There are dangers I hadn't even considered. (Shocking, really.)

It appeared in my in-box today: a note from Nixle (basically a police plotter-type service intended for paranoid peeps like myself) announcing that a boa constrictor had been found in my old neighborhood, just steps off the path of my old running route. "Crazy shit happening in the old 'hood, huh?" I wrote to Joanne. "OMG. Can you imagine if you'd seen this on your run?" I zipped off to Renee.

Then, about an hour later, I read about two brothers strangled to death, while they slept, by an African rock python.  The coincidence was bizarre.

My heart hurt thinking about those little boys in New Brunswick, each two years ahead of my little guys. Thinking of their parents. Holy awful shit.

I'm afraid of everything: Great Whites off the coast of the Cape, busy highways, fast-moving traffic. I worry about fluke falls and calm waters that might seduce a confident preschooler into sneaking off for a solo swim. I fear I wouldn't do the right thing if I crossed a bear in the woods with my kid. I worry when I hear how loud the clunk is when an apple drops down from high branches onto my deck. Should we chop down the tree? Surely I hit like that would really hurt a little head. It could even... You never know when danger will descend.

Today's tragic story of the python and the sleeping boys didn't  stoke a fear of snakes (that's actually pretty low on my list). But it did suggest that there are dangers I haven't even thought of yet, something I hardly thought was possible. Good lord.

I am capable of feeling content.

I've been meaning to start a new blog.  I've been meaning to ... blog. To write anything not work-related really. And, actually, inspired by Christina, I was planning to write—just one graph—every day for 30 days starting August 1. Today is August 5. First entry.

Today, J is 5 1/4. Today, I am 37 2/3. Today, Digs is 10. All born on the 5's. I think: surely there's a reason for this connection. And then I think... how do so many 5's pass so quickly? I'm prone to over-thinking, prone to nostalgia, prone to bat-shit-crazy ruminations when hormones and circumstances align in just the wrong way. Luckily that's not today.

Today, I felt compelled to capture my contentment because feeling comfortable standing still, absorbing the awesomeness of what is, happens rarely—if ever.

But as I watched the boys sing happy birthday to Digs...  a typically shirtless Jules presenting him two scoops of cake batter ice cream (his once-a-year treat) on the family's special-occasion scarlet plate...  Kai shimmying, snapping and beaming million-dollar dimples, I was gratefully present... celebrating sweet Demps and two little boys who recognize, much as we do, how incredibly awesome our decade-old Digs is.

"Go time" is a good time ...

... when you prepare as best you can, bring all you've got and convince yourself that what you're showing up with is more than enough. If you tell yourself you're going to rock it (whatever it is), there's a good chance you will. Or maybe you won't... but at least the process won't be so painful. In fact, it's likely to be pretty awesome. 

In a previous life, I spent lots of time and spun lots of wheels trying to make things perfect. I'd study until I'd memorized every fact and anticipated every possible question. I'd revise until I was sure that, having channeled my editor, I answered every one of her/his questions - in the first draft. (Impossible! And I lost much sleep doing it. Better to follow the advice of Anne Lamott: "Shitty first drafts.") I didn't miss classes or rehearsals. I'd taken all of the notes, even recorded lectures. (Um... yup. I was that girl. In grad school at least.) I knew all of the choreography - and helped other peeps with the spacing. When the test began, the draft was submitted, the curtain opened, I pretty much knew how things would go down. 

Anymore, this just isn't an option. I don't have 14 hours a day to work. I skip dance classes because I'm sick - because for the second time this season, the stomach bug has circled through my home. My time is no longer 100% my own, so I often have no choice but to wing "it" (whatever it is). And this often puts me outside of my comfort zone. Thing is, I'm getting cozier out there in the unknown... having had quite a few chances recently to learn that a little prep goes a long way when you combine it with the right perspective. It's forced growth  - and I'm grateful for it. 

About a year ago, I reported a big feature on fear - and overcoming it - and one of the experts I interviewed suggested something something that really stuck: when you start to feel the physical sensations of "nervousness," relabel them as "excitement."  I pulled out this trick twice this week and it worked. For real. The result: less fear, more fun. Fab.

Blogging keeps me accountable.

Anymore, I'm not sure how to keep myself accountable without a blog. 

My goals for my 37th year (still shaping up) will be both bigger and smaller than the goals of my 36th year. I will focus (in the unique way that I focus). I will simplify. All in the name of living a bigger life. 

For one, I will stop the Sunday catch-up work sessions. Effective immediately after I wrap today's essential editing. 

I'm serious. Committed. (Now... back to it, this final Sunday catch-up session.)

366daysof36.blogspot.com

I've abandoned this blog...

But over at 366daysof36.blogspot.com.blogspot.com, I'll be writing about all sorts of things I'm learning. Come on over!

Don't be a poser.

Friday afternoon before leaving for a fabulous weekend that included hanging with great friends, cheering on the Black Knights and exploring the most incredible Storm King Art Center, I took Dempsey for a short run. I squeezed this in between wrapping up work and packing up the van. When changing into running wear, I grabbed the first shirt I found.

It was a glorious fall day. There were lots of people out. I said hello to all of them because that's what I do. I said hello to a man, about my dad's age, pushing a stroller with a little girl, about my son's age. For all of this familiarity, I gave him an extra big smile. He gave an even bigger one back.

Man with baby: "How 'bout them Mets?"
Huh? Mets? Oh ... my shirt.

Me: "I know, right?"

But I did not know. Despite my shirt (which my sister, a die-hard Mets fan, bought me because most people in my family, and all of the people in the one I married into, love the Mets), I don't follow the Mets. At all. Last I knew, the Mets were not so good. But I'd heard that about four years ago. For all I knew, they could have won the World Series this year.

For the rest of my run, I wracked my brain for things I know about the Mets. Here was the list I came up with (on 9/16):

1. In my lifetime, I have attended two Mets games. There, I drank beer and ate nachos.
2. I used to live a short jog away from Shea Stadium.
3. Shea Stadium no longer exists.
4.  Mike Piazza--with the interesting facial hair--used to be the team's catcher.
5. Some supposedly attractive man named David (it took me the rest of the run to remember that his last name is Wright) still does. I think. 

Things I NOW (as of 9/19) know about the Mets, David Wright and the World Series:

1. David Wright indeed still plays for the Mets. Third base. (Source: Jon Olin) Want to know more about David Wright? He's from Virginia. He's a Sagittarius, like me. And... if he didn't become a professional athlete, he would have become an engineer. Jon Olin might argue the opposite is true for him.
2. The Mets did not win the World Series this year. Nor do they do have a chance at winning the World Series this year when it actually happens (Source: Jon Olin)
3.  This year, the World Series will commence on 10/19. So that no games will be played in November. (Source: Wikipedia)

Moral of this story: Don't be a poser. But if you're going to be a poser, use it to find out when the World Series is. Because, come on, shouldn't every American be required to know this?

Question for you: Ever get called out?

People dig my rat face.

My mom hates it. Jon despises it. But I can't stop making my rat face. It's really ugly. And I will find you a picture - just not right now. I don't have one on this computer. I'm not sure when my rat face was born: I think maybe in junior high...

I don't get requests to make the face often. But yesterday, my 9-year-old niece Anna asked me to do my rat face while we were playing mini golf in Glens Falls. (I happily obliged.) Then, today, when I was asking friends (on Facebook) to help me find a photo for a magazine's contributors' page--one that did not involve me squished against one of my children, holding an alcoholic drink, wearing sunglasses, etc.--my friend Ronda jokingly said she'd dig up a photo of me making my rat face at Allegheny's on-campus coffeehouse where we worked together. Two rat-face requests in one day! (Yeah, okay, one's technically just a reference.) "People dig my rat face," I proudly told Jon. He rolled his eyes and walked into the other room. 

This (me on the R) is much, much prettier than the rat face.

Now that I think of it, I believe my rat face began as most of my faces do - when someone asked me to pose for a picture. I hate having my photo taken. I feel self-conscious. I start thinking too hard about my smile: is it too gummy, too fake, too crazy? My checks start twitching. So I act goofy. I have lots of photos of me sticking my tongue out, crossing my eyes, etc., etc. In fact, when Jon proposed, he set the timer on our camera so that he could capture this milestone moment. He ended up pulling it off and we have an awesome shot--of his sixth attempt at a photo. Apparently, even back then, he knew it'd take me a few rat runs before I'd get serious for a picture. He wisely waited through them before dropping down on one knee and going for it.

Do I make ridiculous faces so that I can say, oh, I don't look good in that picture because I was trying to look bad (maybe, this 2008 story from the Times of London suggests)--or is just because I'm silly? Hmm... I think it's mostly because goofing off is far more fun than feeling uncomfortable and self-conscious.

For you to answer: What do you do when someone points a camera at you?

For you to ponder: The value of rat-face celebrity photos to paparazzi.