Another post from Karey Mackin. I don’t know how she does it, but it made me laugh, and then cry, and then sort-of laugh cry. This post is a delight. Here’s Karey:
(I have a lot of goals for 2017. Gabby’s letting me tell you all about them, so I have accountability. It should be noted that I have issues with accountability.)
My first resolution had to do with starting a collection, but not exactly. It was more about gathering moments and defining my life’s meaning, and committing to happiness. Mostly, it was a shove off my seat to stop standing around, waiting for life to happen to me.
Why can’t I get out there and grab it for myself? I don’t know, either.
My next 2017 resolution was to drink more. Notice I say was, because whoa that didn’t end well.
I first test-announced my goal at a happy hour, and everyone laughed. Because a resolution like that does not seem like a productive goal with a happy ending, does it? I mean, who goes into a new year with the goal of being worse than when you started?
But my resolution wasn’t totally about drinking lots of alcohol. It had more to do with chilling out and caring less and letting go a little. (Note: I’m sensing this weird theme with all my resolutions. They’re not exactly what they seem to be on the surface. I wonder if all resolutions are like this? Are yours? Please say yes.)
I care way too much. And I seriously have a difficult time letting go. Plus I’m always worried about something. And if I really think about it, I’m usually always worried about an ending.
Endings insignificant and life-changing, momentary and final.
Like, the other morning, all three of my girls were lounging on my bed and Pat came in all “Girl Club Meeting? Can I join?” and everybody groaned but I could tell we were still happy that it’s all still happening. What crushed me was that I flipped my broken-hearted calendar to next September when our oldest will be away at college and I know I’ll just die to have her back on my bed, lounging. And it was too much and not nearly enough and I tried to pinch my lip and stop worrying about what even isn’t…but I couldn’t.
A mimosa might help.
And like Christmas this year. My mom came to visit us, and while our new house isn’t our home just yet, she made it feel like the only place we wanted to be. As soon as she arrived, I felt gutted because I knew she’d be leaving in four days. And someday, she’ll be leaving me forever.
Double shot of fireball, please.
It goes the other way, too. Yesterday, I did four loads of laundry. Today, there are three. I said to Patty this morning, “What the ever loving heck?!” And he replied, “Man, I can’t wait for them to grow up and move out.” He was kidding, probably only to help me reframe my reality. I got it.
Guilty swig of gin.
Unexpected endings, too. You know, the last page of the story endings. One is coming, I can just feel it. Can’t you?
Another round, please.
So here’s what happened with my stupid resolution. I went to a chili cook-off/bingo party last weekend. I was wearing this sweater and these boots and ohmygosh this highlighter that made me look like a million bucks. A million shiny bucks. Gracie contoured me and all of a sudden I had cheekbones. And Lillie dabbed that white highlight into the corner part of my eyes and I looked so awake, like I’d been napping for days.
I walked in and my friend bought me a drink and a laughy, happy time was on.
That was five o’clock.
Fast forward 37 more plastic cups of wine. Not really, but really. I didn’t bother eating any chili – Although I made this one and almost won, but someone told me “There is no way a white chili will ever win a chili cook-off.” Good to know. – and I didn’t bother with the bingo. Nope. I drank and talked and drank and talked and drank and talked. About everything. Politics (TRUMP?), sex (I KNOW?), specific sex stuff (OHMYGOSH?), and bossy-pants parenting tips (I HAVE KIDS?).
Oh! And did I mention it was boxed wine? (At one point, I declared boxed wine to be the new twist top wine. Really, Karey? Cork it.)
Now, if I drink more than two glasses of wine, I turn into a character from the Lego Movie. (Everything is awesome! Everything is cool when you’re part of a team! Everything is awesome…when you’re living out a dream.)
Yeah. I was in bed by nine. Not awesome.
Two days later, I cashed in one of the massages Pat and the girls bought me for Christmas. My masseuse was crazy-amazing. A Reiki master, I’m thinking. Her fingers absolutely vibrated over my muscles. I kind of believe in that stuff, so I was into it.
“You’ve got to drink more,” she whispered in a husky voice.
I was like, “OHMYGOSH NOOOOOOOO! I TRIED THAT AND THEN I TALKED ABOUT SEX A LOT AND THEN I HAD TO TAKE TWELVE ADVILS AND I COULDN’T FEEL MY LEGS!”
She didn’t mean boxed wine. She said I have to drink more water. Room temperature water, specifically. “Cold water races right through you. The chilled temperature is a shock to your body and it can’t wait to get out. But warm water sticks around. Cleans out your lymphatic system and flushes out lactic acid.”
I don’t know if she was telling the truth. But I’ve been drinking warm water ever since and notsomuch wine because #ITotallyMissedBingo.
Here’s what else I’m resolving to do more of, compliments of my wise masseuse. (Who actually, I learned later, wasn’t as much vibrating with energy as desperately needing a cigarette. And that raspy voice? Probably a result of her pack-a-day habit.) Dry-brush my skin.
Gwyneth advised me to do it years ago, but I was waiting for an IRL sign, I think. Dry brushes are genius for promoting blood circulation, fluid drainage, and cellulite reduction. Did you even know our skin functions as an elimination organ? What?! The body can shed one pound of waste through the skin every day. WHAT?!
And so, to conclude, my resolution was about drinking more, but not. It’s still about drinking more, but not.
I told Pat I felt so bad about all that boxed wine I killed.
“I was an idiot,” I sighed.
“You were cute!” he said. “Besides, who cares?” I sure do envy his aversion to caring.
“I guess I was just trying to drown my sorrows,” I mumbled.
“Well, bad news, babe,” he smiled. “They can swim.”
Insert about fifteen minutes with my jaw dropped.
They can swim. Of course they can swim. That’s why you can’t ever drown those suckers. Don’t even try it. They can swim.
But then I remembered that so can I.
And suddenly, I can see all my life preservers. A few stacked up next to me, a few more over there, one down the street, there’s probably one by Lillie’s new college, there’s sure to be one just outside my mom’s house, and hey there’s one by that change I was supposed to be making.
I should make it.
And while I’m at it, I might as well enjoy the water.