Dear Money ~ Throwback

Dear Money

Hello Tribe,
I don’t know about you, but lately, money issues have been as viral as that nasty flu bug I just managed to survive.

Everywhere I turn, almost everybody I talk to is stressing about money.

Even those people around me who typically can’t close their wallets because they’re packed with so much cold, hard, cashola.
It feels like a phase.
Bad ju-ju perhaps.
And what do I do when the ju-ju goes south?
Well, I write a letter, of course.

Below is one I wrote three years ago and you’re welcome to copy and send it with your name attached.
It’s my understanding that money has ADD and a very short memory.

Carry on,

Dear Money,
I know our relationship has felt strained these last few years,
but we’ve always been so close and…..I miss you.

My darling Money…I think we should reconcile.
I know it looks like my life’s been all topsy-turvy for a while now, and I seem like a bad risk, but I can assure you, I’ve worked really hard on myself and I’ve grown so much.
I feel like I can meet you half way.

You must admit, you’ve been very elusive, really playing hard to get.
You barely even show your face, and when you do, I turn around and you’re gone.
That hurts because I can still remember all the good times we had.
All that crazy spontaneous traveling we did together, remember Italy, with all the shopping and long lunches?
You were always so there for me. I want to make more of those memories!

We even bought a house together for cryin’ out loud!
I think I showed my commitment to the long haul, what about you?

Sure, I made a few mistakes, but who hasn’t!
We had “it” once and I think we can have “it” again.
That kind of friendship doesn’t just evaporate.

My choices may have seemed questionable at times, but now, if you could just stick around for a while, you’d see how they’re all working out for me.

You’ve said in the past that I’m overly sensitive, but you’re the one who’s stayed away for so long…and without even a goodbye.

I’m willing to forgive, forget and move on…together, hand in hand…like the old days.

Take a few days to think about it…I know how you are about ultimatums… and begging.

xox Janet


All of My Failures Can Be Traced to My Silence ~ By Danielle LaPorte

My tribe,
If you haven’t already read this, you must.
It resonated deeply with me and several of my friends and I know it will with you too.

Silence isn’t just a breakdown of communication—it can be so. much. more.

I was just on the receiving end of the unrelenting, angry, hurtful but much-needed release of a pressure-cooker of silence gone awry. My one word of advice? Don’t let silence fester into a bomb loaded with resentment, rage, regret and failure as shrapnel. There will be collateral damage.

I’ll let Danielle take it from here.
Carry on,

All of my failures can be traced to my silence. Every. single. one.

Getting fired from the company that I co-founded happened because I had gone months without speaking up. Lots of money on the line. Better keep my mouth shut and give this a chance to work.

When I hurt a colleague’s feelings, which was completely avoidable, it was because I didn’t have the courage to speak to them directly. I overpaid for some things because I didn’t want to appear unreasonable, so I just stopped… negotiating. I didn’t want to demotivate people who worked for me/with me so I just… didn’t bring it up. Shit, I have a tattoo that I’d really rather not have because I didn’t talk back to the tattoo guy.

Failed to protect. Failed to love. Failed to lead. Failed to make art. Failed to speak up.

“Failing” and “succeeding” aren’t very poetic terms.

In-between the labels of “failure” and “success” are all of the painful things that make us so much more beautiful.
But after you lose out (like, on a BIG DREAM) because you kept your mouth shut; or you take a piece of someone’s heart with you because you took the easy (silent) way out, then speaking up starts to seem like less of a heroic act and just way more… practical. “Practical” as in… voicing your truth becomes a life practice.

Truthing isn’t necessarily easier to do, but it brings incredible ease to your life. And the more you do it, the easier it becomes. The courage, the classy delivery, the compassionate humor, it all becomes more accessible when you’re using your voice every day.

Your voice is a muscle. You need it to rise to the occasion of your life. That’s why it’s called speaking up.

Danielle LaPorte is an invited member of Oprah’s inaugural Super Soul 100, a group who, in Oprah Winfrey’s words, “is uniquely connecting the world together with a spiritual energy that matters.”

She is author of The Fire Starters Sessions, and The Desire Map: A Guide To Creating Goals With Soul—the book that has been translated into 8 languages, evolved into a yearly day planner and journal system, a top 10 iTunes app, and an international workshop program with licensed facilitators in 15 countries. Her next book, White Hot Truth launches May 15, 2017.

Named one of the “Top 100 Websites for Women” by Forbes, over 5 million visitors go to every month for her daily #Truthbombs and what’s been called “the best place online for kickass spirituality.” Her multi-million dollar company is made up of nine women and one very lucky guy, working virtually from seven different cities.

A speaker, a poet, a painter, and a former business strategist and Washington-DC think tank exec, Entrepreneur Magazine calls Danielle, “equal parts poet and entrepreneurial badass…edgy, contrarian…loving and inspired.” Her charities of choice are VDay: a global movement to end violence against women and girls, and charity: water, setting out to bring safe drinking water to everyone in the world. Her favorite person is her 12-year-old son.
You can find her @daniellelaporte and just about everywhere.


What I Learned From Fake Dying


“My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I could have died last Thursday. You laugh. But I could have.

It was a possibility seeing that I was going to be under general anesthesia and since the thought had entered my head via the delivery system of mountains of paperwork I had to sign. This pre-op ritual made it clear that I would hold absolutely no one responsible for my death—should I become dead while not paying attention.

Doctors make you do that just before they put you under.

Culpability. It’s a thing.
I could have choked on my pastrami sandwich at lunch today but the deli didn’t drown me in documents before I took my first bite.

I get it. It’s their duty to remind you. That’s the thing about drugs that render you fake dead. And being cut open—they up your odds of becoming real dead.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about dying.

About my “exit strategy”, which is a term my deceased friend uses to refer to death. “Everyone has one, you have several opportunities actually” she reminds me all the time. Apparently, it presents itself in the form of an illness, car accident, egg salad at the beach or a cheese sandwhich from a vending machine.

Everyone keeps telling you that shit’ll kill ya.

So even though I didn’t have a reasonable reason to feel as if my days were numbered—I just did.

I lived as if I was going to die.

Imminently. Like Thursday.

I’m not gonna lie, my fake death made me a little fake sad. Mostly it made me crave bad food (because hey, why not)—and wish I’d had time to get my hair straightened (good looking corpse rule #2. Rule #1 – Mani-pedi.)

Oh, and it made me pay attention to life.

Everything felt like the last time so I savored it. Kissing my dog was delicious. Ice cream tasted better if you can imagine that. Lemons were more sour.

And it’s definitive: I can’t stand cheap aftershave on men in elevators or vanilla candles.

I noticed things I tend to overlook. The sound of the rain as it hits the pavers in our courtyard.
And have you ever noticed that lots of people hold hands? Have you? I never did. And not just parents and kids. Couples of all types. Young, old, fat, skinny, young and skinny, old and fat, didn’t matter. Hands were being held. I think that’s sweet.

Did you know that studies have found that holding hands is good for your heart? I looked it up.

I took my time. I dawdled. I went to the movies in the middle of the day and ate a hot dog—with extra mustard. I walked in my neighborhood and forgot to bring my earbuds. I noticed my feet and my legs and how they move me through life and instead of run/walking everywhere like I normally do, I strolled. I looked more closely at the street art. I splashed in puddles. I said hello to strangers.

I wondered if my fake death was making me lazy? Look, a fake problem.

You wanna know what I didn’t do?
Hold on tight to anything.
Worry (why waste my time?)
Walk on eggshells.
Work hard at much.

Then I got the flu and it suddenly felt as if the rumors of my death would pan out to be true.

My surgery was canceled, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the energy of my “exit strategy” passed.
Just like that. It has left my consciousness so completely that I can’t even conjure the feeling of it if I try.

I know that when I do get this surgery the thought of dying won’t even occur to me.

I had my fake dry run and I took away something real.

My life.

Carry on,


The Avenging Uterus, OR Uterus 1 – Janet 0



In what I can only hope will be her final act of defiance, my uterus waved her magic wand (or her fist) and gave herself a reprieve.

It all started last Thursday when my Paul Bunyan sized husband had his arse handed to him by a virus.

It entered our lives innocently enough, disguised as a scratchy throat, a sniffle and cough. In other words just your common cold. But by the weekend things took an ugly turn as we both realized this thing had teeth. The cough was deep and relentless, and it was accompanied by the pain of a thousand sit-ups.

I’m just imaging the body aches as such since I myself have never even come close to doing a thousand sit-ups. Fifty can leave me barely able to take a deep breath for a week, and watching my husband, who breezes through Cross-Fit like it’s grade school recess, suffer like he was, well, to me it was the agony of a thousand sit-ups.

A thousand sit-ups and being hit by a car.

Again, I cannot draw on personal experience on this kind of pain, let’s suffice it to say, he looked miserable as fark, and this “cold” began to look like the nastier cousin of Ebola.

As Florence Nightingaley as I am (not), I attended to him at arm’s length. After all, I had a date with a surgeon scheduled for 7 am on the 12th that I was not going to miss under ANY circumstances.

Here’s the funny thing about me. I drag my feet about some things. Most are health related. I ponder, reasonable doubt it and procrastinate it—ad nauseam. Then, when I finally, after careful consideration, (and usually by the fact that it can no longer be tolerated), decide to take action—I want it done YESTERDAY!

As he hacked up a lung all night in the den, I slept peacefully in our bed knowing all of the insidious germs were sequestered there with him, on the other side of the house. Does that make me a bad person? If you think it does, you’re gonna love what happens next.

Although he was far from one hundred percent, he rallied enough to go back to work half day on Monday. What can I say? The man is a specimen. (He has since relapsed, this shit is REAL!)

At that point, it had been five whole days and I was fit as a fiddle. I did the happy song and dance. “Too da loo you pesky uterus! No lame-ass virus is gonna come between me and my freedom from…wait…eh, hem…what’s that?…a scratchy throat?”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Long shot of the word NO echoing around the globe.)

I started pounding the vitamin C and practicing my ninja mind-over-matter superpowers.

“I got this!” my deluded brain convinced itself as it began it’s battle with a virus with teeth.

I think I heard my uterus chuckle.

Never mind.

Then I got a phone call, which I missed because I was gargling with Listerine.

It was the hospital. The woman wanted to do an early check-in like it was the Ritz Carlton or something. When I dialed her back I learned the real reason for her call. Even though I was pre, pre-approved, and we had double, triple checked. Even though I had changed insurance companies and was paying a house payment sized premium to avoid anything remotely resembling this…the hospital we had booked my surgery in was OUT OF NETWORK!
If you are reading this from Canada, or anywhere besides the US, stop smirking, or looking up this term. In plain and simple American it means: you’re fucked.

By the time I hung up with the hospital, my doctor, and my insurance agent, I only had strength enough to crawl into bed. The next morning—T-minus twenty-four hours to surgery— I was shivering and hacking, sweating and sneezing, the pain of a thousand sit-ups wracking my pre-operative body.

Needless to say, we canceled.

This eleventh-hour, Hail Mary play had her “fingerprints” all over it.

Even though her enormous size has left little room to move, my uterus did a victory lap around my abdomen adding to my misery.

I’m letting her gloat. Her days are numbered. The procedure has been rebooked at the proper hospital, IN NETWORK, in a month.

So stay tuned and carry on,


Another “I Believe” Speech ~ Throwback


What is a belief anyway? It’s just a thought we keep thinking, right? I keep thinking about all of this stuff and more so I guess I have to say that still makes me a believer…I feel an “I Believe” speech 2.0 coming soon!

*To be read aloud by James Earl Jones.

I am a firm believer in the goodness of people.
In kindness and hugs and the power of love.

I am a firm believer in friendship.
In tribes, and surrounding yourself with people who “get” you.

I am a firm believer in magic.
Yesterday my magic told me that believing in it was just like sex.
Everyone tells you not to do it and when you finally do, the first time might not be so good, but every time after that feels better and better. (And eventually you get good at it).

I’m a firm believer in the healing properties of DARK chocolate,
black licorice,
dog kisses,
bouquets of flowers,
peanut butter,
red toenails,
laughter (blooper reels)
long walks,
warm salt water,
stories with happy endings,
books with the word Journey in the title,
foreign travel,
babies laughing,
red wine,
handwritten notes,
badly told jokes where the punchline is given away right at the top,
loud burps,
holding hands,
and a good night’s sleep.

I’m a firm believer in the FACT that if you leap the net will catch you.
You may bounce first. And your skirt may go up over your head.
But here’s the deal. If you are reading this, you have survived whatever godawful things have befallen you.

You’re okay.
You’re breathing,
It’s all working out.

I firmly believe that ALL IS WELL.

What do you believe?
Carry on,


It’s Official. My Uterus and I Are Breaking Up

Tomorrow I’m having an organ removed.

The organ is my uterus.

I’d like to say it’s nonessential but that’s not altogether true.

It’s a decision that’s weighed on me for years. I’ve held onto it at the urging of doctors and well because I don’t like invasive anything, regardless of how much trouble something is causing me. Some people run courageously toward surgery. I run like a scared little girl in the opposite direction—which is not always the smartest decision.

What I do is I holistic it to death. I acupuncture it, tincture, and energy work it until it’s no longer a bother.

That has worked for me with everything. But this organ has given me a run for my money. It’s wanted my unwavering attention for the past twenty-something years.

Fuck. I’m fifty-eight. I’m tired of the fight. I’m waving the white flag. I’m over it.

Due to the fact that I chose NOT to have children, this organ has been as useful to me as an oven is to someone who doesn’t enjoy cooking. Oh, again, I guess that would be me, so… the oven gets it next.

Anyhow, it has been a long time coming and I won’t bore you with the gory details. I’m only telling you about it because:

1. I may not feel up to writing this weekend.
2. You SO wish you could be a fly on the wall in post-op. I’m told I’m hilarious in post-op. That I need to stay under the influence of the copious amount of chemicals (anesthesia I’m guessing), and take it on the road. Seriously. Hey, maybe Facebook Live?
3. I’m not sure how I feel about yanking out one of the only organs that make me different than a man.

Thoughts: I’ve grown things in my uterus my entire life. Just not people.

I’ve never professed to be maternal. Nurturing, yes. Maternal, not so much.
Maternal involves self-sacrifice. The kind that is not convenient. The kind that pays dividends that are not always obvious. It has been my observation that you must possess a certain amount of altruism to be maternal. High levels that replace all of the blood in your veins, influencing every decision you make.

That cause you to miss a hair appointment that took you months to get in order to pick up a sick kid. Stuff like that.

I’d like to say I’m that person—but we all know I’m not.

More thoughts: Maybe some of us stand in line for the standard issue female body even though we have an inkling we may never use it to its full potential.

I feel sorry for my uterus. It drew the short straw. Maybe next time it can be a Duggar womb.

But ultimately I get the last say so I’m saying a very grateful, heartfelt but emphatic…goodbye.

Carry on,


When the Universe Shreds Your Life, Make Coleslaw!

Hi guys,

There was a time back in 2013 where I would sit up in bed, in the dark, first thing in the morning, and write down whatever came to mind. Often, it was poetry. I’m not kidding. Like, rhymey with a message kinda stuff.

I’d marinate in this early morning creative soup and jot down my notes for about fifteen minutes and then get on with the rest of my completely ordinary life.

I say that because even though they were just this side of craptastic as fine poetry goes, it felt special and rather extraordinary and I regret not doing it anymore. These days you can find me practicing my tandem snoring and drooling routine until the last possible minute because, well, I want to medal when it becomes an Olympic sport AND I write all day. The poetry has a myriad of entry points in twenty-four hours—so why write in the dark?

But lately I’ve been thinking…maybe I should pick up this habit again. Couldn’t hurt, right?

This one made me snort laugh. I hope it has the same effect on you because:
Everything can be reduced to a food analogy.
And nothing too serious is going on here. Just livin’ life.

We all need to remember that!

Carry on,

Whilst sitting and lamenting that your life is in shreds,
Tis no faux pas, there’s been no flaw,
Even though you’re filled with dread.

Get up, and make coleslaw instead.

The Universe may hand you a scene that leaves you for dead,
Thrown it up in the air, filling you with despair,
You keep ruminating, running it through your head,

Don’t do that, make coleslaw instead.

You can take lemons and make lemonade,
Or you can find problems that sour your day,
The choices are easy when acceptance is present.

Get up and make coleslaw instead!


Make Your Reality A Dream ~ Flashback

This is a post from waaaaay the hell back in the summer of 2013. Do you even remember the summer of 2013? Yeah, me either!

Anyhow…it felt timely due to the fact that we all have this fresh, new year to work with so I thought I’d share it with y’all.

If you were one of the oh, I don’t know, fifteen readers I had back then and you can’t be bothered with a flashback—go make yourself a sandwich!
And Carry on, xox

“If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with success unexpected in common hours.”~ Henry David Thoreau

You frequently hear the saying: Make your dream a reality.

But let’s flip it around, shall we?

You often hear someone who has accomplished something monumental say
“This feels like a dream”
“This is more than I could have ever dreamed of”.

That happens when the Universe takes a desire and runs with it!

When you put something out there and then you only feed it with feelings of accomplishment,
you feel assured that it will come to pass.

Like the athlete who after practice envisions crossing the finish line first, over and over and over again.

How about the actor who feels so prepared, so perfect for a part that he is relaxed and confident at the audition?

They know what they want and they stay out of their own way! Their reality then reinforces this by giving them feedback that they’re on the right track.

The athlete starts winning all his competitions,
The actor gets his parts.

This is where it gets interesting.
Even when things “seem” to go awry, we are being guided to our dreams.

The Universe now has taken the reins and is running the show.

When you can take these detours in stride and maintain your resolve by not getting discouraged;
not listen to the negative voices—both internal and external,
THAT is when…

The athlete gets the last place on the team to the Olympics and WINS  A MEDAL!
The actor gets not the lead, but a supporting role and then wins an Academy Award!

Their achievements surpass even their wildest dreams!

And THAT ladies and gentlemen is how you make your reality a dream.


Rare Astrological Event—All of the Planets Align & Turn Direct: Its Time to Leap!

Hi all,
Whether you believe in astrology or not, Clarity, love, miracles? This all sounds pretty awesome to me!
Carry on,

Rare Astrological Event—all of the Planets Align & Turn Direct: It’s Time to Leap.
The Elephant Journal~via Kate Rose

“Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire.” ~ Unknown

On Saturday, January 7th, we will experience a rare astrological event—all planets will turn direct.

During most years, at any given time there is at least one planet in retrograde motion, however, it’s not unusual to see a few in that motion as well—but rarely do all the planets turn direct at the same time.

This phase of action will last until February 6th when Jupiter turns retrograde.

The reason that this is such a big deal is that it’s happening in a very auspicious manner. Venus has moved into Pisces, and Mercury is turning direct at the start of the New Year.

It’s clear that this is a time for movement, for action and for exploring whatever it is that has been calling to us for some time.

Astrology is not about a one-time chance that will never happen again—we just have the option as to whether we are going to walk in fully into what is waiting for us, or if we will need a gentle push in the right direction.
What is meant for us will always hit its mark in our lives right on time.It’s not possible to mess up our life’s plan so severely that we feel desperate and without hope. Yet, even with that being the case, sometimes the divine orchestrates such an event that it’s impossible to ignore.

We missed something—something big—something that, quite possibly, we didn’t think was meant for us.
We left it behind in 2016, thinking that it was over—that we were making the right choice and that we had better things waiting for us.

We thought we were being adult about it.
But really, we missed an important part of a conclusion we drew too soon.

The thing is that we can say we are moving on, and that we are going in a new direction, but sometimes—no matter how far we move—the divine force in this world moves us right back to where we were.

With Mercury just ending, a fog is lifting, and there is clarity about a situation we had thought was all figured out—and because Venus, the planet of love, just turned direct in the loving and ethereal sign of Pisces, it seems that there is a matter of the heart that hasn’t yet been decided.

No matter how much we think we know the ending, sometimes the universe shows us that this was only the first act.

This next month—whether we want it to or not—possesses the ability to change everything in an instant.

Where you once felt stuck, things will suddenly fall apart to reveal new information and alternate endings you could never have imagined. Where you once struggled could give way to ease.
And indecision could suddenly become nothing but a faded memory of a time when your head and heart fought battles over your future.

The truth is that no great moment comes without first creating chaos, so the potential is there for January to be like that child’s snow globe that they can’t resist shaking up just to see what might happen next.
But that’s also what we have to remember—none of us knows how this will play out, and none of us knows what the ending of any of this will be.

We are being guided. We are being given clear heads and courage—moments of realizing exactly what is occurring and what those feelings are that flutter throughout your heart.

In February, we will have the last eclipse in a cycle that began last September, so anyone who thinks that they can just leave 2016 in the dust hasn’t really understood that the reality is there are never any true endings.
Situations morph, evolve and transition—sometimes more beautifully than we could ever anticipate.

The one thing that we have to remember during this month is that we aren’t being fooled. Perhaps this month, more than any other in a very long time, we will see clearly the matters of our hearts. We will find the words where we previously struggled, and suddenly sense will be made from everything that has transpired for perhaps the past few years.

Once in a while, there is a stitch in a time—a moment where things just suddenly fall into place. A moment occurs when the planets truly align at the finger of God, and all along we realize that this was his plan.

Perhaps we will finally understand that we were never off course—we’re just blind to the destination.

All of this means something. There are no coincidences—only synchronicities.
It’s been said that we can ask the universe for all the signs we want, but that ultimately, we see what we want to see when we’re ready to see it.

January is asking us just one question: “Are you ready?”
Are you ready to see everything that you were too scared to open your eyes to before? Are you ready see the life that is meant for you?

Perhaps there are no final choices or endings, but once in a while, the universe and God conspire to give us a chance at having the life we’ve always prayed for—our only job is to listen.

Our mission this month is to be open to change, so we can let ourselves be led to where we need to be, instead of planting our feet in resistance.
Because once in a while, miracles really can happen—but only if we let them.

“What good are wings without the courage to fly.” ~ Atticus


Thank You, Authentically Aging Actress

When the state of my world seems turvy topsy and I find myself feeling blue, I like to go to the movies in the middle of the day, BY MYSELF.

There, in the dark, from my seat in the very middle of the back row—I find solace.

I can weep openly at the sad parts, the not so sad parts, and the previews.

I shamelessly appreciate my shriveled movie house hot dog as if were an overpriced piece of wagyu beef.

I feel free to be the only one to laugh out loud at innuendo or irony like I’m privy to some inside joke the screenwriter wrote just for the two of us.

Most of the time I go to the movies with a long face and come out with a broad, Cheshire grin. Today was no exception.

I had a skip in my step as I left the theater, and it wasn’t because the movie was a musical.
The thing that cheered me up more than words can express is the fact that the actress in this particular film is exactly my age and looks a good ten years older. I’m not being catty, it was impossible not to notice. It was all I could do not to squeal with delight at every close-up. I even overheard a couple of women in their sixties commenting about it after the show. What they said was, Wow, she looks like us!

It was so surprising I almost walked into a pole Google-ing her age. We are both fifty-eight.

Now, living in LA I have seen this actress around town and I have figured out why she has aged, let’s say, not as elegantly as say, Dame Helen Mirren.
I usually see her over my giant plate of french fries and whatever is accompanying them. Sometimes a salad, sometimes mussels, most times ranch dip. There she is, alone in a booth, in her black on black on gray with big dark glasses, quietly sipping her clear broth. Every time I see her. Me the fries—her, the clear broth.

I also spot her occasionally on my killer hike. She usually goes early, early, when only the trainers with their chubby clients are boot-camping it up the hill. She blasts past me with her big sheep-dog looking dog barely out of breath. She is remarkably fit and trim. Skinny really, and therein lies the rub!

Gaunt does not age well. Everybody knows THAT! A little extra weight plumps up, well, everything, most especially the face. She may have my long-lost flat stomach and slim hips but holy cow, it looked as if she had loosely draped layers of flesh-colored fabric around her neck. I can say that since I feel bad about my own flesh-colored scarf most of the time.

I have to say, I was shocked.

The next thing I have to say is good for her! She IS one of us!
You have to admire the fact that she has had absolutely NO work done on her face, eyes, neck or hands. Maybe she is a giant chicken shit like me, but it’s more likely that she just doesn’t give a fuck what we think. The fact that her contemporaries are shot so full of Botox that every emotion registers as surprise makes it refreshing. Her courageous choice to allow her self-realization, self-possession, or self-worth override her vanity makes her believable and authentic and I have to commend her.

I also have to thank her for lifting my spirits more than any dish of chocolate ice cream could have.

There are just some dys when you want to feel like you’re doing something better than anyone else. Today she helped me, for an hour and thirty minutes, feel like without anything other than good genetics—I was killing it at being fifty-eight.

I’ll take it.

Carry on,

One woman's sassy, messy, journey through life
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