This time of year most people start to plan their Thanksgiving feast. That one day a year when not only is it okay to stuff yourself to the gills, so much that you either puke or pass out, it is expected and considered offensive if you don’t in some families. By now most probably know where they will be on Thursday, and what dish they’ll be bringing to dinner. Typically there is some sort of TRADITION that is followed each year.

From the time I can remember I grew up having Thanksgiving dinner at noon on Thursday around an enormous table in my Granny’s dining room. Everyone that could come that year would gather around. It was very common for there to be at least one person that wasn’t a family member in the traditional sense to be at the table as well. We welcomed all, and if someone didn’t have a place to go they came to Granny’s.

I remember there being so much food that as a kid it made me giddy. The turkey was the biggest I had ever seen, the potatoes perfectly fluffed, and the gravy smooth as silk. We had cranberry salads, copper penny salad, marinated vegetable salads, and lettuce salad. There were sweet potatoes with marshmallows, and green bean casserole with fried onions on top and freshly risen dinner rolls. Then there were pies. My Granny is the original Queen of Pies (now my mother has taken over that role, I suspect one day it will be me, as the throne goes…) Even if you don’t like pie; you’d like my Granny’s.

Gramps would carve the turkey. Dinner was more formal than Thanksgiving is in my house today. We would peacefully and graciously pass each dish to the next person. The silver was placed perfectly and the napkin was tucked discreetly in your lap. You said “please” and “thank you” and you tried every dish, at least one bite.

After dinner the kids would usually go to the basement. There was a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, and shuffleboard. But my very favorite thing to do was sit at the computer, and play games on the Apple II E. It was probably only one game…and after awhile you’d get a headache from the flickering green screen.

The women would start the Christmas decorating and the men would watch whatever game was on from the back of their eyelids. Then in a few hours we’d drag all that food out again and start all over, this time we’d eat cold turkey sandwiches. It was heaven.

A lot has changed over the years from the time we had dinners at Granny’s. For one, the house has been sold. Gramps is no longer with us, and Granny is in her last years. The family is a little more scattered around, and we aren’t always able to get everyone together every year.

I host the dinner at my house now. Mom and I, and whoever else wants to pitch in, make the food on Wednesday. We have the same basic menu we’ve always had, why change a good thing? We spend the afternoon and evening playing games.

I have so many fond memories and know my kids are making them too. My Granny isn’t able to remember a lot of things. Last year she was concerned and told my mother that she just couldn’t do the dinner. As of last year it had been about 20 years since she’d had a Thanksgiving meal at her house. Her mind gets stuff mixed up now.

I have the wonderful memories of dinner at her house. I can smell the turkey basting, still. I can hear her laugh as she throws her head back and whips the potatoes. I can see her take charge of the kitchen, all of her 4’11” and 110 pounds. I can remember her reminding me that the knife and spoon go on the right. I can still feel her push the black olives on each of my fingers, as she smiled knowing I’d bite each one. I can see the pickled “baby corns” I knew she put on the relish try just for me. It’s all still there, each smell, look, laugh, and taste. This is my most fond memory of my little Granny.

Over the past few years I have been increasingly more unhappy with my weight and physical appearance. I don’t need any pep talks on how we’re all beautiful no matter our weight…yada yada or how my husband doesn’t care and loves me anyway. This isn’t about anyone else but me! I am not happy looking like I do. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror and I get angry about it. Which makes me want to eat a donut or two or six.

About 10 years ago I lost 35 pounds on Weight Watchers after the birth of my youngest. I became a Life Time member. I kept it off for a long time and like many women, especially in my age category, I slowly gained it back. Blah.

So I’m over my goal weight and have to pay to be in the program. So what, I’ll do it. I’ll pay to have to have a stranger record my weight and me record every bite, lick, and dip I take. I’ll try to remember to “get my water in”. I’ll do it if I can lose this fucking weight. I’ve yelled and screamed at the mirror and my size fours, sixes, eights, AND tens. It doesn’t help and I’m over it.

Did I tell you I hate to sweat and exercise too? Yep, hate it. It hurts, it sucks, and I have no clue as to what I should be doing. I’m embarrassed to be at the gym, too scared to ask anyone how to use the equipment (as if we all just grow up knowing how to work a military press…uh, I hope that’s a real thing…), disgusted at myself for getting to this point.

But I decided to join the YMCA and with the help of my friend and trainer I have managed to go to the gym for 2 weeks. This is HUGE! I was doing good if I made it 2 times before and I came to a realization that has helped me.

In the past I wanted to lose weight to get healthy. I wanted to work out to get healthy. While that is good and important it wasn’t enough. It didn’t drive me or motivate me. The results are too slow to notice much, and the reasons weren’t strong enough so I’d quit. But then I started to think about why I REALLY wanted to lose the weight and realized it is complete and total vanity. Yep, it’s all about ME!

I want to look good. I want to turn heads (and not because I have chocolate frosting on my face). I want my boobs high and my ass tight; I want my abs to be hard and rippled. I want to have the confidence I used to about my physical appearance. I am unapologetic about this realization. I’m taking it and running with it, literally. I may not ever get to where I want to be but if wanting it drives me to keep going then I’m all for it. I am accepting who I am. I am vain about my appearance. Get over it.

Every year I go back to the place where I proudly break kids…into final rounds as a Forensics tournament judge. From the instant I walk through the door the frenetic energy is palpable and the chatter in the main commons of the building sounds like a million and seven crickets amped on adrenaline and caffeine and sugar cubes (don’t forget the sugar cubes).

Nervousness and excitement pull me in. I glance over and see my very first forensic and debate coach, Coats, as she’s known, and I flash back to what seems like an entire lifetime ago, how long exactly is irrelevant. Paola High School is my Alma Mater and my “Panther Pride” still swells as I walk back through the doors.

The halls smell a little like au gratin potatoes with a top of note of nervous sweat and hormones, particularly today. It’s not lovely.

What seems perfectly normal to me- the behavior of the contestants of this tournament- would probably be concerning to anyone else not familiar with what to expect. Thespians line the halls, mumbling, chanting, and some even yelling with gestures, pacing back and forth as they emote through the walls as if they are speaking to another person. All of this seems somewhat out of place amongst the typical lockers, drab walls, stained carpets and bulletin boards of the high school, but yet today, I wouldn’t expect anything else.

I love it here, today! It was through Forensics and Debate that I learned the most about who I am, my personal character, and exactly what I am capable of. Something about being thrown into a room with one other person whose sole purpose in that moment is to judge you makes you do one of two things, either you fall flat on your face, or rise to the occasion. Fortunately, I experienced both.

I figured out I had control over some things happening in that room. I could practice and prepare, I could learn the lines and develop the character, and I could use my voice to deliver a message or evoke an emotion. What I had no control over was if the person listening would appreciate how I had chosen to prepare the piece. I had one shot at it with that one judge.

Once I opened that door and entered, gave my introduction and headed into my first lines there was no turning back until I was done with my selection or time was up (sometimes I hoped for the latter). Confidence played an enormous part! I didn’t get a ton of confidence in high school like some kids do, but I got some. What I did get was a solid foundation of which I could build throughout my life.

I learned how to feel crazy scared, nervous, and want to run but how to stay in the moment and push myself to do it anyway. Learning to breathe, swallow hard, and to take that first step into the room is a skill I still have. I don’t necessarily still need it, but I had to learn it to get to where I am now. Recognizing that I survived the sweaty palms, rapid heart rate, dry mouth, and chose to stay and “fight” rather than take “flight” has made all the difference in my life.

Forensics in not like a team sport where you have all your team mates at your side, working together toward the win. Yes, a team in forensics scores collective points, but each individual is alone. Each member of the team must face their challenges individually and over come them on their own. Nothing prepares you for life’s obstacles more than learning how to trust and depend on yourself, and how to push through that fear and do it anyway! I may fall on my face, chances are I’ll rise to the occasion, but at least I got a chance to experience it and learn from it in 4-7 minute increments in forensics first before facing it in real life.

When I turned 27 was when I felt like a true adult. By that time in my life I already had 4 children, 6 years old and younger. But it was in that year that I felt like I could no longer make excuses for shit. I used to tell people when they asked my age that “I am old enough to know better and too young to care” well, at 27 I started caring. It was then that the weight of the world finally hit me. I realized that there was no stopping it, no turning back, and that no one was coming to my rescue. I was responsible and would be held accountable for my actions, and not only that but I also was responsible for the 4 children of mine that would some day become grown ups.

So, my focus shifted. My outlook changed, but the people around me did not. They were the same on August 24 as they were on my birthday, August 25th. There was also a lesson in that that I would not know until many years later. The lesson was that even though we all live, work, play, and interact with hundreds of people in our little bubble, each of us individually is but a blip in the whole scheme of things. No one is paying very much attention to any one else because everyone has their own little bubble that they are tending to. As important as I think I am, there are 6 billion people that think the same thing about themselves and the immediate people around them. This was a good lesson to learn.

I couldn’t wait to turn 30 when it came around. I always thought that 30 was when people would take me seriously. If I could just get to 30 years old I would be considered an adult. I think some of this thought process was because I carried some baggage about being and looking so young. I was THE youngest person to graduate from my high school class. I was a year behind in privileges of everyone around me. I started college at 17. Add to that a “baby face” and the fact that people thought I was the babysitter when I took my kids out. Yep, 30 couldn’t come soon enough.

My 30s were great. I mean if you take out the diagnosis of a mental illness, my life was pretty much perfect. I loved being a mother and a wife. My husband and I were very much deeply, blazingly hot in love (as we still are today). No one took me any more seriously than I took myself. Yeah, I learned that lesson in my thirties. It wasn’t up to anyone else how I felt about myself. I chose how and when I held myself accountable. I figured out that I decided what was right for my family and me. I learned that the only opinion that mattered was mine. The trouble with that is that I tend to be very critical of myself but that’s another lesson waiting to happen.

This year I turned 40. Yes the big 4-0. I had so many people asking me if I was “okay” with turning 40. Uh, yeah, I am. They keep telling me nothing would ever be the same (it’s a damn good thing!). My body would fall apart; my brain would start failing. So far, forty is FREEDOM and LIBERATION. A number on a calendar does not hold me down, puh-leeze! I accept that things change and it’s beyond my control. But things CHANGE and that is exciting to me.

I am 100% authentically me. I am aware of my impact on others, and can decide how much others will have an impact on me. I am capable of lifting others up and encouraging them through some of life’s challenges that I myself have faced. Yes, a lot did change when I turned 40, but every single bit of it was something that needed to change inside of me. I am working out the kinks, and have not yet reached my goals. The lesson on my plate currently, and has been for a couple of years, is that we are all connected. This may sound easy, simple, and cliché but I am learning how this philosophy plays out in reality, how it looks when practiced. I’ll keep you posted.