Posting this photo is a biggie for me. No makeup, no sunglasses, no cap. Just me and hubs in the middle of a much-needed marathon cleaning session. I never edit to remove wrinkles, etc., but then again I don't often deliberately display myself not at my . . . I was going to say best, but what I really mean is prettiest.
Not that I'm going to start posting no-makeup selfies all the time, but this seemed like a personal growth thing to do.
Kids and grandkids--this is what 50ish looks like without plastic surgery or Botox or hair transplants. It's what people who (praise the universe) have more important things to spend money on than trying to hold on to the look of youth (except for the hair color, I totally think that's an important thing to spend money on. I know. I contradict myself.) look like.
The busyness is sometimes dizzying right now, but it is many good things. I will report in greater detail later, but one of them has something to do with a story that may be the book that I've thought I might have in me . . .
Jenny and the PITA Moms:
a story of love, friendship, perseverance, hope and (just the right amount of) craziness
This is a story that has a beginning and end, and even a title, but the middle is waiting to be written.
I know it’s unusual to begin with the end, even more so when the end hasn’t actually happened, but this journey is so unlikely already that I think that’s how I must start; with a vision of where we will go, of a dream that drove reality. Even so, this end is not the finale—this is one of those tales that will continue after the last page has been turned and maybe even after the principal players have left this Earth.
It is October in Clearwater Beach, Florida and we look out over an ocean that started at the shoreline a crystalline aqua then deepened to a blue so like that of the sky that the horizon line is almost imperceptible. The Florida breeze, famous for its silky warmth, tousles our hair and adds to the sense of wonder and magic palpable to even passers-by. The iPod playlist invites dancing and so we do—to Abba’s Super Trooper, to Sara Bareilles’ Brave and to Katy Perry’s Roar; a coterie of middle-aged women and the girl who brought us together-on this night of answered prayers we dance ourselves dizzy; we are sated with joy.