Madewell Hi-Rise Jeans | Lo & Sons Camera Bag | DIY Distressed T-Shirt
On Sunday, we were driving to Berkeley for brunch and steam train-riding, when all of a sudden our children both decided they needed to eat IMMEDIATELY. We just had a snack forty-five seconds ago, you say?
Do not care.
| Me and My Bikyni and My Pretzel |
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I've never been the kind of person who has more than one or two swimsuits that I actually wear, because my life has - at least for the past few years - not been especially pool- or ocean-inclusive.
Sweatshirt that nicely sums up my feelings about this "aging" thing
In celebration of the fact that I am about to turn 35 and am kind of weirded out by that, here are a few of the many (oh, so many) ways that I know that I am old:
And, of course, there's the fact that I've spent the past few months realizing that I need to start consciously putting things into my body that are good for it, rather than whatever's in front of me and doesn't require a fork (usually macaroni and cheese, which totally counts as finger food). This, as you might have guessed, doesn't exactly come naturally, so what I've discovered is that it's best if I do that put-good-stuff-in thing sometime around 8AM, when I still care.
I met with a therapist today. Not a psychiatrist - a therapist, and specifically one specializing in cognitive-behavioral therapy. What CBT is, essentially: an intensive, results-geared 12-18 week course of therapy during which you learn specific techniques that you can use to better cope with your anxiety (or depression, or whatever it is that brought you in).
I sat down on the therapist's couch next to a little machine bubbling lavender-scented steam into the air and gave him my best "Look at how happy and okay I am!" smile (because, as everyone knows, the most important part of therapy is convincing your therapist you totally don't need it. ...Right?). He asked me why I was there, and even though I knew this was a pretty unhelpful way to begin the session, I told him the truth: that I didn't know.
It really was true; these days, I feel more or less...fine. Great, actually. My anxiety is under control; my insomnia has virtually disappeared. I'm stressed about various things, of course, but they feel like things I probably "should" be stressed about, like travel and mortgage payments and such. I only booked the appointment in the first place because the psychiatrist who I see about once a month to check in on my medication suggested it, and so while I paid for that day's appointment at the reception desk I also scheduled a new one with his colleague. And then all of a sudden it was a month later and there I was: sitting in a therapist's office and talking about feelings.
This morning I was all "Hmmm I have no idea what to write about today." So I gave it a little thought while I walked Indy to school, and decided it would be a nice day to create some of those Pinterest-y Aren't I Aspirational And Elegant photographs with lots of white in them and bits of food inexplicably sprinkled around the table surface. And then Kendrick destroyed my plan by completely blowing my mind.
When I was 22 years old, newly graduated from college and living in a junior one-bedroom in West Hollywood, my apartment was broken into while I was at the gym one evening. My camera was taken – the thief had tried to take my laptop, too, but had been unable to remove it from the docking station – but far, far worse: my jewelry box was gone from its spot on my bedside table.
You may have noticed that I wear an awful lot of gold jewelry; I’ve always liked the way it looks against my (kind of Casper-y) skin, and generally gravitate towards it more than any other metal. But only a handful of the pieces you’ve seen me wear are karat gold, as opposed to its less expensive (and less precious) cousin, gold-fill jewelry – which I wear a ton of, of course…but it’s not quite the same as the real thing.
It's 7AM on Mother's Day, and I'm writing this from a Southwest flight somewhere over...Colorado, I think. I was originally scheduled to fly home from St. Louis this afternoon, but yesterday morning I was on set and called my kids to FaceTime with them, and that one call ended up changing my plans. I hadn't seen their faces in a couple of days because I couldn't get my FaceTime to work (discovery: restarting one's phone more than once a year is apparently a good idea) - and when they finally popped up on my phone screen my heart started pounding and I started feeling like I might cry (which is not a thing I want to do on a set, ever). When we hung up, I went straight to my computer and started hunting for a flight - any flight - that might get me home even an hour or two earlier.
Mommy-and-me swimsuits that broke me (I am so sorry), my thoughts on that ludicrous Me-ternity kerfuffle, and the ugliest piece of clothing I've seen in a long time. (And more, obviously.)
Do you get all fluttery about diamonds? (That's a trick question; everybody gets all fluttery about diamonds.) I thought you might be into owning some of your own (plus emeralds and a serious opal), so...here you go.
