Here's my current situation: I have traveled to a new land, one in which I will no longer eat emotionally. It has been a long, exhausting journey, and I am still half loopy from the Dramamine I took to keep from becoming ill on the journey. The plane lands and I gather my tote bag from under the seat in front of me and take my carry-on from the bin above me. I walk down the ramp toward the interior of the airport, and with every step, I can feel my will becoming stronger. This is it. I am going to end this. Forever.
I walk confidently toward the only obstacle I have left: passport control. I approach the stern-looking German in charge (seriously, who better to represent my subconscious than a stern-looking German?) and hand him my passport. He looks at it, glances at me, slams the passport down firmly and says, "Nein!"
"But my papers are all in order," I plead. "My passport is here. I have photo ID. You have to let me in."
"Nein!!" he says more firmly.
I gaze past his broad shoulders to the beautiful countryside behind him. I see a pastoral landscape. Peaceful. Filled with lovely mountain lakes, Adirondack chairs on expansive porches, meditative walkways, biking trails, lots of cats and dogs waiting to be loved. Everything one could want during a time of anxiety or emotional upheaval to calm oneself with something beyond the siren call of food.
I look back at the passport control agent. "Why?" I ask.
"You are not yet ready," he says matter-of-factly. "You are to stay here and learn what you need to learn until it is time to enter this land. Now turn around. Schnell, schnell! Next!"
I turn slowly, dejected, and look around at the holding area in which I am to remain. The room that surrounds me is both my worst nightmare and my wildest food fantasy. Surrounding me on all sides is -- what else -- food. Tables are stacked with the finest marzipan, women hand out samples of every flavor of pie imaginable, and freshly baked cookies are stacked sky high on silver trays. There is an entire table with authentic Key lime pie, while another is devoted to nothing but piles of fudgy brownies. Trays of scones and danishes are surrounded by muffins as large as a baby's head. Approximately every other delectable food table is followed by a coffee kiosk, serving coffee, latte, cappuccino, and tea. Tables with books of poetry, works of great literature, and blank journals are set up in the middle of a grand courtyard, encouraging the patrons of this vast wonderland of sweets to get comfortable and stay put, eating and drinking for as long as possible.
I look around and slowly come to the realization that I have been sent to my own personal hell.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Sunday, October 5, 2014
If I Were a Shoe...
If I were a shoe, I’d be a Birkenstock. I first became familiar with these wondrous shoes after Bill and I went to Germany in the early 1990s. As we walked around Bonn with my cousin Wolfgang and his wife Sabine, these shoes were everywhere. It seemed that every third pair of German legs was being transported around that beautiful city on a pair of Birkenstocks.
“Those shoes,” I finally asked Sabine after my curiosity was sufficiently piqued. “Are they good?”
“Oh, yes,” she said enthusiastically. “Very comfortable and good for your feet. But not very pretty, I think.”
Pretty or not, I was intrigued. When we returned home, I had to drive all over North Jersey to find a store that sold them. Apparently Americans don’t feel the love for Birkenstocks like the Europeans do, because this was no easy task. Keep in mind that this was before the days of that wondrous shopper's dream called the internet. Eventually I found a store and I bought my first pair. They were expensive, but I was sure that thousands of German feet could not be wrong. So I wore them one day, but after a few hours I realized I had made a costly mistake. They were horrible; not comfortable at all. I put them back in the box and shoved them in a dark corner of my closet for at least a year.
Then one day, guilt over the purchase price got the better of me and I decided to give them another try. I wore them once. Then I wore them again. And again. Soon I wanted to wear nothing else on my feet. Once I had broken them in, I realized, they had become my own personal shoe. I don’t know the exact science or mechanics behind them, but apparently when pressure from walking and the heat from your feet are given time, the foot creates indentations in the cork bottoms that basically mold to your feet. They become like slippers, only better because you can wear them out in public. I’ve been obsessed with them ever since. I wear my Birkenstocks almost every day—winter or summer, clogs or sandals. I even have one pair of dressy black ones.
To walk in a nicely broken-in pair of Birkis is like talking to an old friend—it molds to you and you to it. Even after being put on the shelf for the winter months, come spring, my sandals—or the relationship—still fit perfectly. No need to get re-acquainted or experience another awkward break-in phase again. I find that the best friends I have are like this: a perfect fit no matter how much time or distance exists. No break-in phase necessary. Just slip into the comfort of the relationship and start the journey right where you left off.
“Those shoes,” I finally asked Sabine after my curiosity was sufficiently piqued. “Are they good?”
“Oh, yes,” she said enthusiastically. “Very comfortable and good for your feet. But not very pretty, I think.”
Pretty or not, I was intrigued. When we returned home, I had to drive all over North Jersey to find a store that sold them. Apparently Americans don’t feel the love for Birkenstocks like the Europeans do, because this was no easy task. Keep in mind that this was before the days of that wondrous shopper's dream called the internet. Eventually I found a store and I bought my first pair. They were expensive, but I was sure that thousands of German feet could not be wrong. So I wore them one day, but after a few hours I realized I had made a costly mistake. They were horrible; not comfortable at all. I put them back in the box and shoved them in a dark corner of my closet for at least a year.
Then one day, guilt over the purchase price got the better of me and I decided to give them another try. I wore them once. Then I wore them again. And again. Soon I wanted to wear nothing else on my feet. Once I had broken them in, I realized, they had become my own personal shoe. I don’t know the exact science or mechanics behind them, but apparently when pressure from walking and the heat from your feet are given time, the foot creates indentations in the cork bottoms that basically mold to your feet. They become like slippers, only better because you can wear them out in public. I’ve been obsessed with them ever since. I wear my Birkenstocks almost every day—winter or summer, clogs or sandals. I even have one pair of dressy black ones.
To walk in a nicely broken-in pair of Birkis is like talking to an old friend—it molds to you and you to it. Even after being put on the shelf for the winter months, come spring, my sandals—or the relationship—still fit perfectly. No need to get re-acquainted or experience another awkward break-in phase again. I find that the best friends I have are like this: a perfect fit no matter how much time or distance exists. No break-in phase necessary. Just slip into the comfort of the relationship and start the journey right where you left off.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
The Death of My Youth
At the innocent and delicate age of ten, I became convinced of two things: I had cancer and I was going to die. I’m not sure if my fledgling medical knowledge came from something I saw on TV or from one of my mother’s women’s magazines, but I knew with absolute certainty that blood emerging from certain bodily orifices definitely meant cancer. Followed by inevitable death. I had other signs as well: fatigue, extreme pain, and stomach distension. This was so unfair! I was only ten and already it was all over for me!
I retreated to my room and fearfully contemplated my next move. I had to tell my parents, I knew, but such uncharted conversation came with many potentially frightening possibilities. Would they be terribly sad? Angry at me? Angry at a God I wasn’t even sure they believed in? Would I have to go to the hospital and receive horribly painful treatments? Would they be able to find someone who could cure me? No, I was certain I’d be dead in a few months, may even weeks.
I went into my mother’s sewing room, where she sat at her old Singer focused on the current seam. I presented her with the bloody evidence and informed her I was dying. Instead of tears or anger or shaking her fist at the heavens, she just sighed and led me into the kitchen, where my father stood at the stove. Now, my father is an incredibly hard worker, but not someone you’d typically find stirring a large pot on the stove. No, this ritual happened only once a year and only if luck was with him.
What my dad was doing at the exact moment I announced my imminent death was boiling the flesh from a deer’s skull and antlers. If my dad shot a deer during hunting season that had mount-on-the-wall-worthy antlers, the boiling off of the meat was necessary for sanitary reasons. Rotting flesh would not be a welcoming smell while showing off your collection of deer antlers. Thankfully, I never had to experience rotting flesh, but the smell of boiling flesh? Well, let’s just say that if I never, ever smell it again, I’m good.
As the smell permeated the kitchen, the house, and my dying nostrils, my mother said, “Remember what we were talking about last week?” “Yes,” my father said, still stirring. “It happened,” my mom informed him. “Hmm,” I heard my dad say as he attempted to scrape a particularly stubborn piece of brain matter from the skull. “I guess I’ll have to talk to the gym teacher at school,” she said.
And with that, the conversation about my death seemed to be over. At this point, I was several miles beyond confused. Had they been expecting me to die? Did I have some horrible diagnosis they never told me about? And what the hell did the gym teacher have to do with it?
The next day my mother, who was our school’s library aide, came home with a little pink pamphlet for me to read. It turned out I had an affliction that would be with me for a very, very long time: I was menstruating.
I retreated to my room and fearfully contemplated my next move. I had to tell my parents, I knew, but such uncharted conversation came with many potentially frightening possibilities. Would they be terribly sad? Angry at me? Angry at a God I wasn’t even sure they believed in? Would I have to go to the hospital and receive horribly painful treatments? Would they be able to find someone who could cure me? No, I was certain I’d be dead in a few months, may even weeks.
I went into my mother’s sewing room, where she sat at her old Singer focused on the current seam. I presented her with the bloody evidence and informed her I was dying. Instead of tears or anger or shaking her fist at the heavens, she just sighed and led me into the kitchen, where my father stood at the stove. Now, my father is an incredibly hard worker, but not someone you’d typically find stirring a large pot on the stove. No, this ritual happened only once a year and only if luck was with him.
What my dad was doing at the exact moment I announced my imminent death was boiling the flesh from a deer’s skull and antlers. If my dad shot a deer during hunting season that had mount-on-the-wall-worthy antlers, the boiling off of the meat was necessary for sanitary reasons. Rotting flesh would not be a welcoming smell while showing off your collection of deer antlers. Thankfully, I never had to experience rotting flesh, but the smell of boiling flesh? Well, let’s just say that if I never, ever smell it again, I’m good.
As the smell permeated the kitchen, the house, and my dying nostrils, my mother said, “Remember what we were talking about last week?” “Yes,” my father said, still stirring. “It happened,” my mom informed him. “Hmm,” I heard my dad say as he attempted to scrape a particularly stubborn piece of brain matter from the skull. “I guess I’ll have to talk to the gym teacher at school,” she said.
And with that, the conversation about my death seemed to be over. At this point, I was several miles beyond confused. Had they been expecting me to die? Did I have some horrible diagnosis they never told me about? And what the hell did the gym teacher have to do with it?
The next day my mother, who was our school’s library aide, came home with a little pink pamphlet for me to read. It turned out I had an affliction that would be with me for a very, very long time: I was menstruating.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Taking Aim at Weight
When I was about 13 years old, my dad taught me how to shoot a gun. He was an avid hunter and gun collector who even did his own reloading. It was what he poured his spare time into and where he found joy. As soon as he determined that I was old enough, my dad and I drove to the shooting range at the conservation club where he was a member and the lesson began.
After stapling the target to a piece of wood that backed up to a large mound of packed dirt, by father commenced my lesson on gun safety. Always keep the safety on until immediately before you are going to shoot. Never, ever point a gun—loaded or unloaded—at anyone or anything. Treat every gun like a loaded gun.
When he determined that I understood these and other crucial instructions, my dad finally handed me the gun. I could feel its power immediately. I gently raised it to my shoulder and tried to find the target, but my upper body strength was poor and the more I attempted to hold the gun steady, the more it swayed. My dad then instructed me to kneel down. With one knee on the ground and the other raised to use as a brace for my arm, I was able to hold the gun steady. This was much better.
When I felt comfortable with the gun butted up tightly against my right shoulder and had the target in sight, my dad told me to turn off the safety. Then he told me to breathe in, hold my breath, and gently squeeze the trigger. The .22 caliber rifle gave off a mild popping sound at the same time that I felt the barrel of the gun recoil into my right shoulder. I hit the target—nowhere near the bull’s-eye—but I hit it. I instantly wanted to do it again. And again. I loved the singular focus of shooting a gun; the challenge of one person, one bullet, and one target. The sheer concentration it took to coordinate the actions: eyes, breath, focus, squeeze.
I bring this up because this is precisely how I go about losing weight. I zero in on my target, inhale, focus, and squeeze the trigger which, in the case of shedding excess pounds, is taking the laser-like focus of shooting a gun and aiming at nothing but my target weight until I hit that bull’s-eye. I am not always successful. Sometimes my aim is off or I close my eyes and lose sight of the target. But when I am truly focused, I can maintain my aim by closing my eyes to temptation, breathing through the triggers of emotional eating, and focusing on that target weight. Then I gently squeeze the trigger and begin. At that point, like the bullet piercing the air toward the bulls-eye, I am unstoppable.
After stapling the target to a piece of wood that backed up to a large mound of packed dirt, by father commenced my lesson on gun safety. Always keep the safety on until immediately before you are going to shoot. Never, ever point a gun—loaded or unloaded—at anyone or anything. Treat every gun like a loaded gun.
When he determined that I understood these and other crucial instructions, my dad finally handed me the gun. I could feel its power immediately. I gently raised it to my shoulder and tried to find the target, but my upper body strength was poor and the more I attempted to hold the gun steady, the more it swayed. My dad then instructed me to kneel down. With one knee on the ground and the other raised to use as a brace for my arm, I was able to hold the gun steady. This was much better.
When I felt comfortable with the gun butted up tightly against my right shoulder and had the target in sight, my dad told me to turn off the safety. Then he told me to breathe in, hold my breath, and gently squeeze the trigger. The .22 caliber rifle gave off a mild popping sound at the same time that I felt the barrel of the gun recoil into my right shoulder. I hit the target—nowhere near the bull’s-eye—but I hit it. I instantly wanted to do it again. And again. I loved the singular focus of shooting a gun; the challenge of one person, one bullet, and one target. The sheer concentration it took to coordinate the actions: eyes, breath, focus, squeeze.
I bring this up because this is precisely how I go about losing weight. I zero in on my target, inhale, focus, and squeeze the trigger which, in the case of shedding excess pounds, is taking the laser-like focus of shooting a gun and aiming at nothing but my target weight until I hit that bull’s-eye. I am not always successful. Sometimes my aim is off or I close my eyes and lose sight of the target. But when I am truly focused, I can maintain my aim by closing my eyes to temptation, breathing through the triggers of emotional eating, and focusing on that target weight. Then I gently squeeze the trigger and begin. At that point, like the bullet piercing the air toward the bulls-eye, I am unstoppable.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
If I Can Do It...SHUT UP!!!
If I hear one more weight-loss company ad, newly svelte celebrity making the talk show circuit, or any other humanoid within earshot of me utter the ridiculous phrase, “If I can do it, you can do it!” I swear I’ll scream, yell, throw a tantrum, have a hissy fit, or maybe even do something more drastic. Perhaps even violent—like rip the skinny wench’s picture out of the magazine ad and, I don’t know, maybe black out her teeth before placing her in the shredder. I cannot stand that phrase; I simply can’t bear it. What does it really mean? If some other person, be it a celebrity or a random person posing for a weight-loss ad, lost a bunch of weight, why does that mean I can do it? What does that person have in common with me? Are our lives identical? Does she have the same unquenchable sweet tooth I have? Does she hate to exercise as much as I do? Does she have the same aversion to vegetables that leaves me staring at kale in disbelief that people actually eat this stuff? Do we share any traits at all that would lead anyone to believe that she and I can succeed in the same way on the same weight loss plan? I mean, it’s just a stupid thought.
I suppose that, originally, the statement was intended to make the speaker appear humble. Like, if even a pathetic loser like me, the rich celebrity, can manage to dump these pounds then all of you schleps out there within the sound of my voice can most certainly make it happen. But to me, it comes off sounding smug. Kind of like I did it and if you can’t, then you really must be a moron. And a pathetic loser.
Beyond lifestyle and personality, I also think the statement is ridiculous because of any one person’s particular skill set. Just because Dr. Oz can perform heart surgery doesn’t mean I can. My brother Pete can treat patients; he's been doing it for more than 30 years. But I can’t, not because I don’t have the training but because I never would have made it through the training. I don’t understand the fundamentals of medicine because my mind simply doesn’t work that way. I don't get math or science. My brother can’t write a sonnet. Should I tell him, “If I can do it, you can do it?” And really, should he even try? Would anyone appreciate his diagnostic and healing skills any more if he wrote all of his charts in iambic pentameter?
Imagine Einstein saying, “This relativity thing? No big deal! If I can do it, you can do it!” Or how about a successful athlete or an amazing singer or a talented artist? Should all of us be able to do what they do? I think not.
What seeing others who have lost tremendous amounts of weight does do, I think, is speak to the possibility. Maybe what they mean to say is, “If I can do it, then it really is possible.” I see all the commercials and hear the testimonials of people losing 50, 75, or 100 pounds and, after screaming at them to stop using that idiotic phrase, I am left with this: the possibility that one can change one’s weight. It can happen, it does happen, and perhaps I, too, can make it happen. After I stop screaming.
I suppose that, originally, the statement was intended to make the speaker appear humble. Like, if even a pathetic loser like me, the rich celebrity, can manage to dump these pounds then all of you schleps out there within the sound of my voice can most certainly make it happen. But to me, it comes off sounding smug. Kind of like I did it and if you can’t, then you really must be a moron. And a pathetic loser.
Beyond lifestyle and personality, I also think the statement is ridiculous because of any one person’s particular skill set. Just because Dr. Oz can perform heart surgery doesn’t mean I can. My brother Pete can treat patients; he's been doing it for more than 30 years. But I can’t, not because I don’t have the training but because I never would have made it through the training. I don’t understand the fundamentals of medicine because my mind simply doesn’t work that way. I don't get math or science. My brother can’t write a sonnet. Should I tell him, “If I can do it, you can do it?” And really, should he even try? Would anyone appreciate his diagnostic and healing skills any more if he wrote all of his charts in iambic pentameter?
Imagine Einstein saying, “This relativity thing? No big deal! If I can do it, you can do it!” Or how about a successful athlete or an amazing singer or a talented artist? Should all of us be able to do what they do? I think not.
What seeing others who have lost tremendous amounts of weight does do, I think, is speak to the possibility. Maybe what they mean to say is, “If I can do it, then it really is possible.” I see all the commercials and hear the testimonials of people losing 50, 75, or 100 pounds and, after screaming at them to stop using that idiotic phrase, I am left with this: the possibility that one can change one’s weight. It can happen, it does happen, and perhaps I, too, can make it happen. After I stop screaming.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
What Took Me So Long?
The sharp-eyed and careful observer of this blog might at this point be forming a serious question in his or her mind: why did it take me a year and a half between the time I set up this blog and wrote a welcome paragraph to the time I wrote an actual post? To which I can only answer: wow, you really are observant and, well, I have a little problem that afflicts many writers. It is something that I am not proud of but which haunts me on a daily basis. It is relentless, it's mean to me, and it is a four-letter word: FEAR. Outside of teachers, professors, extremely close friends, and my husband, I have rarely shared my work with anyone. I am afraid of criticism. I am afraid of praise. I am afraid of someone finding an errant comma. I am afraid of someone telling me I have absolutely no business thinking for one moment that I have any writing ability whatsoever. I am just simply afraid. And yet, after one of my many writing workshops, I got brave one day and thought of a name for my blog, created it, and gave it a go. Then fear came back, roared its ugly roar, and I ran screaming from my computer.
A year and a half later, something interesting happened. Allow me to back up a bit. I am a huge fan of Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love and several other wonderful books. What I first admired about her was, of course, her talent with the written word. Her skill and obvious talent with crafting her stories, both fiction and non-fiction, is evident in everything she writes. When I became one of her Facebook followers and also saw several interviews with her, I realized she was someone I could emulate and admire not only as a fellow writer (of course, she's just the tiniest bit more successful than I am, but hey, there's still time, right?) but as a role model for how one overcomes the internal hurdles inherent in being a writer.
In October 2013, I had the great privilege of meeting Liz (since she signed my book from "Liz" I now feel I have the right to call her that) at an event in Connecticut. I also had my picture taken with her (my sister-in-law was with me), so I now have a permanent record of my meeting. During the event she spoke in detail about all the things that can get in a writer's way: lack of time, not feeling the writing is good enough, and fear of rejection. She was so generous and thoughtful with her answers, so encouraging of unpublished writers, so unyielding in her message that if writing is what you really want, you have to do whatever you can to make it happen. It was truly an evening I will never forget.
Soon thereafter, Liz posted a question of the day on her Facebook page regarding talent. To paraphrase, she stated that we are all given talent, but different kinds in different amounts. Some get a lot, some get a little, but we all get something. It's how we spend it that really matters. It was a beautifully written, thought-provoking post, as all of Liz's Facebook posts are, but I had never responded to one, not ever. She actively encourages conversation among her Facebook community, but, as always, fear had stopped me from chiming in with a comment. This time was different. It was a line she wrote about the worst thing one can do with talent that clinched it for me. Again, I will paraphrase. She wrote that the absolute worst thing one can do with talent is bury it in a jar in a garden and hoard it forever. This line, this one line, did it. So I responded in the comment section. This is what I said:
"I am the one safely tucked away in the garden, buried deep under layers of self-doubt, mounds of excuses, and giant boulders of fear. For fifty years I have lived below the surface of life, coming up for air only briefly when some other-worldly force temporarily pushed away what was holding me down, such as when a college professor singled out my writing or when a weekend writing workshop published a story of mine online. One would think this would encourage me to come up for air more often. One might imagine that I would, at the very least, show my work to more than the only four people I currently trust to read what I write. I want to be a published writer--more than anything--but this talent is a weight (symbolically, much like the weight on my body) that I cannot seem to shed. But I am certainly growing tired of being buried. It has become too dark and too frightening. I need to tunnel my way out."
I wrote it, I hit enter, and I tried to forget about it. My words out in cyberspace where everyone, including my favorite writer, could read them. Yikes. But then something incredible happened. I got my first fan! A gentleman, whom I could only identify as being from Toronto, sent the most lovely, positive response to my post that I could have hoped for. He said I write beautifully, that I need tunnel my way out, and that he can already see my name on a book cover. Is he a crazy person in need of help who says this to everyone? Perhaps. But I didn't care. I had my very first bonafide fan.
A year and a half later, something interesting happened. Allow me to back up a bit. I am a huge fan of Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love and several other wonderful books. What I first admired about her was, of course, her talent with the written word. Her skill and obvious talent with crafting her stories, both fiction and non-fiction, is evident in everything she writes. When I became one of her Facebook followers and also saw several interviews with her, I realized she was someone I could emulate and admire not only as a fellow writer (of course, she's just the tiniest bit more successful than I am, but hey, there's still time, right?) but as a role model for how one overcomes the internal hurdles inherent in being a writer.
In October 2013, I had the great privilege of meeting Liz (since she signed my book from "Liz" I now feel I have the right to call her that) at an event in Connecticut. I also had my picture taken with her (my sister-in-law was with me), so I now have a permanent record of my meeting. During the event she spoke in detail about all the things that can get in a writer's way: lack of time, not feeling the writing is good enough, and fear of rejection. She was so generous and thoughtful with her answers, so encouraging of unpublished writers, so unyielding in her message that if writing is what you really want, you have to do whatever you can to make it happen. It was truly an evening I will never forget.
Soon thereafter, Liz posted a question of the day on her Facebook page regarding talent. To paraphrase, she stated that we are all given talent, but different kinds in different amounts. Some get a lot, some get a little, but we all get something. It's how we spend it that really matters. It was a beautifully written, thought-provoking post, as all of Liz's Facebook posts are, but I had never responded to one, not ever. She actively encourages conversation among her Facebook community, but, as always, fear had stopped me from chiming in with a comment. This time was different. It was a line she wrote about the worst thing one can do with talent that clinched it for me. Again, I will paraphrase. She wrote that the absolute worst thing one can do with talent is bury it in a jar in a garden and hoard it forever. This line, this one line, did it. So I responded in the comment section. This is what I said:
"I am the one safely tucked away in the garden, buried deep under layers of self-doubt, mounds of excuses, and giant boulders of fear. For fifty years I have lived below the surface of life, coming up for air only briefly when some other-worldly force temporarily pushed away what was holding me down, such as when a college professor singled out my writing or when a weekend writing workshop published a story of mine online. One would think this would encourage me to come up for air more often. One might imagine that I would, at the very least, show my work to more than the only four people I currently trust to read what I write. I want to be a published writer--more than anything--but this talent is a weight (symbolically, much like the weight on my body) that I cannot seem to shed. But I am certainly growing tired of being buried. It has become too dark and too frightening. I need to tunnel my way out."
I wrote it, I hit enter, and I tried to forget about it. My words out in cyberspace where everyone, including my favorite writer, could read them. Yikes. But then something incredible happened. I got my first fan! A gentleman, whom I could only identify as being from Toronto, sent the most lovely, positive response to my post that I could have hoped for. He said I write beautifully, that I need tunnel my way out, and that he can already see my name on a book cover. Is he a crazy person in need of help who says this to everyone? Perhaps. But I didn't care. I had my very first bonafide fan.
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My Sixth Sense
Telling someone you have chronic pain is a bit like saying you see dead people. He or she will look at you in disbelief because while the s...
