The One with Gold and Dirt.

I have a pair of pants that I bought back in October that cost me $10 at Old Navy. They're dark wash stretch skinny jeans that I looked at in the store on (yes, I remember) October 9th and said, "These are my goal pants." They are a pair of size 2 jeans.

As I've mentioned before, besides watching the actual poundage decrease on the scale, watching my pants size go down number-by-number has been an extra little excitement in my weight loss journey.

Yesterday in the dressing room, I bragged. Why? Because I squeezed my body into those jeans yesterday morning and buttoned them comfortably. (Yes, they're stretch jeans, and I'm also sure that not every size 2 pair of pants I try on will fit.) In the dressing room, I said, "These are goal pants!" A few of the girls thought I said "gold pants," and while they aren't really gold, I felt like that title fit rather appropriately.
Goal. Gold. I like it.

...

Friendships come and go. It's just a fact of life. Some friendships last longer than others. Some friendships last forever. Some friendships go in order to allow personal growth. Some friendships go because of a disagreement. Some friendships go in order for us to learn something.

And then there are those few friendships that come and go... and then come back again. Those friendships take special care, special attention, and in the long run, they mean so much more. While the initial loss of the friendship in the first place does tug terribly at our heartstrings, it is the opportunity to rebuild it that really matters. Reconciliation and understanding and... well... time can be incredible tools in any situation. How lucky we are to have those tools right in front of us to use.

...

Almost every Tuesday and Thursday morning I work in the office at 8:00-11:00 AM. I have a confession: I love sleeping so much that (on these mornings especially) I sleep until the last possible second... which means I don't shower until my break at 11:00 AM.

But maybe it's time to reconsider that whole not showering on Tuesday and Thursday mornings thing. Why? Well... today, as I started to sort my thoughts on what to blog, I looked down at my hands and noticed something a little out of the ordinary... little dark splotches here and there.

Don't worry; I haven't come down with a skin condition. No. I'd merely left traces of stage dirt on my hands from last night's performance. I even pulled up my sleeves of my sweater to realize that I not only had it on my hands, but it was all the way up my arms, too.
And I am, of course, reminded of the performance last night. And, of course, as usual, I have to go all philosophical on the dirt and the importance of it.

Things happen in our lives - no matter how sweet things may be at a given time - that throw us for a loop. The past few days have been my roller coaster. The truth is, my life has been so peachy lately that maybe I've become a bit jaded. Overindulged in the good stuff.

I've been side-swiped by the tiniest dilemma recently, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't let it affect me. I'm sort of amazed at how out-of-body this has felt; I feel like I'm a bystander watching myself experience it. And I have felt a bit helpless... I arrived at the theatre last night willing to push everything aside for the performance. However, I've never really been known for my being able to hide how I feel... so after recognizing that things were a little out of sorts for me, a dear friend said, "Use it." He didn't ask questions about what was wrong; he didn't need to. He just said the right thing.

So I let myself cry it out. Onstage. (Now, please understand that I was completely in character during my performance, and I did not allow my emotions to take the performance past what I've been directed to do. I can control myself in those regards.) I had this opportunity and was allowed to feel absolutely as deeply as I wanted. I wasn't a blubbering mess, and I would say only about five tears actually fell. But when I finished my performance last night and I changed out of my costume and back into my street clothes (and forgot to clean off the dirt on my arms and hands, apparently), I felt so at peace. All I needed was a place to put that energy.

I'm an advocate of "leave your problems at the door," trust me... and maybe I didn't do that yesterday. But being able to pour it into an evening's performance rid me of that anxiety that had built up. I would've been a fool not to have used it as an outlet.

I get to rub fake dirt on my hands and arms and neck and face every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night and Saturday morning. I get to be the villain. I get to act absolutely nuts for three hours in front of a full audience of people. I get to sing my little heart out. I get to share a stage with, really and truly, some of the nicest, most talented, most tender and most humble people I've ever known.
Leave it up to Miss Sentimental USA to let splotchy hands make her emotional. What can I say? When I look down at those splotchy, fake dirt-covered hands, it's really hard to forget how cool my life really is.