Hello!

I was the kid who wanted her friends to read her journal. I wanted them to know me. I thought by having them read what I wrote I would be understood, loved even. At the very least they would think I was fascinating, complex, revolutionary! in my thinking. People don't always want to read your journal, and now that is more than fine by me, but I will always want to write one. I continue on with my need to write things down, and clearly wanting someone to read them is not entirely out of my system. I'm nervous though, about obsessing over words, or wanting to rewrite, or get it just right-to explain correctly and thoroughly. I'm nervous about being judged for my bad grammar in my sentences. BUT, the fact that I have admitted in writing, to you who read this (and to I who write this) that I am nervous about anything at all is a pretty good place to start.

I received my first journal from my sister. I still have it. I have all of my journals with the exception of the ones that were stolen.
It is not that my words are so incredibly valuable that one could snatch them up and sell them to the first passerby, but I have been known to keep a messy car and in that messy car there were bags and in those bags were journals and bras and Bibles and videotapes and toothbrushes-you know, valuables.
My mother got me started on the writing. I was level 10 intense and complex and on. I was a very hyper and happy kid who could get a little spazzy and spin right out of sight up up up and then crash down in a pool of tears and agitation often meeting the ground with a head wound or two.
This would also describe my early 20's.
My mother's remedies always included prayer, sleep, food, hard work and waking early. My mother's remedies for ME, along with all of those things, included running around the house before bed and always keeping a pen and paper in my hands.
THANK YOU MOM!!!!!
I moved, talked, and thought constantly-racingly. God was my patient listener. Writing helped me to get it out. Dancing helped me to get it out. Singing made me feel like a bird.
more on that later
Working out, as it would suggest, helped me to get it out. I was the youngest member of the Downtowner Health Club at age 11. Sports hadn't served me well and running around the house at night is not always practical, so my mom joined me up at the gym. I had gone there in 4th grade on a field trip to an aerobics class. I lost my mind. I loved it. Music and jumping around AND specific clothes just for the occasion? What's not to love? My mom made me workout clothes from scratch. My favorite pair of spandex were neon pink with black polka dots. They were awesome. I also had a lovely half shirt with pastel paint splatters that I would pair with a different colored bottom piece over shiny nude leggings. This particular outfit was topped off with huge bunchy socks (matching of course) and aerobic hightops. Again, awesome. I would go to class and then head into the gym to lift some weights. I loved being tough. I loved feeling like I was one of them. Just a dude, working out, keeping healthy, keeping strong, pumping iron.
I have had glasses since first grade and a wicked depth perception problem to boot-basketball gets tricky. I preferred to get to know my "opponent", not blocking them from a satisfying move on the court that they could be proud of! Needless to say, I have won my fair share of "Spirit" awards.
The Dowtowner had a hottub outside which my friends and I would sit in after our workouts. We would wear swimsuits and ski hats in the winter, steam rising up and snow falling down on us. It made for crispy hair.
If you are from a cold climate, you can understand that wet hair in winter makes for frozen locks that seem as though they could snap off at any second. No worries though, they don't.
It's a chilly November 24th, no snow today, but I am currently wearing my hair short.