WanderingAmylessly 2.0

A quarter of a century ago. That was the last time I prepared for fall college classes. I barely remember it. I'm sure I bubbled over with anxiety, as I bought textbooks and decorated an off-campus apartment with dorm leftovers, restocked the backpack and steeled myself for the final steps on the path to grownup life. I wish I would have slowed down to enjoy it. I put so much pressure on myself. I had a thousand pounds of worry strapped to my soul. What if I fail my last classes? What if I pass but can't find a job post-graduation? What if I get a job and am horribly unqualified and unprepared? What if nothing spectacular happens? What if worry is all I have, always? I look back and let out a sigh of relief and release. I wish I could shout back at my 20-something self: It works out! You survive! Did the fretting and tears and hand-wringing help? Not sure. They gave me an ulcer and boatloads to unpack with a therapist. Mostly they got in the way; they kept me from savoring

More than four years ago, the blog and I parted ways. I needed a change. A whole lot happened in my world since then. I switched jobs a couple times. My kid went from an elementary school tween to a teenage high schooler. We built a new house and moved. Both my parents and my sister have passed. The world around me changed as well. Mass shootings, racism, the #metoo movement, a misogynistic bigoted narcissist in the White House ... go ahead, add to the list. Toss your woes into this dumpster fire we call 2019.  I appreciate my previous sentiment, that I was no longer wandering. But let's be honest, we're all trying to find our way through this mess. I decided to reboot the blog to give myself a creative outlet, a way to sort through the confusion and frustration and attempt to make sense of it all. I have a voice, and I'm not keen to silence it anymore. Guess what? I'm back, bitches.

This will be my final blog post as "Wandering Amylessly." The past few months have been a time of frustration, reflection, and renewal for me. I have decided to put my efforts into more productive, meaningful writing. I appreciate those of you who have continued to read and follow my ramblings and rantings and soap-box performances. I've decided not to wander without aim anymore. I have purpose. I am strong and worthy and grateful. I wish you all wellness, focus, and happiness in all your endeavors.

Hello dear readers. Welcome to 2015. I hesitate to say "Happy New Year," because the last two years I did that turned out decidedly less happy than we'd hoped. In 2013, we said goodbye to my mom-in-law. In 2014, my dad passed. I think I'm suffering PTSD on January 1 this time around. I keep wondering what else could be awaiting in the weeks and months ahead. Mom has started calling her pew area at church "Widows' Row." At least three other women have lost their husbands also within the last year or so. I guess the older you get, the more likely you'll be surrounded by people who have suffered losses. My mom has been having heart concerns, and is going in for an echocardiogram next week (and will also find out the results of her 24-hour relationship with a heart monitor a couple weeks back). I'm scheduled for a colonoscopy on the 9th. Hopefully these issues will lead to a whole lot of nothing. I am learning to live a little more "in the

I haven't had time to write. Work, swim meet volunteering, holiday decorating and shopping. But truthfully, I've not been in much of a mood to write anything anyway. Last night we put up the tree and Santa chachkies, and I drank my first egg nog of the season, so perhaps I'll be in a cheerier mood. Also, I have spent some time writing the annual Schoon holiday newsletter. If you happen to get a copy, treat it like a drinking game. Every time I make you roll your eyes, take a drink. Nog, wassail, Everclear. Whatever gets you through. One sure way to assist with merriment motivation is listening to Christmas carols. I'm not going to get into a debate over what truly constitutes a carol. You can "Jesus is the reason for the season" yourself until you turn blue; I generally lean toward the secular end of the holiday tune spectrum. And if you just gasped at my use of holiday instead of Christmas, go suck on a candy cane. It's my blog and my opinions. Deal.

Mom loves telling the story of when she went into labor with me, Dad was getting ready to have a nighttime snack. He was going to insist on eating his bowl of crackers and milk before taking Mom to the hospital. Mom, who had been through this pregnancy thing twice before, convinced him that if he didn't get in the car and start driving right away, she was going to deliver me in the back seat on the way there. Once the realization of urgency kicked in, he sped through Derby, Kansas -- notorious police speed trap -- "90 to nothin'" probably in hopes the cops would pull them over, and they'd get themselves a high-speed escort the rest of the way to St. Joseph Hospital in Wichita. Amazingly, he didn't get stopped, Mom avoided pushing until they got to the delivery room, and I was born just before 2 a.m. on  December 1, 1971. Those were the days before men joined their laboring wives in the whole delivery scene. There was no Lamaze breathing, no coaching at the