Being Hip Without Breaking A Hip

So, if you follow me on Instagram or my Facebook Fan Page, you know that I fell off of my bike and ate it hard on the Fourth of July.

I was on Balboa Peninsula and riding my bike along with the Caveman and about 400,000 other people and one of them a drunk-ass wannabe sorority chick from the 909 locked target on me like an Exocet missile. I had no where to go--I was stuck between her bearing down on me and a huge solid oak garage door.

I laid the bike down and slid on my right side thinking, I guess, that at 4-mph I could somehow cafe-racer-style pull it out in the straightaway. Let me just take the suspense out of the story right now: I did not make it. Instead I laid the bike down and slid on my right side for an unreasonable distance and amount of time, and came to a halt with my cruiser on top of me and my silk JCrew sunsuit with a deep case of road rash. Have no fear: I did, per usual, protect my expensive and diligently maintained teeth.

Later that night, with me sitting on the closed toilet lid as the Caveman cleaned and dressed my ridiculous wounds, I asked him, "How many more years do you think I can continue doing this sort of nonsense?" It was really more of a rhetorical question, but he answered anyway, "For forever." And he said it to me like he says most things to me: With an absolutely clear conviction, and posolutely no hesitation. He wholly believes that I will be participating in these antics when I am 65-years-old, which in all honesty is really not that far away.

This question-and-answer scenario has played like a loop in my head since that fateful evening. And it seems it has served as a catalyst for what I think may very well be a developmentally delayed midlife crisis, that is if I live to be 104 and God help me if I live to be 104-years-old, because if that is the case, I will need a complete lumbosacral spine transplant, as well as a bilateral elbow and wrist goes-ey over-y.

Let's face it folks, I am bordering on just this side of the ridiculous here, but because more often than not it is the uncomfortable and distressing and not the comfort-making and appropriate that we labor under that helps us to birth a new personal truth or maybe even just a cool new IG handle.

So, I have been reviewing a few facts that I just cannot seem to get away from:

• Over The Hill: Most of the Caveman and my friends, for whatever reason, are the age of my 30-year-old son; a few are the age of my own parents, and some are our own age. Age has just never really been a deciding factor in whether we enjoy your friendship. I like that about us--we are equal opportunity with our love and our friendship and our support. 
• Fear and Loathing: I have been laboring under fear my entire life. Whenever or wherever you see me AND I am awake and upright, I am in all likelihood scared shitless. All my day's worth of self-control and stamina is used up trying to keep that goo-ball of boiling and roiling and rolling and rumbling fear contained to the center of my being because God forbid that should ever show. It truly is difficult to behave cool and perpetually unencumbered if you are constantly gritting your teeth to keep from peeing your pants out of sheer fright. I just gotta get over this--I just gotta break up with anxiety.
• What Not to Wear: I am probably as fit as I was the year I became pregnant with the Hero and lemmetellyou, I was pretty fit that spring. Regardless of how fit my body may be or how appropriate my BMI, it seems wildly inappropriate to be dressing in clothes from Forever21 and No Rest for Bridget. Perhaps it really should not matter, but it does. Because we all see that lady that just cannot seem to come to grips with the fact that she is over 50 and there ain't nothing pretty about it, and mostly it is just sad and pitiable and the thought of being that lady leaves me totally bereft.
• Got My Mind on My...Huh? What Were We Talking About, Again?: For the most part, my mind remains young. I mean, I keep my education solid by reading the Urban Dictionary Word of the Day daily and my street cred, well, credible by subscribing to the Inside The Mind of a Ghetto Genius blog. As the proprietor and sole staff member of my own little research and cancer registry services company, it is imperative that I stay up-to-date with technology and medicine and business and cancer and some of the most brilliant research minds. I cannot afford to sit back on my heels and simply say, "I do not do that," or "I am sorry, I do not know that." I better do that and I better fucking get familiar. Period. I may not know Wordpress or how to put in a widget or even "program" my own Facebook fan page, but I do know the important questions to ask should you or someone you love be diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer or localized breast cancer. Cancer: It is what I do. 
• The Invisible Woman: As I move into the middle of my life, I have found myself feeling that there is something very invisible-making about being a middle aged woman. You are no longer a mommy; not a grand-mommy and not quite dead, either. The fact remains that the days of me turning heads as I walk by has passed me by. Both men and women do not notice me the same as when I was younger, and I have stopped being asked my opinion about anything from what diaper and detergent I use to what type of car, pantyliner or even panty I prefer. And they should be asking me, because I have a lot more money now than I have ever had, and I like to eat nice food and buy nice things for myself and those I love and to see nice places and I like to do it all while driving a nice car. AND I do not need to spend any money on diapers or daycare or dental orthodontics!
• Hip Without Breaking a Hip: And this last point, I believe, is the most important point: I want to remain relevant and interesting and fun and interested. I want to continue to have goals that interest and challenge me. This includes and is not limited to: getting better at surfing, growing my little bloggity blog, bettering my overhead squat, and learning how to do a strict pull-up, as well as getting back on an airplane without barfing the list is endless and excruciatingly exhausting. All this is in an effort to be hip just without breaking my hip! 

Well, that was a whole lotta words for me to say just to announce that I am creating a new reality for myself and re-dedicating my blog to the pursuit of my own heart's happiness and to being brave in the face of all that frightens me, as well as all the things that are really important to me as I move on from the age of 50. And like I told a group of new blogging girlfriends my new tribe I am redefining 50 for me.

THIS IS MY 50!

Well, we will all just have to see where this leads--ride along with me because lemmetellyou, God willing and the creek don't rise, you will be in my shoes one day and you are gonna be thanking me for saying to you one Fourth of July holiday, "Yeah. No. It is time to walk your bike across Pacific Coast Highway to get yourself into <insert goofy-and-prolly-totally-inappropriate-place here>"

This is my gift to you. And you are welcome.


xoxo Darya

Do Good Love

I do not write much about my immediate family. We are very private people by nature and by nurture. And in all honesty, we have no deep dark secret lurking in the shadows waiting to have a light shined on it; there are no interventions waiting to be done or truths to be told. We are simple people; we are blue-collar working folks that earn every inch of our wages and save our pennies and pay our bills and do the hard stuff before we do the fun stuff. That last part is usually what made us different from most other families I knew growing up.

That is what I lived; that is what I was taught; that is what I learned; that is what I saw in the Caveman and that is what I instilled in the Hero. I am telling you all this today for a reason.

Because today is the occasion of my parent's 53rd wedding anniversary. Their wedding created the family seat into which two girls were born and then married two wonderful men creating four beautiful children.

But in all honesty, my parents have been together even longer than that because they met and started dating when my mom was 14-years-old and Daddy was 16-years-old! How about that for high school sweethearts! And let's be honest, staying together for that long and not committing some kind of felony against the other person is a feat in and of itself that is stupid of me to write because a) NOT being together is not an option and b) we are not felonious people--we are that one segment of society for which jail still operates as a deterrent.

I asked my parents last night what one thing they would say to a newly married couple for a long and loving and lasting marriage. Daddy immediately answered with, "Be kind and laugh!" And according to Momma, it is, "Lots of hugs and kisses." When you really think about it, isn't that the answer to a good and happy and loving life in general. Simple. Simple answers to a simple question.

Because love is simple and simply put, the Parents do good love.

In two weeks, Sister and her husband will celebrate 24-years of marriage, and in December, the Caveman and I will celebrate our 24th anniversary, as well. We have a good road map to follow, and we all try to hug and kiss and laugh and be kind because we all want to do good love.

Happy anniversary, Momma and Daddy! And just like I wrote last year on this occasion, well done, Parents, well done; Mazel Tov! Congrats! Many happy returns! Auld Lang Syne! Cheers and Salud!

xoxo Darya


PS - In the pic above Mom is wearing her "going away suit" from when she left her wedding reception. I was supremely lucky and grateful to have Mom keep that collar all those years and to offer it to me when I was designing and making my own wedding dress to the Caveman. I turned that white mink collar into the cuffs and headpiece for my dress. Upcycling at its best. Simple. 

My Blogaversary

A lot has happened since I hit "publish" one year ago today on my first official post. I was so brave that day, because I was so scared. Scared, like, you-do-not-know-scared I was less scared to push a baby human out of my lady-parts, and for the record, that shiz is pretty scary. I was so scared of what people would think of my thoughts and my fears and my insecurities and my less-than-picture-perfect life and all my complaints, and oh, yeah, my writing.

Oh, God...my writing.

When I write, I am actually writing as if we are having a conversation. And if you have ever met me or spoken with me in person, I think you would understand what I am talking about here: That I write exactly as I speak. I know, my writing has a weird syncopation with an odd cadence, but you always seem to understand and respond to the feelings I am trying to convey. Hopefully, anyway.

I have really come to love this space; my blog place. I realize, too, that that is because of the people that have gathered to laugh and to point and to read my run-on sentences and my huge paragraphs and my one-too-many ands in a sentence because I need to get just one more thought out of my head and through my fingertips and this God-forsaken Windows 8.1 keyboard and onto this virtual page.

You all have brought to me the you-can-do-it-girl encouragements, and the I-cannot-believe-you-had-the-guts-to-say-that sideline conversations, as well as the that-is-exactly-how-I-feel high-fives. That last one is the holy grail of blog comments. That is the one that says, "You did it girl!" I made a connection and I made one other person on this big blue marble know that they are understood.

You are the ones that are hoping I get my shit together, and you keep encouraging me to shine a light into that sad dark empty spot where my heart and happiness is supposed to be. You are the ones that are making me feel less weird and more normal.

You are my tribe.

And I do not have words enough to say all that needs to be said because it is all so overwhelming, so I will simply say, thank you. Thank you!


xoxo Darya

______________________________

The Golden Girls

We were all at San Onofre California State Beach to celebrate Chigirl's "golden birthday" but by my calculations, she was more than 25-years-old.  Whatever.  I was soon educated as to the reality of a golden birthday:  The occasion when your birth date and your birth years are the same.  Golden.  Silly.  Looking at these beautiful young women wearing golden bathing suits and sunglasses and drinking out of golden cups, I just could not see myself as their twenty-seven.

They come from both coasts and big cities in the middle of the country.  They are smart girls; employed girls; educated girls.  They au pair; they play professional football; they work as paralegals and they work in city government.  They support their boyfriends; two of which travel and train for a major CrossFit box teaching strength and fleet-of-foot, and so many things that are important to athletes and our military.  These girls are part of that community, the box; one is the box, as she is one of the two box-bound trainers; some sell T-shirts and set-up and tear-down at events and literally walk the walk--just look at those abs and arms!  Absolutely beautiful young ladies.  I am so proud of them.  They make me proud to be a girl, too!

Looking at these young women, I want to tell them so many things and by this age, I know what is important and what is just noise meant to distract and derail and demean us as women.  I want to tell these girls to keep being nice to one another; to keep supporting and guiding each other.  Stay tight; stay connected; stay unified.  The world can be a hungry ugly place and you will need your girlfriends to help you through it.  

On my list of Things I Learned in My Fiftieth Year, #28 reads, "I envy girls who have girlfriends and girl's nights out".  I don't envy much; this I envy. A lot. It seems like such an odd thing to think about now, but in all my years of marriages and babies and jobs and gyms and laundry and grocery, I never had a group of gals to have my back.  This Darya is really sad for that Darya doing it all alone for so long.  I could have used a bunch of girlfriends--I really could have used a girlfriend.

This isn't the only group of girlfriends I know.  And they all have common threads: They made their friendships in high school, college or as roommates.  They all have a bestie who held their hair back when they had to throw-up or held their purse when they had to pee.  They all have a BFF who understands what their dream wedding gown will look like and the song her and her daddy will dance to.  They all have a genuinely beloved friend who knows the names of her babies before they even fall from heaven.  Hmmm. Golden.  Maybe not so silly.    

I love these girls; I love what these girls are making of themselves; I love that they love each other; I love that they included me, me who is nearly twenty-seven years older than they are!  But that is okay--I can feel in my bones that it is true what they say about staying young at heart and body and spirit when you surround yourself with the young.  I was flattered to be included with these women that could have been my daughters and whose experiences are so different from my own.

This makes me want to laugh and to cry all at the same time.  This is the first time that I have felt that my time is over; my hey day is gone; my opportunity for what these girls have has been missed.  True?  Most definitely.  Sad?  Kinda.  Jealous?  Maybe.  But it is what it is.  And maybe what it is is just the combination of caring for my mother-in-law and my own aging parents and my own age and my own son and my own friendships and my own questioning of my place in the universe.

Who the hell knows. Maybe I grew up just a little bit as well on Chigirl's birthday.  Maybe it is all true, after all; maybe this is just how life happens.  Golden.  And definitely not silly. 

Happy birthday!  

xoxo Darya

The Caveman Was Right...Again

The Caveman woke-up in the middle of the night last month to me standing by the side of his bed. He was startled and concerned and he asked, "What is wrong, baby?"--well, really, first he said, "Jesus, Darya how long have been standing there?" And then, he realized I was not going to go away poor, Caveman and he figured he had better wake up and get up and pay at least a modicum of attention and figure out what the hell was going on with me that I should be creeping on him in the middle of the night.

I said it in the dark so that he could not see my tears and my fears and the knotted ball of anxiety inside of me, "I am petrified, Caveman. I did what I said I was going to do. I was big and brave and I made my Blue Sweater Day speech and now I do not have a job. I DO NOT HAVE A JOB. I have no place to go everyday and I do not have enough work to keep my mind busy and I do not have enough money to pay all that I need to pay. And what if there is no more work out there for me? And what if no one wants me?" Then, I listed about a million ridiculous, yet somehow plausible, what-if scenarios. And I gotta give the Caveman props for not swatting at me like a mosquito caught in his ear just so I would shut up.

Instead, he spoke very calmly and slowly like you would to a small retarded child, "DJ, I know you. You are going to get your hard-hustle on. You will get work and then you will have money and then your bills will be paid. And by this time next month, you are going to be telling me that you wished you had enjoyed this little bit of down time that you have right now because you will have hustled hard and you will have gotten a ton of work and all of your bills will be paid. Now, please go to bed and go to sleep or you will make yourself sick tomorrow. Pleeeeaaase." And that last part was said with the quiet desperation of a grown man who really just wants to cry because he knows his alarm is going off in about two hours at 4:00 am.

But I did not sleep, and a lot my Facebook friends can attest to that. Instead, I worried and I plotted and I strategized and I scenario-ized.

And then I got up and I got my motherfuckin' hard-hustle on.

________________________________________________________

Well, lemmejustsay this about all that: The Caveman was entirely right. Yep. He totally called that shot--he pointed at the upper deck and he swung and the ball went right where he said it would. Because I am beyond swamped; I am overbooked at approximately 100%, and I am overcommitted to an 80-100-hour work week and I am working day and night and complaining night and day. And I really could not be happier and I am just so very proud of myself: The contracts are signed and the work is getting done and the checks are starting to come in. I am hustling hard, man.

And the Caveman was right...again. Thank you, God.


xoxo Darya

I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part I

Last month was one year since the Caveman stood blocking my way from the laundry room into the garage with his eyes level to mine and very firmly told me that I needed help, and not the kind of help that ends with my house being clean and me having nothing to do but get a blow-out and lay in the sun all weekend.

Nope.

He meant more along the lines of find-a-shrink-Darya-before-I-wring-your-skinny-assed-neck kinda help. And because the Caveman really does not ask very much of me, and Lord knows, he does not get much out of the booby-prize he won in the wife-lottery of life, and also because I am a scaredy-cat people-pleaser at heart, I found myself a therapist.

Dr. Headshrinker came highly and reliably recommended, and we got down to the business of getting me fixed--not like spayed, but more like I was broken, which to be perfectly honest with you I totally was, and to be even more honest with you, it pissed me off to no end. To be resentful for being targeted for therapy, because I hurt the longest and cried the loudest was a shitty way to start out on a reflective and therapeutic journey though, I imagine a whole lot of people start out in much the same manner, I dunno. Whatevs.

Three very separately distinct situations had occurred over the course of a year that had rendered me a hollow shell of myself. And while I may have been able to recover from each of the circumstances individually, collectively, they were out of my weight class--I went from shadowing boxing to hitting the heavy bag. Worse than that, I would perseverate and percolate and articulate on the subject of these three circumstances constantly. That is when my exit was blocked and I was pointed to the therapeutic alter.

I came to my first appointment with a spreadsheet of issues and lemmetellyou after the eleventh minute when the first ten minutes were taken up with HIPAA regulations, patient-doctor confidentiality and insurance crap, and THEN I was informed that I really only got 50 minutes of time on the couch for the 60 minutes I was billed, well, let's just say I talked really super duper fast from there on out. And I had a lot to get out. For the first six months, I do not believe I even sat back into the couch--I balanced on the edge of the cushion and I made Dr. Headshrinker hide the clock because I would see the time clicking by and my anxiety would go higher and I would talk faster and at some point he would say, "Darya, please take a breath."

To Dr. Headshrinker's credit, he let me lead our dance and this process worked perfectly well enough for me until the spreadsheet was completed, and I was actually kicking around the idea of cutting back to one day a week. I did not really have anything of major consequence remaining on my list. For the VERY first time, I was allowing the Doctor to do what he was trained to do hmmm, imagine that.

But in all honesty, I did not know that I had not been totally honest with him or myself about how fearful I was of everything or even how much actual anxiety I lived with and endured each and every day. I had written about my nights of sleeplessness and crisis, but even at that time, I thought it was just me being me. Mostly because growing up I had always been dismissed as a worry-wart and nervous and all manner of botheration; however, in hindsight, and I say this with the utmost seriousness, it really began to ramp up after 9/11, and the whole-shit-and-caboodle has most definitely been escalating. It was quite revelatory to be told that not everyone had these same feelings most minutes of every single day of their whole entire life.

Now, wait a minute. Lemmegetthisstraight. 

Not everyone has an actual tactical security maneuver when there is a knock at their front door? Not everyone jumps a mile when the phone rings and then stares and pleads for it to stop? Wait. Not everyone walks around with a hollow pit in their belly or a constant throb in their left temple or their heart beating out of their chest like there wasn't enough room in there for their heart and their worry and their pain AND all their love? And they do not do a dive across the room and on to the bed reminiscent of Dennis Rodman trying to keep a ball inbounds just to get to the remote so they do not have to hear Sara McLachlan sing "Angel" and see frightened and abused animals because goddammit that shit is not fit for human viewing? They do not think that they may die at any moment from sheer exhaustion, worry and fright? You mean they just walk around NOT afraid of or worried about anything all day every day?

Dr. Headshrinker, assured me that normal people do indeed go about their day not thinking that the shiz is about to go down.

Clearly, this was a completely and totally foreign thought to me.

xoxo Darya



PS - As an added bonus, I finally got my act together and made it easy for you to get to I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part II. I know, I know, I'm a giver like that ; ) And your welcome.

This Day Memorializes A Lot

There are three or four days that come along during the year that completely throw me--I just do not have the presence of mind when I am in their throes to realize what is going on yeah, kinda like PMS. I get anxious and weepy and a migraine may or may not be involved and there is definitely tears oh yeah, mos def--tears.

At some point my attention gets drawn to the calendar and I realize that it is April and it was my first husband's birthday just a few days before or it is August and it would have been my 33rd wedding anniversary to Sgt. Airborne just that last week. And the ultimate of all my tizzies, my I-forgot-to-remember-what-everyone-was-telling-me-to-never-forget meltdown over last year's 9/11.

So, when I realized I had been feeling distressed, I automatically chalked it up to anxiety over my recent job change and the waiting game that comes with creating a new book of business. Then, I started to see the snarky little e-grams on Facebook telling me to have a Happy Memorial Day Weekend. Happy? And then my generally restless mood, went from zero to completely and acutely pissed-off in, like, no seconds flat.

Really? Is this what everyone thinks this holiday is for--that Memorial Day is about a BBQ and a beer and a third day off in a row and the Old Navy Item of the Week? If so, that pains me greatly, like down to the marrow of my bones. Because I know differently.

For those who do not know, I was an Army wife. Not for long in the grand scheme of time, but long enough to make a grand enough impression on me. Long enough that I find nothing less than absolute respect and gracious admiration for our veterans, as well as our active duty servicemen and women, to be highly offensive and completely indefensible. Oh, I do not want to debate the better president or who is in charge of congress or the house or the military budget or whatfuckingever. I am talking about sons and daughters and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and men and women just like you and me making the greatest sacrifice of all for the good of the many. For us; as in, the U.S.

Sgt. Airborne and I arrived at Ft. George G. Meade in Laurel, Maryland, on December 6, 1981, and Sgt. Airborne reported for duty to the 311th Military Intelligence Battalion, Company C, and went to work at NSA, the National Security Agency, as an Arabic-Egyptian linguist with a Libyan dialect a 98Golf for those who know or even care to know. Do your math people, this was 1981--Gaddafi, helloooo, McFly.

And from that first cold wet day in March 1982, when ground was broken for the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial, better known as The Wall, Sgt. Airborne and I went into Washington, D.C., with another married couple from Ft. Meade and our boys wore their uniforms. The boys did this on Memorial Day and Veteran's Day as we paid our respects, not only at The Wall, but at all of the memorials throughout Washington, D.C. Now, maybe because I am old enough to remember hearing the body counts on the 6 o'clock evening news and seeing some of the older neighborhood boys not come home from fighting in Vietnam or maybe just living near enough to be in Washington, D.C., at the time of the building of The Wall at a time when our husbands still served with soldiers who had served in Vietnam, I identify so closely with this particular memorial and it resides in a place so deeply rooted and special within my heart as to be a part of me.

I have just very recently renewed my friendship with that other boy from Ft. Meade that is a story for another day--out of deference to him and this "holiday", and also because I just cannot seem to write the right thing right now. But in our conversations, this California beach girl, pipe welder/steamfitter's wife and firefighter paramedic's mother is getting to know that young Army wife all over again, and I am thankful to that boy for a lot of things this Memorial Day. I am thankful for his service on my behalf and we have talked about that both in broad strokes and in fine detail. Mostly, I am grateful to this new man I am meeting again for the first time, and for him seeking me out and befriending me once again. And like the Caveman said, "Maybe he needs you as much as you need him, Darya." I pray that is true.

Selfishly, in my heart of hearts, I am just so very glad to have a friend who has known me since I was a 19-year-old newlywed fresh from unhooking the U-Haul trailer and in-processing where we both shared our first permanent party post. For now, just know that I have missed him immensely--more than even I could have believed or imagined. With him comes a little bit of my own tribe; a tribe that has known me longer than anyone but Sister; a tribe that I felt so proud to be a part of and never really properly mourned the loss of because I was so damn busy getting down to the business of surviving.

In honor of all that has come before and all that will go on, thank you, veterans and servicemen and women, thank you for your service and your sacrifice. You all mean the world to me, and especially, too, to that other boy from Ft. Meade.

So, as you can see, this Memorial Day memorializes a lot for me

xoxo Darya

Beast of Burden

Yeah, all your sickness

I can suck it up

Throw it all at me

I can shrug it off

There's one thing, baby

That I don't understand

You keep on telling me

I ain't your kind of man.

            --Rolling Stones, Beast of Burden

I hear this song in my ear buds almost daily clearly, I need to shake-up my Pandora playlist and all I can think of is the Caveman and when we started dating. See, the Caveman proposed to me on our very first date. 

Yep. 

I just wanted a meal and a drink and a night away from my two-year-old, and this knucklehead proposed marriage. Oh, it was not a get-down-on-one-knee-kinda proposal, but a proposal nonetheless. On our drive home from the restaurant, when I was fully lubed from his attention and touch and equally loaded from a couple of carafes of Avila's house margaritas, and while he drove up Pacific Coast Highway in a hot summer month, he said in an extraordinarily matter-of-fact manner, "I can see myself being married to you, and taking care of you and your son for the rest of my life." The fact that he did NOT look hard into my eyes or lean into me so I could feel his breath in my ear deeply underscored the gravitas of his words. He did not rely on gimmick; he let his words alone speak his heart's truth. How simple. How effective. How scary. 

I just stared out the window and pulled a long drag on my Marlboro Light 100 thinking how much I wished he would slow the car down enough so I could just jump the hell outta there I had a mental picture of a perfectly executed tuck-and-roll thereby protecting my precious and expensive teeth, as well as my ubiquitous Marlboros but, sadly, I was glued to the seat. I did not turn my head. I did not answer him. Boom. 

I just let it lay there. 

Later on in our relationship when I was fussing with staying or going or this-ing or that-ing because of my age or his earning potential or whatever I thought was so important that it should keep us apart because I have that wholly unique ability to confuse the problem with the issue when it is so perfectly clear to him. He simply told me, "You know what, Darya, do what you gotta do. I will always love and take care of you and your son. I will always be there for you--you are gonna have to chase me away with a stick." And he did not say it in a way that gave me that shotgun-in-the-back-of-my-head dread shiver as I went to the door nor were any Star 80-esque alarms going off and if you don't understand that reference, Google it, girl because it holds the key to what I came from and where my head was at. Because it was not a threat. 

It was a vow. 

Go ahead, Darya, throw it all at me, girl. I can take it. And he still can. I can shrug it off. And he still does. And I will still be standing right there by your side holding your hand. And he still is. It gives me chill bumps to even write all this out loud because as I grow older I realize how precious and gracious and tenacious the Caveman is naturally. His actions and his words still say these things to me--just like the other day when I was once again this-ing and that-ing over some stupid-ass nonsense that had me all worked up and ready to tell the whole wide world to shove it.

He is my beast of burden. 

And I am glad his back is broad 'cause the weight of my worry would prolly crush an average man to smithereens.

xoxo Darya