Life is funny...

I had my 33rd birthday last week. Which is what prompted the Guess spree in lieu of utilities. It also prompted some reflection about my life over the last 10 years. Holy shit, life goes by fast. 10 years ago, I was heading into my third year of living in Europe. 23-year-old Devon would be appalled at how much of a pussy I have become in terms of complacency. I decided to read back through journals I kept from when I was living over there, which are incredibly cringe-worthy, and also hilarious to read, because I obviously know the outcome of all the things I was stressing about back then. It was mostly all guy stuff. Not much has changed, except I was ballsy AF in my 20s! I was doing some crazy and fearless shit. Maybe stupid is a better word. I remember doing a lot of stupid things, such as ending multiple night’s out very drunk and half passed out, lightly whimper-crying, with my head on the seat of the toilet in the communal staff bathroom at the hostel I worked at. Or, like riding on the back of motorcycles, at high speeds, in heavy traffic. Always with a helmet, but I think that was the first time in my life I became aware of my own mortality. There’s quite something about reaching the realization that the only thing coming between your body and the concrete rushing by at 150km is your minimal clothing and the trust you have put into your Greek boyfriend whose last name you can’t even pronounce. 

I then started reading journals from farther back … and realizing that there has been such a trend in my life of insecurity, and a fear of failure/humiliation. Which results in little to no chances being taken. I get that I’m still a little fragile from the last six months of pulling my life back together, but after reading years of my writing being so low, the only thing that comes to my mind is what a waste of time it was to experience most of it in misery, agonizing about the what-ifs, or future-telling things that ultimately never happened. The first recorded writing I have is at 13-years-old. That makes 20 years of being a consistently depressed person who’s been second-guessing and analyzing mostly every move she’s ever made. That is really tiring. Even if the worst-case scenario had happened, what the fuck was I really worried about?? I don’t consort with [bad] criminals or put myself in situations where one of the options includes certain death as an outcome. I didn’t die. I didn’t even hurt myself, at least physically. I would have turned 33 regardless, and I could have been spending all this time being a bad bitch and not giving a fuck. It makes me think of the nauseating motivational posters you see at franchise gyms, like, “you don’t have to be great to start, but you have to start to be great”. Irritatingly, there's something to it. 

Before my journal re-discovery happened this week, I had the misfortune of meeting up with my dad for his birthday breakfast on the same day that some nasty bug of cynicism bit him in the ass, hard. While I was listening to him bitch and complain and rush through Victoria traffic at top speed, all I could think of was, “what the fuck are you rushing towards right now, Dad? Death?? Where are we going in such a hurry?” I mean, the man is 68-years-old and he is a miserable person who hates everything. What is the big rush to get to breakfast in James Bay, on a Sunday, at 9am? So we can finish our lovely conversation over breakfast (his topics included justification for the genocide of aboriginal people and how idiotic cyclists are for being in his way), get out of there faster, and keep rushing towards our ultimate doom?? I could see aspects of his misery in me, and I hated what I saw. I don’t want to rush through experiences in life complaining and hating everything. What the fuck is the point in that? I’d like to look back with positive memories, both of my own and having given them to other people. Anything else is a waste of a life. It's bitterly waiting to die. 

That’s when I started looking at the bigger picture. Things like how the world works, and how little I have to complain about, really, in the grand scheme. I love to travel, and I love experiencing the culture of other countries and people, but in terms of being a white female, it doesn’t get much better than living in Western society. I have the freedom to mostly behave as I choose (still no nips in public), with little to no repercussions, in ways that I take for granted ALL the time. Things that might be unthinkable to women in other parts of the world because of the associated consequences (beatings, death. That sort) are always available to me, but I sometimes can’t do something as simple as making a 30-second phone call to book an appointment, because I’m too anxious about saying something dumb to a stranger?? That’s pretty fucked up. I don’t wanna do that anymore. I am Devon-muthafuckin-Cassidy. That’s enough of that behaviour. 

Starting last week, I decided to stray from the herd of mediocrity and duplicity with the sheep, going from tired grey/ash blond hair, to fresh af purple/teal/blue/pink hair. I’ve always wanted to and now, I can. I rule. I also went to the ballet with a friend and it reminded me that I live in the capital of the province; this could be a regular occurrence for me. I can be more involved in the arts scene if I choose to be, both as a patron and a performer, because Victoria is rich in shit like that. Whoa! The sudden realization of possibility is like a welcome slap in the face. Later in the same week, I found the valour to inquire about the relationship status of a hot dude acquaintance. Like, to the actual hot dude himself (taken. But now I know, and somehow feel way more comfortable having it out there, known that I want some. Also, his reaction was nowhere near the ‘what-if’ I had imagined in the worst possible scenario. I would always rather know than wonder). Bad bitch plans have been reestablished and have commenced. Being assertive feels sick. 

Not having a convenient distraction available has forced me into a state of needing to be present. Like, all the time. Is this what life was like pre-2007?! I'm not saying I'm not into it. If anything, it feels really good to increase my productivity and also catch/stop myself from allowing my thoughts to spiral into a black hole of negativity. The most recently ridiculous example being when I caught myself thinking about the reality of an apocalypse happening, and then having to kill my cats, one by one, to save them from a fate worse than death. I got as far as wondering how I would choose which cat to kill first, and the reaction of the other cats. I actually started tearing up before I caught myself. I mean, I love those little fuckers, but what the actual fuck? It makes me wonder how often my brain was doing that shit while I scrolled Facebook, running full speed into anxietyville...

Since acquiring my extra time, I'm feeling way more focused, and there's a more predictable flicker of drive that's been happening. Basically, an average day is as follows:

1) Regardless of bedtime or events of the night before, I am woken up any time between 5 and 6:30am (today it was 5:15am), to the sounds of small objects being slowly pushed off my dresser to the floor, both of which are hardwood. Objects include earrings, pens, books, and glasses of water. This is a signal to get the fuck out of bed and feed the cats. 

I can usually tell how urgent it is by what they choose to fuck around with. When I see Basil staring at me while dipping his bastard paw into my weed tray, I move pretty quickly.

2) Plug in the kettle to make one bulletproof coffee (no more than one, except maybe on the weekend. This has been an issue in the past, and lead to a manic-like state. There's also no point in eating healthy and consistently if you have a river of coffee running through you. It sounds exactly as bad as it is), made with MCT oil only and half a scoop of flavour-free protein powder, but sans sugar, while simultaneously remembering to drink an organic apple cider vinegar and water mixture.

3) After choosing to start my day by drinking vinegar, I stumble back to bed, turn on my heating pad, and lay on top of it with my coffee nearby. I imagine this part of my day is comparable to Harlow's experiment in which a baby monkey was provided with a wire mother.

4) Start getting stomach pain from drinking coffee on an empty stomach and then google "coffee stomach pain". Diagnose myself with gastritis. Or possibly a stomach ulcer. I imagine an elaborate medical emergency where I die a slow and painful death, having to say goodbye to everyone I know, while obviously revelling in the spite that my death will cause those who have wronged me.

5) Take first bong toke of the day.

6) Breakfast. Its usually oatmeal and berries out of laziness, but there is always breakfast of some kind. Most important meal of the day AKA a hungry Dev is a cunty Dev. Plus, eating food is theeeeeee best.

7) Write out the order of importance of whatever responsibilities loom ahead of me that day. 

8) More bong tokes.

9) Tidy the house, which on an average day is scooping cat poop and vacuuming the litter that's been scattered through the apartment like a good Samaritan might throw salt over an icy sidewalk. I'm most always listening to music while this is happening. Partly because I'm a happy morning person, and partly because no one wants that to be their reality. By now, it's usually around 7:30am, and the coffee and weed are in full effect. I can say with almost complete certainty that neighbours heading to work have caught unwilling glimpses of me aggressively rapping in the face of a perturbed cat, 

all while wearing something from the drawer I have labeled, "not leaving the house". I wish I were joking. I also wish this weren't the only drawer that's spilling over. This time is also spent indulging in vanity, standing in front of my bedroom mirror and twisting myself into different poses to achieve maximum muscle tone. Et voila: 

10) At some point in my day, have a protein shake with New Zealand whey, kefir, a scoop of powdered greens, ground flax, fruit, and whatever leafy greens I decided to buy that week. I also try to throw in cocoa nibs, hemp hearts, chia seeds, or extra veg, sometimes to the point of it tasting like a cold, sweet soup. Not ideal.

11) Deal with whatever life is throwing at me that day.

This is just the spine of what I've been trying to do daily. There are other things that should be obvious, but just in case some weight-loss nut stumbles across this and thinks I'm only consuming coffee and a protein shake, there are five clean meals in total, and I'm trying to drink 3L of water a day. Depending on the day, I see my therapist, go to a voice lesson, or see my trainer. I also make sure I do something physical once a day, even if it's just making sure I go for a half hour walk to get groceries or take 20 minutes to dance like a crazy person in my living room. Now you would thinking I'm doing my regular shtick of "no booze! No weed! No fun!", but this has sucked in the past. I'm trying to stick to what my trainer refers to as the 80:20 rule. Be healthy 80% of the time; slip up 20% of the time. Balance. I can deal with that.

Except for weed. Fuck that. I tried it out, and I'm not diggin it. So I cut down on my smoking in general, and I've been dosing myself nightly with edibles. That's my biggest vice, and because I've had much worse vices in the past, it stays. I'm quite content being the stereotype of a west coast island girl. Greens and green. If I could take it a step further by letting my pit hair grow free and splashing around in patchouli, but not become a social pariah, I would be in heaven.

Anyway, I did the exercise, and planned out how I was going to achieve my goals. My big plan was to write a "part 3!!" blog, announcing my extreme February regime. I've been seeing a personal trainer since November and she has taken my strength/physique to a place where I never thought I would be at, and thats without me putting in much effort with diet and cardio. That's fairly amazing to me, so I was curious to see what I could do if I worked hard and fuelled my body properly, so I came up with a plan...there was to be no social media, no sugar, no coffee, no weed, no booze, regular clean meals and a rigid fitness schedule. There was also to be blogging on the daily, as well as taking photos to see any little changes. I set my start date as February 1st, because January 1st is so cliched, but also because it gave me a month to continue my gluttony/laziness. Foreshadowing!!

In short, February plans were a complete disaster. Distractions were a-plenty, and in many forms...boy (obvs!), lack of willpower, social anxiety, general anxiety, slowly working deeper at my counselling sessions, resulting in being stuck in my head with my thoughts, and also having writer's block. That's right. Writer's block. I've always thought people sound so pretentious and almost name-droppy when they do artsy shop-talk in passing..."oh blah blah blah writer's block and the creative process [I'm a fancy writer just to remind you] blah blah blah". But fuck it. I write, thus making me a writer. If you have a problem with that, maybe get over yourself. And probably stop reading my writing. 

Boys were my biggest issue. When I did the priorities exercise, I think they were 17 out of 18 on my life of importance of planned priorities...and number two on my real priorities. So that was an issue. I'd downloaded Tinder, again, in November, hoping to be sneaky and find out if a specific person was single/using the app. I never saw him on there, but while i was swiping, of course other cute boys came up, and who can pass up a sale?! As usual with anything romantically inclined, with the connecting came messy feelings, clashing perspectives, and rules. My life was starting to resemble some knock off version of Sex and the City, which really only means it had an increased west coast vibe (weed) while decreasing other aspects, such as proper dates, money, Manolos, care for hygiene (mine, not theirs), and established men. After some more deep in Dev thoughts, I realized that I have a habit of lusting after toxic/unattainable situations, even when I know that it will never work. Not to mention, when I'm honest with myself, I'm not over my ex and I have nothing to offer another person right now. The boy[s] problem[s] worked itself out, which is good; being there just for me feels really good for the first time in awhile.

After the February of Diabetes, sponsored by the always-loved Shell gas station and French Rabbit chardonnay, I came up with a better plan of attack. Partly because March 9th is my birthday, and who am I kidding?? I have plans of burlesque, dancing like a crazy bitch, champagne, gossip with my girls, and rich meals mothafuckas! But I also came up with a more flexible plan this time because I would like to focus on being a real person...not someone working toward a fitness contest, who will reach the goal and go back to sitting on her ass for another four years. I tried that and it feels mostly shitty. I'd rather be an inspiration to people than an unachievable product at the end of a specific amount of time. That's not really maintainable unless you have the time/money to devote to your diet and workout. For example, I used this intro blog as an excuse to not go on my planned run earlier today. No biggie! (I'm already making private loopholes for myself. I'm hazily aware of what I could be achieving, but I'm such a reluctant babe. Sloth is my dirty mistress, feasting on me mainly in the early morning when my bed is so warm and delicious and everything else is...cold and requiring movement).

I know. You're on the edge of your seat as you wait to hear about my new plan. Well I will tell you. I'll be avoiding electronic interaction/time wasting as much as possible for the next month. This means Facebook, Instagram, Netflix binging, and most definitely, Tinder. What do people even do without technology anymore?! I haven't tried to entertain myself without technology in a long time (sounds dirty and it stays).

I'm in the middle of reading Lena Dunham's collection of personal essays, and she is a big ol' slap in the face reminder of the type of writer I would like to be. Complete transparency is sometimes so key when you want to engage a reader/invoke an emotion. While I won't be using social media, I do plan on writing much more, and writing about things that may or may not be TMI. Things like being single in your 30s, women with a lack of maternal instinct, relationships, sex, porn, burlesque, travel, recipes, family dynamics, dating younger dudes, being a grownup when you don't feel like one/have any interest in being one, neo dating etiquette, gender issues, money, personal hygiene, and gross facts I've noticed about getting older. Fun, right?? If you enjoy feeling awkward through other people's personal experiences, you're in for a treat.

I also plan on reading, cooking, choreographing new burlesque, keeping a journal, going to yoga, getting 8 hours of sleep nightly, continuing to dissect my brain with my counsellor, getting massaged, drinking water, drinking tea, not drinking wine, going for runs, doing things when they need to be done instead of putting them off and causing a bigger mess to deal with. I think I just want to get back to being a mindful, healthy, positive person, who feels good about her choices and personal growth. Why is taking care of one's self so much more difficult than taking care of other people?? I can't be on top of everything 24/7, because that is a ridiculous expectation to uphold. But I can choose to take one day as it comes, and really think about the choices I make for myself, or how I react to things. Like right now. My positivity right now is making me want to react by puking.

I ate like a champ today, and as a result, either placebo or real, I feel fucking amazing. There's definitely been a surge of energy/late night living room dancing. Like at the level where I almost convince myself that maybe trying out for SYTYCD is a great plan. I don't really count today as my real start day though, because I fucked around on Facebook a lot, and ate a firecracker around 6. Worth it. 

            Moving on…2014. I’d like to wash my hands of the whole year, and I was going to be self-righteous about how I’m sooooooo happy as I dance around my apartment, and rediscover myself, and realize that single life can be good again!! And it really was going that way for a bit. But then over the course of a few days, I did the life equivalent of choking on your own spit in a quiet public place, and I’m feeling fairly apprehensive again. Uggggggggggggh. Being a grownup is just the fucking worst.

            There’s definitely been a lot of elation going on. No denying that. My stupid rambling notes in my iPhone begin with me nattering on and on about how my love of pop music has been reignited like I’m 8-years-old again. This behavior makes me worry that either A) I’m having an early midlife crisis, and I’m going to be dead by the time I hit 64, or B) I’ve literally smoked enough weed to make me stupid in the brains. Basically, I have two personas going on as I’m trying to figure my shit out. One is the Dev I am really, really striving to become, who is positive, has energy, and is excited about new goals and ideas and adventures. The other is basically a demon who sucks the soul from my body with cynicism and paranoia. Demon Dev is the one who comes up with dark thoughts about how humans deserve extinction and how pointless it is to devote energy to things when we all end up in the same place. DD is also really good at planting the seed that friends or acquaintances suddenly can’t stand my presence and are all talking about me behind my back. Demon Dev is a cunt. With all the living in my head I’ve been doing lately, I can say that each persona kicks the shit out of all the deep questions I’ve been picking apart about life, love and human behavior. It sounds like I’ve figured stuff out by saying that, but it’s just become like an internal pro/con list that never ends.

           I’ve come up with one realization, and that is to trust the process of a breakup. There’s something to be said about taking care of yourself and time healing all wounds. Even though my instincts sometimes tell me to get belligerently drunk and sleep with my ex’s friends, I know this is NOT the way to Nirvana, no matter how cute the friend is. Going through the motions of life when your world is falling apart feels like the biggest and baddest burden in the world. Then to top it off, just when you think you’ve got a good rhythm going on, it just turns out to be waves of false security. You have a few great days, making you think you have your shit together before you have your shit together, ultimately causing you to temporarily lose what shit you have managed to scrape into a messy pile. Then you re-evaluate your direction thus far and make necessary adjustments. It’s not all bad, and perhaps an analogy comparing shit to life accomplishment isn’t the best way to project that. But you gotta take the bad to appreciate the good when it finally gets there. Breakups suck, but they shake my brain out of complacency mode and they force me to reconnect with myself by dissecting every fucking move I make, because I would like to, at all costs, avoid being back in the place of feeling breakup-shitty again.

             So I eat my oatmeal and drink my water and exercise and keep my place clean. And I get lost in my thoughts. I think about how life is largely based on partnering up in some way – sex, commitment, relationships, love, companionship...we’re all after the same thing, even if we say we aren’t. It’s what people thrive on and kill for. It’s what people get up and start their day for. For real. If you boil it down, people work shitty jobs that they hate so they can afford the life and style they want to project, so that they’re able to attract a partner of their liking, resulting in that lovely little burst of chemicals. Then once they’ve found someone that stokes that fire, the new challenge is to keep them. But no one ever really has anyone. People aren’t possessions; they will do what they want, always. The only thing to do is keep up with your awesome self, hope that your chosen partner continues to be attracted, and isn’t a total selfish knob. Easier said than done, for sure.

            But what choice do you really have?? So, I went through the motions of heartache. I cried, A LOT. I stopped properly grooming. I joined Tinder. I freaked the fuck out in a couple of situations that were highly inappropriate. I moaned to my girlfriends. I drank too much for a little while, then realized that it was making the process much worse, and I retreated to my cozy apartment to avoid reality, and instead kept focused on doing the things that “normal” people do to be “normal” – I hired a personal trainer, kept to a consistent showering schedule, ate better, slept more, and tried to not completely succumb to the depths of despair and loneliness too often; cue sleeping all day and sobbing into a pillow when not sleeping.

            It wasn’t just the relationship and it’s end that wore me down last year. It was a lot of things that I feel passionately about infringing on my peace of mind that  burned out my spirit. I make a point to avoid the constant flow of destruction people are doing to each other because it’s too upsetting to me and I feel powerless to do anything but be so sad for the fate of humanity. So I don’t want to know. However, sometimes certain events in the media are thrown from every direction and they are unavoidable. As a feminist, it’s been a fucking exhausting year. From Jian Ghomeshi to Bill Cosby, “Women against Feminism” to #NotAllMen, Harper’s new laws to international laws that work against women, viral catcalling videos to a chick on my Facebook telling me I need to be more positive when men make me feel threatened, and finally, to a close friend being assaulted in her home after a ‘friend’ drove her home from the bar, and sexual assault being so commonplace to me that I wasn’t even surprised when she told me, just defeated. It felt like a never-ending battle that would always be uphill.

            Then it happened. I woke up on the last few days of 2014 to find a Facebook message from Scott Shewchuk, whom I wrote about previously regarding the night he sexually assaulted me…

  December 28, 2014 3:29 am

"hey. I think you proved your point. I'm sorry for putting that on you. even though I believe something else I still need to respect your point. must be shitty and sorry to cause you any sort of pain or anything else.

but please take that down. you don't need to forget or forget your hatred of me but don't need potential partners or employees to see that.. and I'm obviously being selfish and that isn't right but please, I beg you Devon."

  And then less than an hour after I’d read the message and he’d seen I’d read the message:

  December 28, 2014 9:41 am

"think you could find it in your heart to do that? I feel terrible I did something wrong and it brings back memories when I search my name on Google"

  Hello instant sick feeling! Hello increased heart rate, breathing, sweaty palms, and panic. Hello final shove I needed to finally, finally have enough of being pushed around, bullied, or apathetic. That was it. I have zero fucks left to give. Aside from pointing out that his attempt at correspondence lacks sympathy for anyone but the sender, I’m not getting into it, either here or with this dude over Facebook. I haven’t and I won’t. You’re soooo sorry? Huh. Take that shit public. I’m not saying one fucking thing privately to be manipulated, dissected, deleted and then up for discussion later. My blog was as much about protecting other women as it was about any other reason I had to post. It’s not coming down, creep. Thanks for the reason to repost it though.

            With that final slap to top off a year of other slaps in the face, it was like I woke up to a new Dev. Or an old Dev, revamped.

It’s not even like I don’t know the drill by now. I do. Not like it doesn’t get easier. It does. Kind of. It’s less self-destructive this time around. There’s still the awful, sick, gut-wrenching and panicked feeling of loss, the second-guessing every decision you make because you feel like you’ve been so wrong with the choices you once thought were best, the picking apart every move you’ve made up until the breaking point of the relationship, and the feeling of complete stupidity that you’re going through unforeseen heartache, yet again. But this time, I’m a lot more aware that self-medicating with drugs or drink only prolong shitty feelings of grief, although right now I would really love to take shares out in Ambien and sedate myself until its all over. Feeling feelings is garbage. The real cherry on top of my shit sundae is that due to financial reasons, we get to live together until October, pulling the band-aid off in a slow and very conscious manner. I think what is most painful is that as I’ve gotten to understand romantic relationships more, I’ve realized it’s less about a fairytale ending, and more about finding someone you’re attracted to, that you have similar values to, and committing to making it work, even when it’s shitty, and it will be shitty sometimes. That’s actually the definition of commitment. Which is incredibly ironic, because he would scold me for not sticking with things enough to get better at them.

One thing I’m also better at is compartmentalization, when need be. I'm super great at stuffing sadness into a tiny box while around friends, until I get home and let it completely wash over me in a wave of salty tears and snot rags.

There are really only two options you can have when dealing with heartbreak. Option one is to remain alone, drink copious amounts of alcohol, and slowly die inside as you tell yourself you’re a broken human being who, in time, repels any and all decent mates. Tried that before, and it’s really not a good time. The other option isn’t much more comforting, however, as it involves recognizing that feeling like a bag of moldy dog shit is completely normal, but still forcing yourself to do things you really don’t want to be doing in the emotional state that you’re in. I’ve been going for option two this round.

With option two, I’ve been suddenly thrust into accepting the good with the bad. Such as the fact that I look fabulous every time I go through this. My body revolts against food and my guts feel like I’ve eaten a vindaloo family meal from the local Indian restaurant. I feel physically terrible and I’m constantly dizzy, but man, I am rocking some body confidence right now. Another consolation of your once-significant-other telling you that you have no passion for anything in life, is that you’re forced to make new plans. By way of distraction, friendships are renewed, hobbies are embraced, and you remember how to be you again while you simultaneously teaching yourself how to stop loving that person and eventually forgetting why you loved them at all. It’s especially bittersweet when you realize that forgetting to be you was part of why he fell out of love in the first place. Personal growth in the most painful way possible.

Now I get to deal with the fear. The cynical fear that love is complete bullshit. That even if I find it again, this experience is always a possibility when you let your guard down. That there is no such thing as a perfect person out there for anyone, and every relationship goes through trauma of some kind at some point. That maybe no one should be trusted with my apparently fragile heart. I don’t know if this is age, my sensitive nature, or being jaded due to experience.

So for now, I will stick to the bullshit theory no one wants to hear while going through a breakup, and that is that time heals all wounds. I'll try to forget that the person I once considered closest in my life is now like a callous stranger. I will stand close to my amazing, supportive, and understanding girlfriends. I’ll ride the crazy turbulent up and down feelings I’m feeling. I’ll try to stop making logic of why it shouldn’t be happening, because logic doesn’t work in terms of love.

Ok, I'm mostly kidding. This year, I didn't even have to get to see my family, so there was no regular holiday occurrence of getting just wasted enough to not go into a blind range and kill someone. No, this year, I spent my first Thanksgiving with my love and his family. Not the first time meeting his parents, but the first major family function. Which meant a few new meetings/not drinking too much/not saying or doing something completely unforgivable/generally putting one's most charming self forward. A breeze, obviously.

While we were there, I was doing the regular thing of checking out family photos and things around the house. In this particular house, there are photos from trips made around the world. To really cool places that seem next to impossible to take on at this point in my life, due to flights costing the same amount as 2 months rent. I also noticed, in the room we stayed in, that there were these crazy sewing machines, which made me think about how much I want to learn to sew. It was really hard to not compare the things I hadn't done or learned, and then beat myself up about it. I know. Poor me. I was almost drowning in enough self-pity to not snap back to the reality that I am also an interesting person, just not in ways of sewing or world travel.

I think that's really the theme of my Thanksgiving. As per usual, it boils down to, "shut the fuck up and be happy with what you have, because in all honesty, we all have it pretty good". God, I've been the same broken record since I was a teenager. But for real, all the whining people do about nothing deserves a slap of reality. Myself included. 

While I was thinking about just being appreciative for life in general, I started reflecting on where I am right now vs. where I was last year. I am leaps and bounds from where I was. It has been a crazy, whirlwind, completely unexpected year. Who knew that from complete misery, this person would arise (ahem! Phoenix tattoo for a reason, y'all). I am happier than I have been. Ever. In my whole life, I think. Or maybe I just feel happier because it's currently happening. Who cares?! Why would I analyze the shit out of it and ruin it for myself?

Along with my Thanksgiving reflections and general seam-bursting happiness/self-pat on the back for being awesome, I also got to thinking about why I don't have some of the hobbies I have been longing for?? As busy a person I am, I still find time to park my ass on the couch, play apps on my phone, or generally just stare out the window, thinking about all the dance lessons, voice lessons, burlesque choreography, yoga, and healthy eating I wish I was doing. Even getting around to blogging again has taken months. My big wake up call last week was when I got super annoyed with Luke for interrupting my game of Candy Crush. I'm not ok with being that person. I'm ok with not being crazy gym bunny Dev anymore. I'm 31. I have somehow become waaaaaaay more comfortable with myself (currently just finished a large piece of pumpkin pie. And I'm gonna have more), but my lack of motivation for things that are actual hobbies, and aren't just vanity-based, really irks me, and it's something I need to work on BIG time, but in small ways. In baby steps ways. Little daily baby steps, like I'm in recovery. Hi my name is Devon, and I am a lazaholic. One day at a time....starting tomorrow. Now, I need to eat more pumpkin pie.