Weekend Perspective: A5 and B3

Friday afternoon, my weekend outlook was "top down."  I had made it through a long week at work after being off for a fabulous beach vacation, GP had arrived home safely from business travel, and the forecast called for Minnesota perfect weather. The cleaning lady had been to the house on Friday morning so I knew there weren't even any chores waiting for me when I got home Friday after work.  Gary and I were looking forward to doing a few things together on Saturday, Saturday night some friends were coming over, and Sunday we'd relax around the house and do some cooking, a favorite weekend activity.

Saturday morning we headed out early -- top down -- to the Minneapolis Farmers Market. Summer got off to a late start here in the Midwest, but finally the crops were producing and I'd been looking forward all week to roaming the aisles of the farmers market for the first time this season. We never made it to the farmers market.

Gary yelled as he saw the other driver run the red light....Thank goodness no one was hurt. We went about the rest of our day with a feeling of gratefulness that we were able to do so. Our friends came over at 7:00 as planned. Drinks were poured, and we'd just sat down around the fire pit on the patio when the phone rang.

The US Military Academy at West Point doesn't have fraternities and sororities like most universities; instead, cadets are assigned to a "company" made up about about 40 per class. Gary was a B3 Bandit, and even after almost 30 years since his West Point graduation, the Bandits are close "brothers." When they get together they fall into step even though military service, deployments, wars, careers, and distance have kept most of them apart for 30 years. One Bandit has been one of Gary's two best friends since they met in college; he and Kenny roomed together at West Point and served together in Germany. His wife Terie is my friend, and our children are the same age; we've had lots of family fun together, including tailgating at West Point football games and vacationing at the Jersey Shore. Ken had a distinguished military career, retiring last year as an Army Colonel after 25 years of service.

It was Gary's other best friend Rob, also a Bandit, who called last night with the devastating news that Ken died suddenly yesterday. He was out for a morning jog and collapsed.  Quick rewind: earlier yesterday Gary had a call from Ken. Gary answered with his usual "Hey Carrick what's up?"  But Ken wasn't on the phone. Gary figured he'd picked up too late. I'll call him later, Gary said, since we were about to eat dinner. As it turns out, it had been Ken's son calling to deliver the news: in the morning Ken had gone out for a jog and collapsed.

Ken and Terie married just after West Point graduation. Their daughter Samantha, a school teacher in Nashville, is engaged to be married this November, to an Army serviceman. Their son Chance is entering his senior year at West Point. Their son Corey is entering his senior year at Monmouth University, where he plays on the golf team. Ken and Terie both would have turned 50 in 2014. He was jogging yesterday because it's on Terie's bucket list to run the Army 10 Mile for her 50th birthday. Ken loved Terie, loved his kids, loved the Army, loved golf and loved boating with his family (the last 3 not necessarily in that order all the time!)

So many are grieving for this inexplicable loss. My heart aches for Ken's wife and children.  And I grieve with Gary, who is struggling to comprehend the loss of his dear friend. It was not surprising to me that within minutes of receiving the news last night, Gary was in touch with many of his Bandit brothers, giving and receiving comfort. I know the Bandits will be there for each other, and for Terie and her kids not only the in the coming days, but always. That's just how it is with this group. Special friendships born out of a special place.

My weekend began full of "top down" anticipation.  Someone made a careless mistake, ran a red light and changed the course of my day. I was thankful no one was hurt, but did lament that my beautiful A5 silver convertible was likely totaled or would never be the same.  Twelve hours later all I could think about was our B3 friend, and how life would never be the same.

Rest in peace Colonel Carrick.  You will live on in the hears and memories of many forever.

Still I Rise

Last night we were at a neighbor's house for an impromptu summer gathering.  The conversation turned to the subject of tattoos.   Did it hurt when you got yours?  What does it mean? How many do you have?  Would you get another one?  I think I'm going to get one.  One neighbor commented that her daughter wants to get her first tattoo, which has the Mom a little nervous.  I laughed, and said my daughter had just gotten her 7th tattoo on a recent trip to Budapest.  I reassured my neighbor that while it's a little hard to get used to the thought of your daughter getting tattoos, each one gets easier.

And then this morning when I checked in on Facebook, I saw that my daughter Emily had just posted a picture of her 8th tattoo, which she had done today.  All that talk from last night about each one getting easier.....well, somehow it didn't feel easy this morning.  She is just finishing grad school and applying for jobs.  My first thought was "what will prospective employers think?"  That's not really what bothered me about her new tattoo, though.  Today is an anniversary our family would like to forget, but the picture of her tattoo wouldn't let me forget. 

Two years ago today Emily was the victim of a horrific act of violence.  As a mom it has been beyond devastating to see my child experience such pain.  For a long time afterwards she was silent and shameful.   She has tried all sorts of things on her to journey to recovery - professional therapy, physical exercise, meditation, writing, studying, and advocacy walks.  Her healing process continues, and may go on for a very long time.   But she is no longer silent or shameful.   She is a courageous woman who is using all of her life experiences, her knowledge and education to empower other woman and to encourage equality.  She is a dedicated advocate to end violence against women, through social justice, community outreach and education.  She seeks diversity and inclusiveness in her life and values others who demonstrate, in words and action, the ability to look beyond differences to find commonality.

The employer who lands Emily will be very, very fortunate to have her talents, skills, and passion.  And her tattoos.

Just sayin.'

Laurie

Independence Day

I have lots of 4th of July memories.  When I was a little girl in Swedesboro, New Jersey, we spent many summer weekends  and holidays at Aunt Connie's and Uncle Bud's lake.  I remember corn on the cob cooked on the grill and eating ice cold watermelon slices.  I clearly remember our country's 1976 bicentennial.  It had only been 3 years since Billie Jean King had defeated Bobby Riggs in the "battle of the sexes" which was the beginning of a change for women, and Elton John's Philadelphia Freedom was the unofficial anthem of our country's bicentennial celebration. When Emily was little we spent many 4th of July holidays visiting Delaware. I remember one particular year we were in Rehoboth for the fireworks, but it poured with rain. Soon after, there was a rainbow. My stepfather Ken had passed away just before July 4th that year. We told the young grand kids even though there were no fireworks, PopPop Ken was sending us a message via the rainbow. Whenever I see a rainbow I always think of Ken. Another year we were having a picnic at my Dad's and I brought sparklers. I remember Roy shaking his head in doubt. I always tease my dad about the habits instilled in him from his years of working at DuPont, which is known for its worker safety. Dad wears safety glasses to hang curtain rods! Sure enough, we lit those sparklers, and I was the one who got burned! Gary and I had many great 4th of July celebrations around our pool in Fairfield, Connecticut; and we always loved walking to the beach in Fairfield to watch the fireworks. This morning I made baked beans, which are simmering; the ribs have been slow cooking all day, and will be finished off on the grill at dinnertime.  Deviled eggs are made; and candied bacon is ready as an appetizer for Gary and our surrogate nephew when they come home from the Yankees v. Twins game. Lots of great 4th of July memories, and today will be added to that memory lock box.  

Last week one of the attorneys in my office retired.  Dale's office happened to be next door to mine, so over the past 6 years that I've gotten to know him fairly well. We had a retirement luncheon celebration for him and he made a few remarks. He talked about growing up on a farm, one of 8 children. He was the first of all of his siblings and cousins to go to college. College for him was easy, he said, compared to the chores he had to do on the farm.  He's had a successful legal career, and he thanked many people who have been part of his success.  As he was finishing his remarks, he said "I want to thank America.  This is a great country which has given this farm boy from Minnesota so many opportunities, and I am grateful."

As I was cooking this morning, and thinking about my 4th of July memories, and reading all of the 4th of July posts on Facebook, and teasing my daughter, who is living in England, about going easy on the British today, and hearing about the protests in Egypt, my thoughts turned to what it means to be an American.  Simply put, I am grateful.

Just sayin'.

Laurie

John Adams famous letter to his wife Abigail, written July 3, 1776, on his thoughts about celebrating Independence Day:

The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more. You will think me transported with Enthusiasm but I am not. I am well aware of the Toil and Blood and Treasure, that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means. And that Posterity will tryumph in that Days Transaction, even altho We should rue it, which I trust in God We shall not. (The Book of Abigail and John: Selected Letters of the Adams Family, 1762-1784, Harvard University Press, 1975, 142).

Happy Father's Day

The earliest memory I have of my dad and me was when I was about 4 years old. He had a collection of Lionel trains that he used to to display at Christmas. The display was enormous, set up on a table about the size of a ping pong table in our living room. The collection of trains included an entire village of houses, a church, shops, and street lamps with actual lights. I remember the afternoon he took me to the woods near my grandparents farm, where we went in search of very small evergreen trees we could use in the train village display. Our family Christmas tree was the centerpiece of the village, sitting atop the table. We needed miniature trees to make the village more life-like. Roy Reffuge never does anything half way, hence his trip to the woods with a 4 year old to collect miniature trees. Dad's trains are something of a legend in our family, at least to me. For years and years I remember begging him "please set up the trains." A year or so ago he mentioned he was going to take his trains to an auction house, as he's too old to fool with them anymore.  I have the trains now and plan to display them during the 2013 holiday season.

Another early memory is Dad taking me to get a new bike. A white banana seat bike. Before that I had my cousin's hand-me-down two wheeler which looked something like the bike the old lady rode in the Wizard of Oz when she stole Toto. I'll  never forget that Saturday afternoon trip to the bike shop.

I'll always associate the TV show Mr. Rogers and Lima beans with my dad. Dad was a DuPonter, and when I was a child he got home from work around 4:00 (it never occurred to me when I was a kid how early he must have began work to have been home so early) so we would have dinner early. He could  get me to finish my dinner and clear my plate because the favorite part of my day - as he well knew - was watching Mr. Rogers at 5:00. Until the time my mom served Lima beans. This is my first memory of discipline.  I did not want to eat those Lima beans; my dad said I had to finish the beans. And so it went. First he said if I didn't finish the beans, no Mr. Rogers.  5:00 came and went. For my stubbornness he said I had to eat the entire bowl of beans on the table. The clock ticked, the beans grew cold. Next, he said whatever I didn't finish I would have to eat for breakfast the next morning. I don't remember whatever happened to the Lima beans but I have never had another Lima bean my entire life.

When I was 6 years old I was ill and in the hospital for about 4 weeks. My parents would come visit me every night. One night a week only one of them would visit, so the other could have a free night to bowl in their league. On the night my dad would visit alone he always brought me a black and white milkshake. That hospital stay was miserable for a 6 year old. It was not a children's hospital like we have today; it was metal bed in a dreary, depressing ward. And I was not allowed out of bed for anything for the entire 4 weeks. That milkshake was the highlight of my week.  Today whenever I drink a milkshake I don't think of that hospital; I have a good memory of my dad, of how happy he made me when he brought me those milkshakes.

My parents divorced when I was 13.  In my mind's eye I can see my Dad standing at the door to the bedroom my sister and I shared, trying to explain what was happening to our lives. I don't think he understood it himself. In the mid-70's divorce was still a fairly new concept in our middle class world. I can't remember his words that night, but I shall always remember the trembling in his voice and the tears in his eyes. It was then I truly learned and understood the meaning of a parent's love for his children, and appreciated the pain of an adult.

During my teen years I wasn't exceptionally close to my dad. I saw him regularly, but sharing intimate thoughts, fears, dreams....well, I just didn't. I wasn't sharing things with my mom either.  I'm not quite sure why it was this way. Because of me, because of them?  I don't know, and don't spend any time analyzing this.

Today I appreciate every conversation and visit I have with dad, although unfortunately, there are never enough of either. I love to hear stories about his childhood, about his parents and grandparents. About what South Jersey used to look like. How he landed his job at DuPont. About the bar he and my stepmother used to go to for after work happy hour. The farm work he did as a young boy. The trips he would make to the Philadelphia farmers market with the Jersey tomatoes.  

Dad is PopPop to 6.  He did a fair amount of babysitting when a couple were young, and is a regular spectator at sports games. He could always quiet a crying baby. The kids know they can count on PopPop to love and listen unconditionally.

Memories of my dad run through my mind like the slides of a View Master. I see him sitting in "his chair" with his pipe (the chair that I sat in once with a comb sticking out of my back pocket and ripped the leather). I remember him playing the game "Think-a-Color" with me and my sister Kathy.  And "who can be quiet the longest." (Yes, I usually lost!) Or the time he let me drive the riding lawn mower - one and done! When after relentless begging, we kids convinced him to buy the neighbor's pool and move it to our backyard. The summer he grew popcorn in his garden. How he would paint the garage floor with a shiny shellac which was perfect for our neighborhood jacks tournaments (he still paints his garage floor this way.)  I see him pitching horseshoes by the Swedesboro lake, in his backyard with his neighbor, and in Kathy's backyard with his grown grandsons. Him trying to tell me a joke as he was about to walk me down the aisle the first time, and I just cried and cried. How happy we both were we were able to do it again years later, and got it right the second time (in more ways than one for me!)  The annual Reffuge picnics in his backyard, which he always hosted when I came home for my annual summer visit. Or him sitting quietly content in his "heater room" playing solitaire.  A beautiful slide show in my mind.

I love you Dad.  Happy Father's Day.

Mama Got a New Pair of Shoes

Gary took me to the Running Room after work yesterday and bought me a new pair of running shoes, or rather, walking-and-I-run-a-little-bit shoes.  He called me at work in the afternoon and offered to take me shoe shopping and out to dinner.  His timing - as usual - was perfect.

I am in the 50th year of my life.  Ooohhhhh, that's a little hard to say.  I haven't hit the big birthday yet, but the next one is it.  The past few years have brought about many changes in my life and I've been contemplating where I am in and where I'm headed, and I've spent some time in front of the mirror.  Not the proverbial mirror; the actual mirror.  All I've been able to see are extra pounds.  Pounds I have been struggling to rid myself of.   In my 30's I gained and lost weight more than once with no problem -- well, obviously gaining is usually pretty easy.  But losing was pretty easy for me too.  Not only are my 30's in my rear view mirror, the ease of losing weight is far behind me too.   

Sugar Busters, Atkins, Weight Watchers, Medifast, Lose It App, food journaling, Dr. Oz's recommended Fast Metabolism...you name it, I've researched it, tried it, and basically failed at it.   I've cut out carbs, cut out my beloved pretzels, drink an ocean's worth of water each day, given up my homemade sweetened ice tea (which is legendary to my son Kyle), and don't eat sweets.  It's Special K for breakfast, salad for lunch, protein and salad for dinner......all to no avail.  It's unlikely I will meet my 10, 20, 30, 40 or 50 by 50 goal.

Recently I read an article about fashion designer Betsey Johnson.  She built up a fabulously successful business, had designer stores all over the country, then in 2012 lost everything to bankruptcy and had to sell her brand to Steve Madden.  Along with the article was her picture.  She's 70 years old, and boy, she looks good for 70.  She's slender and physically fit and was fashionably dressed.    But here's what struck me.  She "bragged" in the article about her "great" life: she eats dinner at the same Italian restaurant every night and has the same champagne and flirts with young, attractive waiters.  Really?  That's a great life?  There was no mention of her enjoying time with a spouse or significant other, or children or grandchildren, or friends.  Each day all she looks forward to is champagne and an attractive waiter?

Which brings me to Gary's perfect timing yesterday.  After we got my new walking-and-I-run-a-little-bit shoes, we went out to dinner.  Because of our career demands and work travel, we haven't had a chance to talk much this past week.  I needed to visit the GP confessional.  So last night I confessed that my latest diet attempt had failed and that after a great deal of self reflection, soul searching and some prayer, I had come to a decision -- NO MORE FOCUSING ON MY WEIGHT!  I am DONE DONE DONE!!  The only diet I want to be on is a D.I.E.T = Did I Eat Today?   I want to make healthy food choices, and most of the time I will, but sometimes I won't because it's fun and normal to eat a pretzel and enjoy a glass of sweet tea!  And to my surprise and relief, Gary was happy about this!  He told me he was tired of me suffering through diets!   He said all the things I know in my head, but hearing them from the other half of my heart meant so much.....I have a husband who loves me, we have beautiful children who are building happy lives of their own; we have successful careers; we have a large, loving extended family; we have friends all over the country; and most important of all, he loves me and he loves how I look. 

I will take care of my physical body so I can be around when I'm 70, not to drink champagne in the same Italian restaurant every night and flirt with attractive waiters, but to enjoy my husband and our children and hopefully grandchildren.  

So I have new goal by the time I'm 50.  To wear out my new walking-and-I-run-a-little-bit shoes so I'll need a new pair for my birthday!!

Just sayin'.

Laurie

Social Networking

By definition, social networking is the act of expanding the number of people you know by meeting your friends’ friends, and their friends, and so on.

Social networking used to be going out for happy hour or going to a cocktail party.

Today, social networking is so much more than, well, social networking. Social networking gives us the ability to stay in touch with our friends, reconnect with friends from our past, communicate with our families, expand our business contacts, look for a job, find a date (or a spouse), make a restaurant reservation, do our banking, hire a lawyer, “talk” to a doctor, send a party invitation, read the daily headline news, plan a wedding, mail a package, share our photographs, order our groceries, or learn how to do the Harlem Shake, all from the comfort of our couch.

My earliest memories of social networking are from the 7^th grade, when my friends and I would pass notes between class periods so we could “talk” our weekend visits, dollar movie nights, cheerleading tryouts (they would always encourage me that I could do the cartwheel – which I never could!), and generally lament about the woes of middle school.

 One of my favorite pastimes of middle school!

In high school, for Valentine’s Day, carnations were sold.  Send a red carnation to another student, that meant love; a white meant friendship; and pink was flirtatious.  Today on Facebook there are all sorts of ways to send virtual “gifts” of affection.  I don’t think any those gifts are as meaningful to the recipient as a real, live flower.  Of course, today’s high school students probably have no basis for comparison.

It was sometime in the early 1990’s that I got my first email account.  I loved email and spent far too many hours of my workday sending and receiving messages with my sister, brother and friends.  No longer did I get family news and gossip weeks later, or not at all.   I didn’t even mind paying that monthly AOL account charge (remember that?!)  Today email is an “old fashion” social networking tool, at least outside of the business world; we don’t rely it on like we used to; we have too many other ways to communicate that are faster than email.   I still love email though; I’ll always have a soft spot for this technology.

According to Wikipedia, there are over 199 social networking sites, and that doesn’t include dating and matchmaking sites.    Some of the most popular sites:  Facebook; You Tube; Classmates.com; iTunes;  OpenTable;  MySpace; EVite; LinkedIn; Skype; Instagram; Twitter; Pinterest; Words with Friends; SnapChat;  CaringBridge;  FourSquare; and Tumblr.  Then there’s texting, blogging, instant messaging, voice mail and the aforementioned email.  And who doesn’t Google, Bing, Ask, and/or Yahoo?  Also in the mix are about 300,000 apps for business, education, entertainment, finance, health, fitness, sports, travel, and food.    Further Internet research (which may or may not be reliable) reveals that 87% of all American adults use a cell phone, and 55% of those use their phone to access the Internet.  31% of adult Americans have a tablet computer, and 26% have an e-reader.  We are wired.

I am as socially networked as most of my peers.  I have a FB account, I tweet from time to time, my Linked In account is up to date, I regularly Skype and text, I love Pinterest, obviously I blog, I use various apps to keep organized and connected in this busy world, and I still email with my sister, brother and a few friends.  But for a while now I’ve felt as though I’ve been spending a lot of time “networking” yet not feeling socially connected in ways that matter to me.   And then I had a disappointing electronic social network “conversation”.  Many others have surely experienced the same type of thing.   A downside to “talking” electronically is the absence of tone of voice and the visual of body language.  One can try to be accurate with the written word, and can backspace and delete, but without tone, facial expression, gestures, etc., it’s easy for another to misinterpret , or “hear” words in a way they weren’t intended to be “spoken”.  The online exchange I had like this gave me real pause, and has had me thinking about the place and purpose of social networking in my life.  So I’ve tried to make a few changes, hopefully without imposing my needs on my socially networked friends.

I started by making a phone call to a relative who lives far away from me.  We had a real conversation, caught up on what was happening in our lives, and shared a few things that we probably wouldn’t have posted on Facebook.  It just felt nice.  A few weeks later I wrote a letter – on stationary with a pen! -  to a high school friend I haven’t spoken to in 23 years.  We exchange Christmas cards every year, with short update notes, but that’s been the extent of our staying in touch.  She replied via email (email is ok with me –I love this old fashion tool!) and shared much about her life.   It feels good to be connected with her again.   And recently when I needed to pass on information to a neighbor, I called her and we ended up having a nice chat.  I could have sent her a text, but she’s a great friend and is worthy of more than a few hastily typed words.

Next I decided I would no longer check my Facebook account during the workday.  Admittedly, that’s been a little harder to do – or not to do!   But I no longer open FB on my work computer, only on my phone, and usually only around the lunch hour. 

Finally, my ipad is on the nightstand next to my bed.  It used to be the last thing I looked at before I turned off the light to go to sleep.  No more ipad in the bed!  And no more looking at my cell phone as  soon as I wake up in the morning ( I wait until at least 7:30 am!).

The bottom line is I want to have more personal connections so I’m trying to make small changes so I’ll be less networked and more social.

And now Gary and I are off to a social event  where we will try to network - Minneapolis Food and Wine Experience.  Like.

Just  Sayin.’

Laurie

What Makes Me Beautiful - By Emily Heiser

This post is from a "guest blogger," my very beautiful daughter, Emily.

 

 

What Makes Me Beautiful

By Emily Heiser

At 24 years old, I’ve been exposed to many different ideas of what beauty is, what it means, and why it’s important.  In my quest for beauty, I’ve tried lots of diets, every type of fashion, and have been every shade of blonde and brunette a person can be.  I continue to be dissatisfied with my hips, my thighs are slightly thicker than I’d like them to be, and no matter how many sit-ups I do my stomach still has a little “pouch” that just won’t disappear.  However, I had one part of me that I loved; my eyes.  I always received compliments on them and they were always the one thing I felt comfortable “flaunting.”  In 2008, I was in a car accident that could have left me blind.  Instead, it left me with a scar on my right eye and eyelid. The scars are the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I look at before I go to bed at night.  I’ve struggled the past several years knowing that the one part of me that I believed was perfect is damaged, forever.  I try to be an advocate for positive body image and yet, I have never quite reconciled my own positive body image with what I see in the mirror. During my most recent confrontation with what I saw in the mirror, it occurred to me that I spend a considerable amount of time focusing on all the parts of me that are ugly but very little on what is beautiful about me. So, I got to thinking. What makes me beautiful?

 

I decided to begin my journey to self-acceptance by thinking about the times that I did feel beautiful.  It didn’t include a pair of heels, my favorite jeans, or even a form fitting dress.  None of those really make me feel beautiful as my insecurities inevitably surface the minute I step out the door.  I went horseback riding yesterday, as I do every Wednesday, as I’ve done since I was 9 years old, and as I was showering afterwards it struck me almost like lightening.  I feel most beautiful when I’m horseback riding.  It doesn’t really make sense does it?  I don’t have makeup on, I’ve got helmet hair that is wet from sweat, chances are I have horse saliva on my shirt because Samson was convinced I was withholding delicious carrots from him, and there is mud and horse poop stuck to the bottom of my shoes. Not your typical beauty standards.  But when I’m riding I feel beautiful, even perfect.  I feel beautiful because I feel happy.  A horse, whether it’s the very first horse I ever rode, a small paint named M&M at L&G stables in New Orleans, or my horse in high school named Bella, or a horse at John Shaw Equestrian Center in Urmston, Manchester.  Not one of those horses has ever cared what I look like.  M&M didn’t care that I had braces and an awkward haircut; Bella didn’t care if my hands weren’t freshly manicured; and Samson is not bothered that I ate that extra slice of pizza.  Similarly, I didn’t care that M&M was barely 14 hands high; he had the heart of a racehorse.  Bella was a bit clumsy over jumps, but she was a best friend who loved me unconditionally during trying times my high school years; and Samson is not always the gentleman he has a reputation for being, but he makes it his duty to make sure I have a safe ride.  These imperfections are what make these horses absolutely beautiful.

It’s funny what animals can teach you about yourself.  These horses have shown me that it is not about what I don’t have but what I do have; my so-called “imperfections” are actually what make me beautiful.  My hips that I think are too big are just the right size for carrying a saddle.  Even though my thighs are thick, they are perfect for jumping horses over fences.  My nails aren’t always freshly manicured, but are on hands perfect for feeding a fresh apple to a horse after a long ride.

 
My journey is to self-acceptance is just beginning; I have a long way to go and it won’t always be easy.  But, I am finally realizing my so-called flaws are what make me who I am; my flaws are my story, my unique and beautiful story.

Just sayin'.

Laurie