I resolved on January 1, 2021, that I would write and then post Monday – Friday. Quickly, that goal changed. Next I decided that I would write and then post three days a week. Last week, which was also the third week in January, I did not post at all. I did write. I wrote and rewrote.

Last Monday I wrote about rejection. I was feeling blue and feeling left out. I spent the entire day writing. I ended up writing myself into an understanding space. I discovered that what I was feeling is loss, not rejection. For a moment I felt better.

I recognized that we all may be feeling left out, feeling a loss, or better, just feeling lost. We are living through a global pandemic (duh). We have been left out of the lives we usually lead. None of us are doing what we usually do. Even the more permissive pandemic-participators, as they defiantly slip their masks around their neck once inside Costco, have had to adjust. Regardless of their rebellious acts, for them to enter a store, they have to wear a mask. 

Collectively, life is not how we pictured it would be. The pandemic’s end still seems so far. It is hard not to become numb and complacent, and forget life was supposed to be. Now with toilet paper reliably back in stock, it also seems comfortably dystopian. I think it is ok to acknowledge the awkwardness of this moment. It is weird.

Our oldest son, Kyle, should be halfway around the world at NYU Abu Dhabi, finishing his junior year of college. He and I hike together a few times a week. We have decided to explore all canyon paths around Salt Lake City. Last week he showed me this magnificent path above Salt Lake City’s Avenue’s neighborhood. It felt like we were walking in Los Angeles’ Griffith Park. I felt transported. Kyle is a runner and also has a goal to run everyday. Saturday he fell down a slippery mountain trail, bruised and hurt his knee. He ran on Sunday. His knee still hurts today. He is currently in the basement applying for jobs and playing Minecraft. Our youngest son, Eli, is one of the few people who was able to follow through with his plans: he did a Wilderness Medicine and Mountain Rescue semester at the National Outdoor Research School (NOLS). NOLS was his plan pre-Covid. Of course, we worried his semester would be canceled. Thankfully, it wasn’t. Yet, NOLS was also impacted. They eliminated the in-hospital sections and for three months Eli was strictly cocooned within a small group of students. In the desert, his group found their planned water source was dry, and had to search for water  for more than forty-eight hours (twice). Eli loved it. He loved NOLS. His recent job, snow-making at Park City ski area, just ended for the season. Last night he came to my room and excitedly told me he loved having Sushi with his girlfriend’s family. Right now he is home and sleeping on the couch. I love these moments.

Dave is currently in the home office working, which he has done since March. I often try to work in the office too. During the day, the office has always been my sacred space. Between Dave’s Zoom calls and his super loud meeting voice, with my laptop in hand, I find myself quickly exiting, sitting at various tables around the house. Sometimes we fight about this office space. One week I even cried. I was like, 

“Dude, everything was great until you started working from home.”

Then I felt mean.  

Disrupted. That is what we are. 

Before this all happened to all of us, what were your plans? What were your days like?

Dave left early each morning. I spent the day quietly working. I saw friends for lunch or long walks. This was supposed to be our empty-nest-year. A year ago, Eli was a high school senior. I was feeling all the feels and was not sure I was ready for my boys to fly away. I cried a lot and could not believe my babies were grown. As a way to circumvent our empty-nest sorrow, Dave and I schemed how we would spend the frequent flyer miles we’ve been hoarding into an expansive, around-the-world trip. I finally made it to Platinum status, something I thought I would personally never be able to do. We would leave right after dropping off Eli. We would fly to Europe, South Africa and back to Europe. By mid-October, we would meet up with Kyle at NYU’s Abu Dhabi campus. Then Dave and I would head to Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, Australia, Japan and head on home. Dave would work remote. So would I. We were excited. I fantasized about all the national parks, little towns and villages we would explore all around the world. I imagined the different grocery stores and interesting people we would meet. Dave and I would be home in time to meet Eli as he finished his NOLS semester. I could not wait.

Even though I pride myself in my extreme budget travel ability to stretch points miles and grocery store purchases, including the Adams’-Family-preferred, 3-Euro meal, it is not lost on me how decadent our scheme was. 

Then sometime last week, on one of our daily walks, I blurted,

“Dave, you have your thing. Right now you are converting our 20 year old 4Runner into an off road camping machine. You always find a project to distract you. It is January and the grey skies are bringing me down. I want a thing. Instead, I feel like I am treading water and am not sure how to put my feet on the ground.”

We were quiet and kept on walking. 

As we walked, my thoughts percolated to the surface.

“Wait. Before this stupid pandemic, I did have a thing. We travel. I also used travel to pull me out of my winter blues. When January came around, instead of feeling depressed, I would distract myself by planning our next adventure. I think I need to find something else.”

I feel this loss. I really miss traveling. I miss it so much that even when Dave suggests we can safely camp in Utah, I snap at him. I tell him I feel like I am settling, that I feel resentment. I  definitely feel discombobulated. I write about feeling discombobulated. I am sure I have written some of this before. I feel repetitive. I feel boring. I feel bored. I am working to find a way through (obviously). I hope you are too. 

Thank goodness for perspective. I also recognize that if we were not living through a global pandemic, I would never have this extra time with my boys, or actually take the time to go camping — in Utah. I am grateful. I admire Kyle and Eli’s strength. I know it has not been easy having life ripped apart. I know my privileged-world sorrow pales with the significant disruption that so many are experiencing. Over this past year, I have seen friends lose jobs and lose loved ones. I know others who have dealt with devastating cancer diagnoses and sudden deaths, events that would throw anyone off their axis, even in non-pandemic times. I have a friend who was paralyzed from the armpits down this past July. He was working on staining his house while working from home. He fell 35 feet and landed on his head. He is alone in his ICU hospital bed and hoping one day soon he can move on to rehabilitation. I feel very sad for him. 

I feel greedy again for feeling as lost as I do. Like a wave, my feelings move. At the end of these particular words, I realize that ultimately I feel grateful. I feel grateful that I am surrounded by the people that I love, even if I think they talk too loud on Zoom calls. 

“The Sunk Cost Fallacy describes our tendency to follow through on an endeavor if we have already invested time, effort or money into it, whether or not the current costs outweigh the benefits…The sunk cost fallacy means that we are making irrational decisions because we are factoring in influences other than the current alternatives. The fallacy affects a number of different areas of our lives leading to suboptimal outcomes.” 

I was always told I could be special. I wanted to be special. I wanted to be seen and I was willing to do the work.

I will start with a confession.

Earlier this week, after the January 6, 2021 United States Capitol Insurrection, I messaged a friend, asking him to look at a couple of aggressively far right Facebook pages. The pages I was directing him to are riddled with mean-spirited memes sprinkled in between “our God is the right God” posts, “we are true patriots” posts, “pray for Trump our great and misunderstood leader” posts, “disparaging Nancy Pelosi, Hillary Clinton, and Obama,” posts (obviously),” “ANTIFA stormed the Capitol, not the peaceful rightwing patriots” posts, “the 2020 election is a fraud stolen by an evil cabal of child molesters” posts, and of course, “Mitt Romney has chosen the side of the devil,” posts. I asked my friend to look because I wanted someone else to validate the incongruous hate I saw. I wanted my friend to see. Then I wanted him to understand. 

He read. He laughed. He questioned. He understood. Then he “absolutely” agreed with me. And I felt special.

What I struggle to reconcile is that the beliefs conveyed within posts like these often come from people I love, respect and admire. The particular posts I directed my friend to come from the Facebook pages of the husband and wife who introduced my family to the Mormon Church. And you know what? I was always told they were special. To this day, if you were to ask one of our peers who was the most admired, most special member of our congregation, it would be them. It would not matter if they went to jail or if I cured cancer. I get it. They would always win. They were intoxicating. They were also the LDS (*The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints) people I believe we were raised to aspire to be. Consequently, we never dared to question their motives. We definitely believed in the vitamins they were selling and the end-of-the world prophecies they were preaching. I also believed if I could be like them, that if I could live like they did and believe in their God, I would be special too. 

I was a young child in Minnesota when I met this particular husband and wife (and their family). They were extraordinary pillars of our western-Minneapolis suburban community. They were glamorous. Their kids were good looking and super popular. They had an endless stream of money, beautiful clothes, cars, TVs in their cars, visits from famous people, and an Olympic-sized gym to play all their Mormon basketball. On several acres of land, high on a hill, their giant gym sat right next to their beautiful mansion. 

They were also the other Mormons who lived in our school district. In their shadow, it was obvious that we were not as wealthy. Our house did not come with a gym. We were certainly less popular. Considering how Mormons seem to equate wealth with righteousness, (prosperity gospel), then I imagine we were also never as worthy. When their family joined the current “jogging” fad so did my family. My family often ran in the early morning at our local high school track. It was always a happy day when we ran into them. 

“See. We are just like you.” I would excitedly think.

When my parents signed up on their MLM (multilevel marketing) downstream, they assured us we would also attain riches. (That did not happen.) 

What did happen is my adorable mom was assigned by our LDS church to visit the tall, glamorous MLM mom once a month and offer her a spiritual message. Another woman from our local congregation was also assigned, as her companion, but one week, that woman was sick so my mom brought me. We reached the mansion door. I was excited when my mom pushed a button that we heard a voice come out of a little white speaker box.

“How fancy.” I thought to myself.

For some reason, she would not let us inside the house. Maybe it was because my mom showed up without the other woman who was supposed to be there. 

 (I would not see the inside of the house until they needed a babysitter years later.)

“Give me a few minutes. I will meet you in our business office. It is to the right of the intercom.” She replied. 

There, surrounded by walls of various kinds of vitamins, I sat on my mother’s lap while my mom and the mansion mom spoke about Jesus. From the windows I saw the skies turn grey and knew a big midwestern thunderstorm was headed our way. As a result, we cut the visit short. The thunder clouds emitted their loud booms. I began to cry.

As my mom and I walked to the car, I jumped into her arms, sobbing. The dad, who was milling around in the driveway for some reason, saw my tears and asked why I was afraid.

“I will follow you home. I want to make sure you are safe.” He replied.

As we drove, giant hail balls struck our car, trees fell in our path. It was apocalyptic. Every time we stopped to catch our breath so did he. As we pulled into our driveway I turned around and looked. He stopped his car, waited and he waved. 

After that there was no doubt how close they were to God. 

When they told us they prayed every morning as a family. We did the same. And for good measure, each member of my family took a turn to say our own prayer. (True story.)

I really wanted acceptance. I invested and fervently believed in the God they were teaching. When they spoke of their “I am proud to be an American” patriotism, morality, Jesus and eternal life, I knew to listen and follow their example. I did. I believed. I committed. I was determined that if I devoted enough of myself, sang in their church choirs, attended church every week, and did not have premarital sex, I could be special just like they were. Throughout my entire adolescence I tried. Oh my god I tried. I was dedicated. I was gawky, a late bloomer, and not at all cool. Stridently, I believed and I just kept on trying.

The oldest daughter was always kind. Two of the sons were always nice-ish to me and that did help. Sure. They are also human. As a result, it was excused that some of their kids were totally awful. I had a best friend who was best friends with the other sister. I often knew I was being dumped (lied to) so my best friend could hang with her. Nevertheless, as an entire family unit, they were extremely generous. They always shared their home, their giant gym, their time, their self-authored religious music and the trappings of their MLM money with our super tight knight LDS community. Within this community, I quickly learned that the tighter you became with them, the higher your social currency rose. It was not easy. Everyone in my community wanted to be connected to them, even the non Mormons. In truth, I get it. They were the compass leading us to the extraordinary. I knew my place and knew to be grateful for their acquaintance.  

Of course I took it as a compliment when the mom told me, 

“Beth, your mom sews all of your clothes and you have all that canned food from your garden. You already know how to survive the last days. We don’t. See, we have so much money. We buy our clothes. We have people to do things for us. During the second coming we will need people just like you. You will help us survive.” (I am not making this up.)

As an adult I was attending a funeral of a mutual friend when I ran into some of the members of the family. The mom asked me how I was. When she said, 

“You only have two children? What about fulfilling the measure of your creation?”

Insecurely, I blurted, “I have had several miscarriages. I cannot seem to hold my pregnancies. I am very lucky to have these two boys.”

She shot back, 

“My daughter has five kids. She had to adopt one because she just couldn’t get pregnant. She had such a hard time having her children. It was so very hard for her. Her struggles were so very very hard…”

As I listened, I melted back into place. Now in line I knew that the correct response was to acknowledge that her daughter’s pain was greater than my own. So I did. And she thanked me.

The world is interesting. The disparity between who I was taught I should look up to and who the people I was supposed to revere actually turned out to be is breaking my brain. As they now spout evil and dangerous nonsense online, I fight the urge to give these superstars from my upbringing a pass. I feel like I should show compassion. Sometimes I do. Ultimately, though, the people I really admired, looked up to and was raised to believe seem taken advantage of, misguided and lost. Sunk costs. I am guessing that I am not alone in my feelings. 

Like the superstar Mormon family from my youth, there are so many people I wanted to emulate, especially their values, truths, critical thinking and understanding. I also recognize that I should have trusted my internal compass and innate ability. I should have trusted my own critical thinking mind. I should have found a way to believe I was special without intermediating it through people that my family and peers identified as praiseworthy. I know now that I was worthy of respect all along. I am enough. But back then, instead, I doubled down and earnestly chased an external validation that I would never receive.  

Ultimately, I think it is complicated that I empathize. I think the people who stormed the Capitol (or peacefully protested — depending on how you see it) are much like the family I grew up with. They are chasing a similar and reckless need for validation. They believe they are true patriots who are doing what is right. I think the irrational need to be seen are the sunk costs that we are all drowning in. Maybe the unity we seek is the ability to see each other and to find a way to work together. Maybe then we can swim. I really hope so. ❤️

Do you remember Kinko’s? Well, way before we all had in-home printers, the internet and evites, there was Kinko’s. Kinko’s was the one stop shop for your printing and information dissemination needs. Kinko’s provided both self-service and full-service photocopying and printing. You could order wedding, birth or graduation announcements. You could also print your resume, college research paper, or garage sale flyer. And of course, for people on the fringe, conspiracy theorists, and folks trying to “secede from the Union,” Kinko’s enabled you to print your very own conspiratorial pamphlets. In fact, the Provo Utah Kinko’s had a veritable revolving door of constitutional originalists, Bo Gritz wannabes and John Birch Society types. They were earnestly determined their message would save the world. 

I know this because when I was in college I was employed as the Provo, Utah, Kinko’s greeter. Because I am fascinated with the people, even when I did not believe what they have to say, store greeter was an excellent fit. My tasks as the Kinko’s greeter included a loosey-goosey list of responsibilities:

First and foremost, the second I heard the Kinko’s door ding sound, and in an attempt to put people at ease, I looked toward the door, made eye contact, and smiled. I would say “hello” and then ask the customer how I could help. As they walked to one of the self-service copy machines, most declared, 

“I am fine. If I need, help, I will ask.”

Then I would assist the ones who wanted my help. Inevitably, I would assist approximately 87% of those who initially said they were fine. 

From across the store they screeched, “Miss! Miss! The machine is broken!” 

Now standing two inches from my face, they demanded, “Kinko’s Girl! Greeter Lady! Hey You! Miss! Your stupid machine is broken! Listen! Can’t you help them later? I need help now!” 

Calmly, I would respond, because responding calmly was my job, “Yes. Yes. How can I help you?”

Pleasantly, I would offer to help. Then I would  walk over to whichever machine was jammed, and unjam their jammed up paper, plug the machine back in, push the big green button for them, or whatever. Once I was able to help them and once they were able to calm down, most of the customers were friendly, or better, friendly enough. And sure, even after getting the machines running again, I would occasionally get the indignant shouts of,

“Ma’am! Your machines suck! You wasted my time! Seriously, what the hell?” They would stop just long enough to make sure I was listening and continue, “I do not care if the machine is working now! This is your fault! I am not paying!”  

“Ok.” I would say in the voice of the most up-beet Kinko’s-greeter.

Frequently, but not as much, I would direct a customer to the blue recycling bin. 

*WAIT! Before I go any further, and in the interest of full disclosure, I have a confession: The Provo, Utah Kinko’s did not recycle paper. At the end of each work day, the employees were instructed to combine the paper from the blue recycling bin with all the other trash. 

One day I stood outside in the back of the store. I looked on. Indignantly, I asked, “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.” Some dude answered as he dumped all the paper from the blue recycling bin into the dumpster. 

Another aspect of my job was being a customer companion — for real. I was akin to today’s “emotional support animals.” Yes. I was there to offer the customer comfort during their photocopying journey. As a comfort companion, I met a lot of bland folks, moderately interesting and a few who were exceptionally compelling. No matter my interest level, as they worked the photocopier, they shared their hopes and worries and I validated them. I affirmed that yes, the church activity they were promoting would be well attended, and yes, I thought they would get at lest a B+ on the last minute paper they were currently printing, and of course I thought their baby shower game would be any fun. 

To myself I would think, “No. I would not enjoy your mind numbing baby shower game.” To them, I smiled reassuringly and said, “Everyone will love it.” It was my job.

One perk: when no one was looking, for no reason other than to amuse myself, I would also make photocopies of my face. 

Consequently, when I wasn’t holding hands, unjamming copy machines, or making photocopies of my face, I was deconstructing everything else with my friend, Stephanie. She was in charge of wedding announcements. Honestly, talking to Stephanie was the highlight of my day. We had friends in common. We had beliefs in common. We had deep conversations regarding god, marriage and mortality all while she filled out a stationery orders. (Bonus: She and I are still friends.) 

Beyond talking to the lovely Stephanie, and being the Kinko’s customer comfort human, the best part of my actual greeter job was the unexpected.

Once, in a cloud of recycled body odor and Patchouli oil, a dreadlocked and barefooted group (yes, I let them into the store without shoes) from the Rainbow Family wafted into our Kinko’s. They were holding a piece of paper for which they wanted help to make copies.

Inspired by the moment they asked, “Do you have any colorful paper we can use?”

“We can use all the colors.” I eagerly responded.

As we made their copies, they earnestly told me that they were trying to get the word to the locals out about their latest gathering. 

“We are meeting in the Canyons above Provo.” [insert giggling pause here] “Woah! Today is our first day in Provo. We got her just over an hour ago. Dude, we really like it. It is beautiful!” [insert long, earthy, contemplative pause here] “You should come camp with us. Do you want to? You would love it.”

However intrigued I was, and I was, I did not got the Rainbow Gathering. I did, however, continue to listen. Many customers asked me to help edit their documents. Kinko’s also offered computer rental where a customer could type and print a paper. One customer told me how vitamin C and peppermint oil cures cancer. Then they asked what color paper would work best to help promote their message.

Then, there was the one summer day when a very nondescript middle-aged caucasian man walked into our store. He walked over to the southwest corner of the self- service copy area and began making copies. A few minutes later, he hailed me over. I walked over to him. Out of the corner of my scanning eyes, I saw that he had several photocopied copies of newspaper articles.

“See. See this.” He said, pointing a tiny local newspaper article on one of his photocopies.

The 50 word local newspaper article was circled. He continued,

“You see. I have to let people know. You really need to know. We all must now!” He said in a calm panic. Before I could respond, he continued, “The government no longer respects the constitution. They are lying to us. They are going to steal our jobs, our homes and our loved ones. We will take up arms if we have to. We are going to have an insurrection. We will secede from the Union. Do you have a gun? You really need to have a gun. Utah has great gun laws. You should buy a gun today.”

“Secede from the Union?” I quizzically thought.

Before I could actually process what he was saying, or even ask him to explain what he meant, he blurted,

“It is a movement. We are true patriots. We are fighting the communism that is infiltrating our society. We are working together to take back our country or start our own. The government wants you to be a socialist. We need to take over the government and form our own,”

I struggled to take everything he was saying. All of which he seemed to based on a 50 word local newspaper article. He asked if he could leave some copies with me. I said, 

“Sure.”

When he left, I threw away the copies. went home and learned about secession and was even more taken aback. His message seemed nonsensical. I went back to work the next day wondering what happened to that man. I never saw him again. Nevertheless, he was not the last to ask for my help or the last to evangelize his fervent message.

That was twenty-five years ago. 

Remember When Blogs Were Like Stream-of-Consciousness Confessionals?

Here is the deal: I think I live in my head. I do not understand how to use TikTok. I think I have an account. My boys were embarrassed when I SnapChatted. So I stopped. I have developed an outspoken Twitter persona. Forgive me now! I also confess that I really do not mind falling down a Reddit rabbit hole, when I remember to read Reddit. I am pretty active on Instagram. I would do one of their stories, yet after my recent eye surgery, I am too farsighted to read any posts. Instead I squint and admire a friend’s something-doodle dog daily Instagram posts and another friend’s daily here-is-my-booty shots. Sure, I could get my glasses so I could read the accompanying and very tiny text to these Instagram stories. Alas, I am in bed where I am warm and all snuggled all up to Dave. My glasses are sitting in the cold, crisp office. 

It is now hours later. I am out of my cozy bed, in my office, sitting at my desk and wearing my glasses. As I stare at my laptop, I start to think about memory, writing and the past. My mind drifts and I realize that I sort of still believe we live in the pre-social-media, blog world of yesteryear, when blogs were a little strange, people were still apprehensive about using their credit card online, and we were fascinated by some girl named Jenny. She, known as a “lifecaster,” aimed a camera at herself and we, the public, could watch 24/7.  It was really weird at the time. Ok. I still think blogs are also a little strange. I also think people are apprehensive of using their credit card online, because now we use credit cards for everything online and our information gets stolen. I do not know what ever happened to Jenny. 

I was no 24/7 Lifecaster. That is why long ago I let go of the notion that I could be a web-based voyeur-enabler, a social media influencer or top mommy blogger. Yet, as far as blogging, I still hold on. Then and now, I need to let the stuff out of my head. Blogging and writing help me do that. (You should see all existential my notes in my iPhone. They could fill a book.)  I also think journaling is important and a way to preserve our stories. Selfishly, I like an audience. Often that audience is just Dave and I am totally ok with that. These days, however, I am definitely a little lonely and feeling a little disconnected. Writing makes me feel like I am talking to you. If you are also reading, thank you. It actually means a lot, especially this year when we are all so isolated, or at least should be isolated, and should be wearing a mask in public. 

So, this morning, after getting up at 6:30AM with Eli, I was laying in bed. Let me set the scene. See, I was up until 2:00AM texting with my college friend, Teb B. Eventually, Ted B. wanted to Facetime. He wanted to show me how he was “sharpening his knife.” I was like, “Ted B. this is my exit cue. I need to be up at 6:30AM for Eli.”

Then Ted B. sent me a picture of himself literally sharpening his knife.

At 6:30AM my alarm jolted me out of some really sweet sleep. Slowly I made my way to the bathroom and then down to check on Eli. I saw his light on and felt relieved. 

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m tired, but good.” He replied.

Eli has a new job at a ski resort and I wanted to see him off. I am guessing you already know about that feeling of wanting to make sure your kids are settled, that they have calculated the travel time correctly, and that they did not forget all the forms they need. Well, that urge to make sure they are OK never goes away. This morning, I had that feeling. Soon Eli was upstairs packing up his things. After getting him some bandaids and then watching him place them over his painful-looking hand scrapes he received from the climbing gym, Eli was on his way. Later he called from the resort and told me how excited he was to have this wacky new job, about all the gear they gave him and about how he will shuttle with a group of guys to work. Then I asked him a bunch of questions. He answered them while sitting in his car in the resort parking lot. I know this because I asked him if he was driving. He said,

“No Mom. I am sitting in the parking lot talking to you.”

It was really nice talking to him. I bathed in his excitement and felt very proud. 

Still sort of half asleep, but not asleep enough to go back to sleep, I reached for my iPhone. I started scrolling through all of it when I came upon an article from my online crush: CNN’s own Dr. Sanjay Gupta. Don’t judge. He’s hot. The article: “Memory Fades When We Age, But We Don’t Have To.” Thinking first about the internet’s hotty-McHotterson, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, then thinking about how many times Kyle and Eli have called Dave and me “boomers,” and finally thinking about how many times the boys proclaim, “you don’t remember anything,” I eagerly devoured the article. 

To my great surprise, I found that I am already doing one of the best things to keep my memory intact:

“If you put it all together, one of the best things you can do for your brain: Take a brisk walk with a close friend and discuss all your problems.”

Quickly, I sent the quote to Dave, hoping he would connect the dots, the dots which imply,

“Your wife is the most enlightened human ever. She knew the secret, even before Dr. Gupta did.”

[insert all long enough pause here for Dave to absorb all of my inspired wisdom]

My text continues: “All of those long walks, with accompanying fights are saving your memory. You are welcome!” 

Dave’s Response: “Oh no! Now you have science to back you up!”
My response: “So, screw Sudoku!”

Science and very attractive Dr. Sanjay Gupta happily validated my need to analyze, reanalyze and analyze a few more times. They also recognize that we need to process with another human and while going on a walk. Genius! And walking and talking is a silver bullet to keeping our memories. Woot! 

I have been a walk-talk person since the beginning of my time. Who would have thought my great love is also the holy grail to preserving our memory? All I was trying to do is relieve my angsty brain cycles. As such, I needed to move and I needed to talk out all the stuff. MORE IMPORTANTLY, thank goodness for all the willing victims who agreed to walk with me regularly and in an attempt to save my mental health (and apparently also our memory):

I am grateful for all of you. I am grateful for the years of talking through all our existential crisis and exposing our vulnerability, discussing topics such as, but not limited to, deconstructing relationships, marriages, family trauma, parenting mishaps, and financial blunders. Then filtering through sex talk to sex questions and advice on vagina issues and waxing blunders. I am always game for discussions where we  navigate our political philosophies, belief structure and making peace with God, or no that there is no God. Finally, most walks also include a little circle-of-trust talk, or better, straight up gossip, which I like to call, “processing.” 

Let me end where I began. I am grateful for you online folks who listen to me ramble (like you are doing now).