Stick a Fork in Me, I'm Done

Yesterday I had a day that rocked me to the very core of my vain, still relatively young (IT NEEDS TO BE SAID), being.

Yesterday I found some gray hairs.

And by "gray" I mean straight-up-blinding-pure-as-the-driven-snow white.

And by "some" I mean a giant strip along the crown of my head, conveniently hidden all this time by my sneaky part. I'm talking Cruella DeVille-style stripes.

When I found them I gasped so audibly and dramatically that my daughter thought I had maybe cut myself or something. She ran into the bathroom to find me running my fingers through my hair in horror and disbelief, and then that's when I also found the rogue, solitary grays, splayed willy-nilly across my scalp. Because insult to injury and cruel jokes, apparently.

The bathroom light was hitting those suckers in all the right places, and they were shiny and there was no questioning what they were. They were there to taunt me and remind me of my mortality and that it's all downhill from here, baby.

Now, please don't get me wrong. I can totally embrace aging gracefully. But the aging part needs to happen slowly. I need to be eased into this.

I am 31. I can understand one, MAYBE TWO, grays. That's like dipping my pinky toe into the water of "Hey, you're no spring chicken anymore." I can tolerate that.

But like...a colony of grays? And an apparent mutinous colony at that?

At first I thought I could grapple with my grays because let's be honest, the Miranda Priestly character is pretty freaking fabulous in The Devil Wears Prada.

SLAAAAAAY.
source: Vanity Fair

But like, I'm still mostly brown. And old, grown-out-highlight blonde, because I haven't been to the salon in oh, about six months.

So no, Miranda Priestly I am not. Which is unfortunate.

After five long minutes pep talking myself into thinking this would all be okay, I flipped my part back over to camouflage my skunk stripe and went about my business.

And THEN. Oh, and then. This is the part where it all goes to crap.

Later that day, I was chit chatting with the intern at the office, who is a young, full-of-hope and not-full-of-existential-despair-and-dread 20 years old. I was talking to her about these grays I found, but mostly about how I've been having trouble sleeping.

She asked me, "How old are you again?"

I responded, "31."

She responds: "Oh, well you aren't THAT close to menopause, because my mom..."

And then I stopped listening and died because:

1.) She was suggesting that menopause could maybe, possibly, be the cause of my sleep-deprivation woes.

2.) I was just compared to a 20 year old's mom.

You guys, I am all about aging gracefully. But do you know what else I am all about?

AGING GRACEFULLY WHEN IT'S MY TIME, DAMMIT.

Whole30: (FAILED) Lessons on Willpower & Why I'll Try Again

So, the Whole30.

I'm sure you've heard of it, somehow, some way, in the last few years. 30 days straight of eating whole, unprocessed foods and zero sugar, alcohol, grains, legumes, dairy, or really anything that brings any sort of joy to my life.

I've made three attempts at the Whole30 in the last two years.

And I've failed three times, all within the first 14 days.

I don't know why.
I know that eating real food makes me feel good.
I know how good I felt at Days 10 and 11.
I know how great my skin looks when I'm eating in a way that feels right and drinking ALL THE WATER.
And speaking of drinking--I know how crappy I feel the next day even after one or two glasses of wine (ugh, curse you, 30s).

The science behind the Whole30 (seriously, read It Starts With Food) is legit. It makes sense.

But there's just something about that halfway point that has me throwing my hands up in the air and saying "Ahhhh, screw it," and popping the lid on that pint of Ben & Jerry's I know damn well I SHOULD have thrown out before Day 1 even started.

And it's always Ben & Jerry's. Always. And it's so weird because I don't even like ice cream all that much (I know, judge away you haters). When I fall off a wagon, I fall HARD.

Besides, I am a fan of moderation and enjoying all things within reason. You do you, and all that.

But the truth is--I don't really feel like my body is functioning the way that it should. My digestive issues are riiiiiidiculous. I am constantly in a total mind fog. Sleep has been crappy. My clothes fluctuate between fitting "just OK" and "WTF happened to my waistline overnight." My skin is breaking out worse than it did when I was a teenager (although I have suspicions that might be tied to my good friend, the IUD). And I have all the energy of a slug during the day. I'm really not in it to lose weight (but I mean, hooray if that happens), but I just want to feel better.

And I'm like 97.8% sure it has a lot to do with the fact that chocolate has become one of my main food groups and I am running through the Chick Fil A drive-thru more often than I care to admit. Moderation has been blown out the window and replaced by eating all the things, all the time.

So for the sake of accountability and (hopefully) moral support, I boldly declare that yes--Whole30 attempt #4 commences on Tuesday, January 2, 2018.

No cheating.
Going HAM for 30 days.

Dammit.

Now--will someone hold me and tell me this will all be okay, please?

If you are doing a January Whole30, I'd love to know all about it! I'll be posting here weekly (or more often if I feel the need to whine about it), and I'd love to hear how its going for you in the comments and all about your attempts at avoiding SWYPO, your best compliant mayo, and slaying your sugar dragon--because, solidarity.

Our Elf on the Shelf: A Brief History

It's that time of the year, friends with young children! You know what I'm talking about.

You probably have one. You know.

This bastard:

I see you, with your creepy, shifty eyes.

Now, let me preface this by saying that YES--I love Christmas and December and all the magic and fun that goes with it. Having a child who still believes in Santa is the BEST. The wonder and excitement just pushes me over the edge into unequivocal joy and reduces me to a pile of teary-eyed mush to be able to experience Christmas as a child via my very own offspring.

But THE ELF. The freaking elf YOU GUYS.

Our elf, fondly named Sparkle--just like about one million other elves on their own little shelves--appeared at our house when Peyton was three years old. And by "appeared" I mean I spent $29.99 at Target for this doll and its book in its cutesy little box and I brought it home (and briefly questioned my reasoning skills for spending that much money on THIS THING) and proudly set it up one morning after Thanksgiving. We read the book and baptized our elf into the world by naming her, and Sparkle has been gracing us with her presence every Christmas season since.

Year one was great. I was still married and had back-up in case I forgot to move the elf. Sparkle did crazy things like appear in the most unexpected places and played pranks on our family that required me to both MAKE and CLEAN UP the messes, all in the name of Christmas spirit.

Year two was more of the same, except this time I was living in a house with who was now my soon-to-be-ex-husband and I'm not going to lie--Sparkle saved my Christmas. Making sure my daughter woke up every morning to a new Sparkle-surprise forced a sense of normalcy for me and allowed me to make her Christmas as special as I could even when everything else was falling apart.

Year three found me navigating the waters of the holidays as a single mom for the first time. I fondly remember texting my ex that I needed the elf sent to my house ASAP just before Thanksgiving, which he did stealthily provide, double wrapped in plastic bags like some sort of merry contraband.. And dammit, I did my best with that elf--but I was TIRED. Sparkle lost her originality and mischief. Less messes, and more half-hearted plopping from one flat surface to another. And then I would forget to move her and then realized that bold-faced lying to my child is a skill I am quite adept at. All in the name of Christmas, after all.

And last Christmas morning, I forgot to put Sparkle away. Peyton woke up, as excited as could be, and the dread hit me that Sparkle was sitting right where I had left her the morning before and had NOT, in fact, "flown back" to the North Pole like she was supposed to. So I ran downstairs as fast as I could, beating my child by mere seconds, and stuffed her into the nearest drawer I could get to--which was in the wine rack (typical). There Sparkle sat for an entire year.

Here we are at year four. Sparkle has gotten some of her mojo back (read: mom is getting her mojo back). She does some silly things here and there, but when I see immaculately-staged elf shenanigans on social media I can't help but roll my eyes (you people need hobbies). I set an alarm on my phone at 6:15 every morning labeled "MOVE THE DAMN ELF" because let's face it--nine times out of ten I am collapsing into an exhausted heap next to my daughter at 8 PM for the night and that elf ain't moving until the next day.

I'll admit I, personally, don't find as much joy as I used to in planning some elaborate scene that requires props and messes and any more effort than is absolutely required after a day of ALL THE OTHER THINGS. I am busy making sure my daughter is alive and well-adjusted after a pretty turbulent couple of years.

But if that also means schlepping a creepy doll around the house every morning at 6:15 and tucking it into some ridiculous pose or setting for four weeks--then I'll do the damn thing.

Because Christmas.
And magic.
And how my kid's eyes light up every morning.
And our fond goodbye to Sparkle on Christmas Eve before bed when Peyton begs to hug her "just this once mom, please".

Dear Elf on the Shelf: I really don't like you, but I get you. Thanks for making Christmas special.

PS: If I turn up dead between now and Christmas Eve...someone needs to look into Sparkle.