One of the major goals in planning your weekends in high school was to be seen and to hope to see others. This involved careful planning in determining where to sit at the football game or the local Mexican restaurant.

I was reminded of this last night as I ate at our local Mexican restaurant. It was packed. For a moment, I remembered the long table of people I’d eat with in school before going to a friend’s house to watch a rented DVD. We all pretty much eat chicken fingers with cheese dip with sweet tea.

At football games, we would socialize and look for our favorite number or hope our crush showed up. Pre planning included the right CD or CDs with friends such as “Cowboy Take Me Away,” by the group that used to be known as the Dixie Chicks.

Coordinating the right look was equally important – best Calvin Klein jeans with your New Balance or the right butterfly clips in your hair. Scrunchy on your wrist for good measure.

A lot of pictures were taken by a disposable camera and fingers crossed, they’d turn out right with the lighting of the stadium.

No cell phones for most part – just in the moment kind of stuff- like thinking you caught a glance from your crush. You could live on that moment for at least a month.

One of my favorite memories is running across the street after a game to the Middle School Homecoming Dance. For a long time, two of my best friends spent every Homecoming weekend with me from 2nd grade- on.

Now my days are spent not so much worried about being seen or seeing others. I prefer the life of a hermit on weekends.

That’s okay because I had my time once upon a time ago.

I think of that girl ever so often. I wonder if she’d be any different knowing what I know now. I hope not. I think it’s best living in the moment- glances, sweaty palms, butterflies and all.

Life is what happens outside the lines, and it can be beautiful. Tonight, I was working on some poster boards for work. My 4 year old wanted to help. At first, my A type personality cringed as I knew he would be all over the place and outside the lines.

Something (I think God) said, “Let him.” He was so proud helping mommy with work. I told him I’d tell everyone tomorrow he helped and he beemed.

It was so selfish of me to think it had to be “perfect.” This memory I will cherish forever as I hope he will too when he is working and his child decides “to help.”

Life outside the lines and imperfections, as it turns out, is perfect.

For just a moment, I was back in my old bedroom listening to Weezer, the blue album. My birkenstocks dangling off my feet and my room smells of incense. Beads hang on my closet door, and Spencer posters hang above my bed. I smell like Sun Ripened Raspberry or Sunflower perfume (my sister’s-don’t tell her).

The year was 1998 and my summer attire was a collection of American Eagle shorts and spaghetti strap shirts. Tan from the pool, my days were spent sleeping in, vacuuming the den, and washing dishes. Afterwards, I spent time on the house phone and trying to find a way to hang with friends and my first summer boyfriend.

We hung out a lot at the trailer park located across from the elementary school. A lot of our friends lived there. We watched a lot movies rented from Movie Gallery which is now a furniture store. I remember watching Scream and Austin Powers with friends. I remember the nervous feeling of getting ready for to hang with friends and guys.

In a word, summers like this were innocent. We didn’t know what we didn’t know. Living by the hour and the moment. Eating whatever we wanted with no scale consequences.

And when school rolled around, picking that first day of school of outfit was crucial. I still remember the cream colored shirt and brown skirt I wore the first day of 7th grade. I still remember the bell bottom jeans I adored in the 8th grade with the butterflies on my back pockets. I remember when boys suddenly had deeper voices and wore cologne for the first time.

The sound of my childhood also echoes in my mind-Weezer, Bush, The Cranberries, Green Day and so on. The angst of the music matched my anxiety of trying to figure out who I was. I cherish these times and hope that my children are as nostalgic about their childhood one day as I am.

The late 90’s was our time. I look down at my feet. 38 and still wearing Birkenstocks. Some things never change. Maybe I never changed. Maybe I have.

I don’t care what they say about us anyway. I don’t care about that.

My husband and I went to a Sister Hazel concert this weekend. We both grew up listening to the band at our respective colleges, Alabama and Auburn.

I am naturally a people watcher and thought I must be younger than the people attending. Slowly, I began to realize I was one of them. When did it happen? I swear 2003 was a year ago…

Conversations drifted in and out throughout the evening about our kids, where we were when we first heard a particular song, and plans to eat breakfast at 8 am. Yep, we officially are no longer the young people. The lead singer quoted from Dazed and Confused – he was getting older, and we were the same age. Naw, bro- we are getting older.

At breakfast, over omelets, pancakes, French toast, diet coke, and coffee- our friend said something similar – “we aren’t older; they are just younger.”

I’ve begun to realize over the years that it’s okay to get older. It’s a blessing really as time here on earth is relatively short in the scheme of things.

And I think it’s good to remember and celebrate all the stages of your life. More importantly, having someone to grow old with that still sees you as that 23 girl you were when you first met ain’t half bad either.

Warning! This post may not align with your personal beliefs regarding tattoos. This post is not meant to sway your beliefs. It is simply a story, a memory I am choosing to share.

I was 36 when I finally got a tattoo. I had been adamant that I would never get one but after chemo something changed.

I felt fearless, a rush that stemmed from my dance with the devil (cancer). I was exhausted from my perceived well planned life. I was ready to step out of my comfort zone.

On my beat cancer bucket list was a tattoo, so I convinced my sister to go with me and get one too while at the beach on Spring Break that year, very cliche I know. A few gulps of cheap champagne, and I found myself ready.

I couldn’t have asked for a better tattoo artist as he sensed my fears. He guided me every step of the way. Afterward, when my sister and I finished- we both felt a rush, a rush similar to feeling like we had done something forbidden. Silly, I know, but it’s true.

So now I have a tattoo. It’s four stars to represent my family, but it also represents a time when I was battling and a time when my sister did something with me that would be a memory only we share.

So, regardless of how you feel about ink, remember that for those who have tattoos, it’s usually for a reason, a memory, and/ or reminder.

I look at mine and think I really did finish my treatments. I have so many blessings that those stars represent.

Count the stars, if you are able. God commands. As countless as the stars, he assures Abram, so shall your descendants be. (Gen 15:5)

I turned 38 on June 22. A few days later, I woke up and decided if I was going to do what had been tugging at me since I was an undergraduate, now was the time. I lept and applied for a doctoral program.

I have always wanted to pursue a Ph.D. and eventually teach in higher education (after a lengthy career).

I am excited to report that I’ve been accepted to Oklahoma State University’s online doctoral program in Healthcare Administration. This path will benefit my current role and hopefully open other doors down the road.

Honestly, I don’t know how long it will take as I can only afford to do a class at a time, plus my sanity in trying to raise a family and work. Maybe I’m a little crazy for going back, but it’s always been a dream that kept showing back up every step I’ve taken.

I’m thankful for my husband and family support. I am excited for Spring of 2024 when I will start my program.

Maybe just maybe my own healthcare journey will lead to something beautiful and impact others.

This year, I worked with pre-med undergraduate students from UA in a shadowing program I developed at the hospital. It still needs lots of tweaks, but we will get there. These students inspired me and pushed me to think more about a doctorate degree.

So look out, OSU, here I come virtually. Go Cowboys but always Roll Tide.

He was not a man of many words but when he did say something you listened. I can honestly say I don’t think I ever really knew who he was beyond my grandfather. I caught glimpses and pieces of him in stories he told but never got the full picture of the man known affectionately as “Red.”

Maybe that’s the reality of everyone. Maybe we only really know our version of people. Maybe I should have asked more questions or prodded slowly and gently, providing the right amount of pressure until a diamond appeared. Maybe Red was just Red.

Life’s a funny thing. One minute you are born and the next all of your things are left behind for family to sort through to determine what should be kept, donated, sold, or has sentimental value.

I guess what represents the person truly are the loved ones that are left behind. They each carry a piece of the person with them.

I shared a story with my boys the other night of how I imagined my grandparents meeting some 60 plus years ago.

Cue the 50’s country music. My grandmother worked a truck stop/restaurant near a place in town called “The Round House” where truckers would stay. She was a very young mother working to support her children, leaving her past behind and looking for a fresh start. She was beautiful, old Hollywood beautiful. I imagine my granddad coming in and sitting in his usual “spot” or booth when walks up, a new waitress, one he hadn’t met before. She was different. With a shy grin, she takes his order, his usual as he was very much a creature of habit and brings back a cup of coffee.

Later, he somehow musters up the courage to tell her a joke. He catches a smile from her and it takes his breath away. He is about to head back on the road and knows he would have to ask her out before any of the other guys knows she’s working there. He mumbles something about going out, and surprising herself and him, she agrees. Underneath that tough exterior and uniform, there’s something about the guy.

Years pass and now they are reunited in heaven. She was always right even when she was wrong, and he was never right even if he was right. That’s just how their relationship worked. I imagined as he entered heaven, there was a familiar scene, he was much younger and so was she. It was his spot in the old truck stop/restaurant, and she brings him his “usual” and says curtly, “It’s about time.” He smiles and laughs, saying something not quite appropriate for heaven but St. Peter gives him a pass as he knows how long Red has missed Faye. Together, they leave and go home in heaven to their old yellow house on Strawberry Street. They sit on the front porch swing and look down at the life they created together. Other family members stop for a spell and greet Red. His brothers jokingly rib their baby brother and his mother greets him with a hug. His daddy hands him a hat and he places it on top of his head. He thanks God he’s finally home with “mama” as he affectionately called my grandmother. He can finally rest easy and is no longer alone or sad.

I brought home the candy dish Red won in a cake walk as a child. I can’t believe he kept it that long. It’s a story I’ll never forget and a piece of him I will take with me. I loved the man and I know he loved me in his own grandfatherly way. I guess I didn’t have to know everything about the man, but just that he loved me.

My port was removed earlier this month. This would mark my 4th surgery in 2 years (lumpectomy, tissue removal, port in, port out). It also signals the next step in my journey. We had a trip planned that was timed perfectly with my port removal.

I am currently on vacation with my husband’s side of the family in Utah. They all grew up skiing on Spring Break. I grew up going to the beach. There’s a big difference between the two vacations. One requires muscles I didn’t know existed. The other requires sunblock.

I was determined to take a ski lesson. I thought I’ve done chemo, I can ski. I talked to my friend Karen before the trip. She’s the kind of friend that we pick up where we left off, even if it’s been months since we’ve talked. She and I were instant friends when we met – though we’ve led different lives – she’s more exciting and edgier. She’s a survivor, too. I’m glad our paths crossed.

She gave me sound advice as she’s been skiing before. She told me to just scream while going downhill. We both died laughing with tears in my eyes from the belly laugh.

My first lesson went surprisingly well. I’m sure my anxiety medicine helped. I did make the ski lift, and I went down a hill. I only fell a few times-once off the lift at the end square on my bottom. I couldn’t physically pull myself up from a few of the falls. Thank God for my Saint of an instructor, Mike, and that it was a private lesson. He grabbed my dead weight up.

Although I wanted to scream as Karen suggested when I felt I was losing control, the Southern in me remained polite, holding in a proverbial shiiiittt that was on the tip of my tongue- I just pushed it back into my gut. As Mike called out, “Just push your left leg out further,” and the burning started shooting up in every part of my body, I began to second guess my decisions. I felt a lot like Lucille Ball taking ballet lessons, shoving chocolate in her mouth, or squishing grapes – a kind of beautiful awkwardness.

Stubbornness and pride got me through the entire lesson. My body hated me, and my smart watch was in shock, not recognizing its owner. It was exhilarating and exhausting.

I took today off. I am not sure if I’ll brave another day tomorrow. Pride may tell me differently. I may try again. I’m just thankful for the chance to feel the snow on my face and see the beauty around me.

My husband’s family is amazing. They accept that their son married a Lucille Ball.

I’m thankful the port is gone, and the adventure called life continues.

Close your eyes for just a moment. Imagine yourself in an old familiar place that you haven’t visited in quite some time. Here the sound of the water fountain and smell the cookies baking in the distance. Sounds of people passing by and the swish of the bags they carry come to your ears. Open your eyes and look around you. It’s the late nineties and you are in the mall on a random Saturday with your friends or family.

Let’s go pick out a new CD and with the latest technology you are able to listen to the CD before you purchase. The CD store looks like a scene out of Empire Records with the baggy pants, wallet chains, Doc Martins, spaghetti strap shirts, and plaid, lots of plaid. After picking out the latest Green Day CD, Nimrod, you head to Spencer’s to check out the weird and inappropriate merchandise which is thrilling as you know your mom doesn’t really approve, but she did buy you the green lava lamp for Christmas. Time to restock on your Sun Ripened and Raspberry lotion and body wash at Bath and Body.

Younger you beg for a trip to the “Hello Kitty” store. You would have sold your soul to Satan himself if he promised to buy you something at this store. It was that good. Maybe you are getting your ears pierced for the first time. Claire’s is the perfect spot for this coming-of-age occasion. The flower power earrings and Ying and Yang jewelry beckon you-you wish you were a hippy chick, but you are only 12. You beg your mom to buy the dress from World Winds, for your inner flower child. Your sister’s style is more the Limited. With school shopping in mind, your mom takes you to Parisian’s, McRae’s and the family favorite Gayfers, in the other mall. Calvin Klein jeans are on the top of your list and New Balances if your mom agrees. Your lunch plans include Picadilly to get some jello or Quincy’s across the street for an all you can eat buffet!

Maybe you are visiting the mall that has the movie theatre with the photo booth right outside of it. I remember the sweater I wore the first time I saw Titanic in that mall theatre. It was a black turtleneck with a white stripe going across the chest. Your sister actually took a picture with you in the photo booth and let you borrow some of her perfume for the occasion. You wore the Matchbox 20 CD out on the way up there and back, memorizing every song.

A trip to the mall was also an award, a field trip for making All A’s. $20 could purchase you several items and with money left to spend at the arcade which later became American Eagle, where all the cool kids bought their summer shorts and tees.

A day or evening spent at the mall represents a simpler time, a childhood now 20 something years ago. The feeling of new clothes and laying them out to wear to school was one of pride. Carrying the right bag with the right purchase in the mall gave a teenager or pre-teen a sense of elementary empowerment. The mall represented freedom for older teens who could spend the day and meet with parents later.

Now days shopping online has replaced this feeling. I do like the convenience of Amazon, online shopping, and things like After Pay but sometimes I’d like to transport back to time when the University Mall was the new mall, and you could still catch a movie at the McFarland Mall. CD players were the latest thing, and CD stores made you feel ultra-cool. You didn’t have a diet to think about so Great American Cookie and Sbarro were perfect choices.

I’ve officially become old and wish for the good old days. I have no regrets as my childhood was pretty awesome despite the angst, hormones, and general awkwardness.

I just wish the real world would just stop hasslin’ me.

Check out this flash back photo. The posters are from Spencer’s. Did you notice the phone with the cord? Middle school me in a hand me down collared shirt from the Limited.