today, I whined like a six year old.  While not reliving junior high is an incentive to learn to stop snapping at my mother when she comments on my apparel, I'm just not there yet. 

When I called my friend Rob to debrief after day one, I re-hashed my reflections as noted above, laughter reverberating throughout my car.  I was reminded that while I may well be making an encore performance on planet earth, at least I will go down laughing this time.

In the end, perhaps that's the biggest and best lesson of them all.