These Dreams

I’ve had people ask me if the Bunny “comes to me in my dreams” which – from what I understand now – is something that happens frequently when loved ones have died. I’m not a big “dreamer” – and usually when I do dream I can’t remember the details once I wake up. I think I don’t dream much as an adult because my mind is on such a roller coaster when I’m awake, it needs some sleep too! I want to say as a child I used to dream all the time… but then again, I would consider that when I WAS a child, I used to hold a lot of my emotions inside or cut them off completely; so whatever was going on in my mind didn’t have an outlet.

Last night, I dreamed my car was stolen. Not the car I own now, the car I owned BEFORE the car I own now. In my dream, my car was sitting in my driveway, and when I woke up in the morning it was gone. Then in a flash, the car was back; and I was taking it to a friend who runs a auto body repair shop. The funny thing about this dream is that this really happened, in real life! Except that it was my brother Sandy’s car. My brother lives and works in Hawaii (yea, lucky, I know – but at least I have someplace to visit – IN HAWAII!), and a few years ago the Bunny and I were preparing to ship his car over to him, on account of the car he was driving – in Hawaii – was stolen. At least, that’s how I remember this story. So, we have my brother’s car in the driveway, idling (just to make sure the battery was working properly – and we live in a relatively decent neighborhood)… and before you know it, some yahoo jumps in it and takes off. Both the Bunny and I were shocked and appalled… I remember the Bunny NOT wanting to be the one to tell Sandy that his other car was stolen, too – how ironic can things get! Miraculously, the car was recovered by the police a few days later (apparently, this rarely is the case), with a few extra bullet holes, some blood, and one baby sock. God knows WHAT that car had seen or been a party to!... but we took it to my friend’s (the one with the auto body repair shop) and got it fixed back up, good as new… and shipped it off to my brother.

In the past six months since the Bunny’s death, I have had only one dream with him in it. He didn’t have a starring role, either… I recall he was only in there for a few minutes, and we didn’t have any conversation or anything. That was it… until the night before last. I had my second dream – this one was ALL Bunny. For me, it felt like “a confession” – all you Catholics out there know what I’m talking about – it consisted of me explaining to the Bunny all of the things I was doing in my life, all the things that had changed, all the things that I had changed… it was almost like I was looking for him to tell me it was okay. Somewhere, internally, I needed to feel like my husband knew what was going on with me, and that he supported me… even now.

I woke up the next morning, and I remembered that dream. Whether in some way, out in the universe, I really DID have this conversation with the Bunny, or it was all in my head… I FELT a little better. The sun was just a little bit brighter. My outlook was just a little bit more positive.

The Sunday that my husband left – the Sunday of his accident: he was on his way out for a day-long motorcycle ride with his biker buddies. He left early – maybe around 6:30AM? I was still laying in bed, not having to get up for church for a few more hours at least. The Bunny was dressed in his riding gear, and leaned over his side of the bed to give me a kiss. I opened my eyes (barely, but they were open) to look at him, and I smiled – the Bunny smiled back at me, and spoke the last words I would hear him speak alive: “I love you.”

Those are the words I still hear in my head; my reminder that “love never ends.” Once you let someone into your heart, they are pretty much in there forever… at least, that’s how it is for me. Luckily, my heart has an unlimited capacity for love… convenient; like having a friend who runs an auto body repair shop.

To Die For

Maybe about a month ago, I started taking vitamins. It’s one of those little packets that have this and that in it – all supposedly good for me to be taking, of course, and I believe it; I just HATE swallowing vitamins. Especially the big, “horse-sized” ones. Sometimes, they even make me gag… ick. There’s eight vitamins in my little packet, plus I take B12 (supposedly really good for your body in general – and I DID notice it got me feeling better faster when I was catching a cold) plus my other prescriptions (part of my diabetes regimen). As stated previously, I’m not very consistent about taking care of myself, but now my perspective is such that I see myself as the “only one left to take care of things” so I’m forced to make my health more of a priority. Living a little longer and a little better is worth today’s discomfort of swallowing “horse-sized” vitamins (my opinion).

A few days ago, I visited my attorney’s office to update my trust. I am a life insurance agent by trade (yea, ironic – I know), and a year and a half before the Bunny’s death, I dragged him to the attorney’s office to set up a trust for our family – the first time either of us had done any such thing. In the course of my work, I conceptually understood what a trust was and what it was for – but like most things, the reality was much different. I remember the Bunny wanting to know “what are we going to be doing?” and “what’s the attorney going to say?” – he was very agitated, wanting to know what to expect. I told him I didn’t know; I really DIDN’T know, but I knew it was important, I knew we needed to do it, and I trusted the attorney (who was referred to me by a close business colleague at the time). In our little family, there was me and Christopher, and the Bunny and Trevor. The Bunny and I did not have children together – I think when we were first married I said I wanted to, but the Bunny did not want to be raising children through his fifties, and with my parenting issues it was easy to talk me out of it. I guess hindsight being twenty-twenty, it all worked out for the best – I can’t imagine how overwhelmed I would have been with a toddler right about now – even a child that would have been mine and the Bunny’s.

So, we did the trust – a process which included our wills, and durable powers of attorney for medical decisions. When the Bunny was in ICU for three weeks, I got to see firsthand how a durable power of attorney for medical decisions works. It’s essentially a document which speaks for you (when you are incapacitated) to the doctors with regard to your care. It says things like: “If there is no hope of me recognizing my family or living without the aid of machinery to sustain my life, then don’t take any extreme measures to save me,” – this is just one example of the many scenarios in this document. If I remember ours, I think each are at least seven pages long (there are lots of scenarios!). I recall the doctors really being impressed with the level of detail in the Bunny’s document; I made it a point to give that feedback to my attorney. It’s always nice to know that what you are doing is valued and appreciated. It was so well written that even one of the Bunny’s doctors mentioned she was going to go back to her own attorney and have hers redone!

Now, I have a pretty good sense of how a trust works and how someone’s wishes are played out in the real world… again, the conceptual versus the reality. My objectives are much clearer now, and what kind of impact I wish to have on my family and loved ones. Not just them, though; I want to have an impact on people in my life who I feel have had a significant impact in shaping the person I am today… that’s the cool thing about a trust: you can make it do whatever you want. When you hear about rich people “leaving their fortune to their cat” – that really does happen! Not that I am leaving my fortune to my cat, mind you. I have some more radical plans than that. But the most important epiphany I had when I was sitting in the attorney’s office the other day, is that when you sit down and plan a trust, when you plan what happens to all your stuff when you die, the trick is you have to do it from the perspective that you are going to die… tomorrow. Death doesn’t always come to you way down the road, “sometime in the future when I’m old and gray” – for some, it DOES come tomorrow. And you have to be prepared. You have to be ready.

There’s a saying in the life insurance business. It asks, “When’s the best time to buy life insurance?” The answer? “The day before you die.” How many things are left undone because people imagine there is an unlimited amount of time available, so it’s okay to procrastinate? Just like treating others with kindness, or holding the door open for someone, or taking the time to say “thank you.” Remembering that time is limited, remembering that you will die someday makes you appreciate what you have “in the here and now” all the more. At least it does for me. But, my typical disclaimer when I feel like I get too preachy: what do I know?

Every year, I’ll visit my attorney’s office, and look at my trust. Some things will change, some things will stay the same – to reflect changes in my life if I am lucky enough to still be here. I DO hope it’s long enough for me to find out if these vitamins really are doing for me what the marketing says they are doing… that would be a drag to be choking them down for nothing! But I have faith. And for all the rest, I have my trust.

What I Leave Behind

Today was Christopher’s “Senior Pictures” day at school… yesterday when I took him over to the salon to get his haircut, the hairdresser commented that I must “be proud that he made it” – I thought that was ironic, because he “hasn’t made it yet” – Christopher has a very long track record of abysmal grades; not for lack of ability, but rather a lack of motivation and focus.

He looked very handsome, very “adult” in his jacket, shirt & tie we bought a few days ago… when I saw him try the clothes on, I squealed and got all teary-eyed like any proud mom would do – Christopher’s response: Aww, Mom (as if to say C’mon! You are embarrassing me!). That’s the perks of being a mother, the privilege of causing embarrassment to your offspring. Like with anything else, those uncomfortable moments are important in order to build their character (my perception).

Christopher is like me in all the ways that count. I know this because I get feedback from those around me who interact with us on a regular basis. First and foremost, he’s got a big heart. His mother’s heart. Which clues me in? The kid needs a lot of love – my challenge, given my lack of developed ability to reveal the love I carry internally for him. Christopher is also extremely intelligent. He scores very high on testing; his grades suck because he doesn’t like to do homework. My friends tell me lots of people who have that experience in school are “bored, and once they go on to college or wherever, they end up being very successful.” So I have some hope for his future despite his crappy grades. He’s got a great sense of humor, and I am sensing he might also be empathetic – maybe not as severe as I seem to be – but I can tell when he goes out of his way to tell me something funny to pull a smile or laugh out of me. The other day in the car, Christopher tells me (out of the blue), “Mom, I like your smile.” Just like that. What 17-year old boy says something like that to his mother? I don’t really know, but I would be willing to bet it doesn’t happen all that often.

Because I have an “active and imaginative mind” I sometimes ponder what would have happened if it was me that had died instead of the Bunny. Truthfully, I always thought I would be the one to die first – the Bunny was very healthy (until that last year when he rode his motorcycle more than anything else); prior to that he would go on regular 50- or 100-mile bike rides, work out at the gym a few times a week, and try to eat right. He didn’t smoke or drink stuff much stronger than a few beers at a time – he got all of the “party” lifestyle out of his system way before he and I met, which was good for me. Timing really IS everything. I ponder that as well – had I met the Bunny earlier in his life (and mine), I would not have gotten involved with him. Or I would have gotten involved with him and sustained a lot of emotional damage. Funny how things turn out.

Me, on the other hand, have been diabetic for the last going on eighteen or so years – diabetes is a funny disease; if you manage it well (i.e. keep your blood sugars in control) it will force you to exist in a very healthy state. But it takes discipline. It takes… motivation and focus. So, in my case I have been very inconsistent with my diabetes management. I don’t fit the normal “diabetic person” profile (my perception) – I’m not overweight, and I’m on the young side (to be as severe a diabetic as I am - I take about three shots of insulin every day). I often think “this body is wasted on me” – in a physical and even emotional way. But again, that universe – knowing things I just don’t know and the reasons for why things are the way they are. But I digress!

If the Bunny were here right now, typing on HIS blog about how his life had changed because HIS beloved wife had died… what stories would he tell? Would losing his mom force Christopher to “grow up fast” and mature, propelling him into the thoughtful, caring, balanced, responsible adult I hope he becomes? Would the church be packed for my services? Would anybody care, or notice I was gone?

There’s a quote I came across some time ago, from a guy by the name of Abiodun Mabadeje, from Nigeria (I don’t know Mr. Mabadeje’s claim to fame otherwise, but this quote really caught my attention): “The way to live is to make your presence felt while you are present, so that when you are absent your absence will also be felt.” I interpret that to mean “live with intention” – don’t skate through life, just minding your own business and keeping yourself separate from everyone else. It means to “jump into the fray” with both feet, and once your feet touch down on the earth to keep on moving. Moving forward. Nowhere in that quote does it say, “Shirley, you must do everything right” or “Shirley, live your life for the approval of others”… just live, and make it count.

One last thing I’ve noticed in Christopher that’s only recently cropped up: a love for music and singing. He’s MY son – no doubt about it. My legacy. My mark. And when I eventually DO die… I leave ME behind – in him.

The people who affect us, literally “scar” us for life. Hopefully those scars are earned in honorable battles that we win.

Thought For The Week

Hot off the virtual communication network (aka "email")... a message relevant to life as of late - at least, MY life. Maybe yours too... (thanks Cousin Lisa!)

"The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude to me is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than success, than what other people think, say or do. It is more important than appearance, gift, or skill. It will make or break a company… a church... a home.

The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past… The only thing we can do is play on the string we have, and that is our attitude.

I am convinced that life is ten percent what happens to me and ninety percent how I react to it. And so it is with you…

We are in charge of our attitudes."

- Charles Swindoll

Letter To My Father

It’s Father’s Day; a day that has gone unacknowledged by me since I was a teenager. My childhood being what it was, I “ran away” from home when I turned 18 years old, and can count on one hand the times I came into contact with either of my parents. Since then my mother and father divorced, my mother dropped off the face of the planet as far as the rest of her family knows, and my father got remarried.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my major is Communications. I believe it’s in part because I grew up feeling like nobody understood me – least of all my family – kind of like being in a foreign country without a translator. You wander aimlessly around, unable to make the people understand even your most basic needs. VERY frustrating.

In reference to my dad, our relationship has been so estranged that my dad and stepmother never got the chance to meet the Bunny… the first time they saw him was when they visited him in the hospital last year, after he had the accident. I never really made much of an effort to have them be involved in my life, because frankly, I was so stinking happy and I was so used to pain and unhappiness whenever certain family members were involved – I just couldn’t bear to expose myself that way.

The pains I refer to aren’t the typical “My parents never bought me a $200 pair of sneakers” type of thing. I needed a lot of love as a child; trapped in an environment full of tension, verbal abuse, isolation… My dad, he was the “quiet” one. He balanced out my mom perfectly, because when she was going ballistic, he was silent. He remained physically and emotionally uninvolved – at least, that’s what I assumed based on his external actions. We never really know what’s going on in someone else’s head. For all I know, he was afraid too.

I called him today, to wish him “Happy Father’s Day”… my stepmother answered the phone – did I detect surprise in her voice? I’m sure that was me projecting, because unfortunately my stepmother has some (not all, but some) of the same personality characteristics as my mom – and handed the phone to my dad. It was the shortest conversation in history, maybe one minute or two? But for he and I, it seemed to last an eternity. He never says much to me, and I forced myself to sound “light” as if calling him on the phone, wishing him “Happy Father’s Day” or anything else was perfectly normal, something I did every week. I asked him how things were going (“Fine”) and if there was anything new (“No”)… I told him about Christopher learning to play the violin, and maybe when he learned his first actual song I would invite my dad to come listen to it.

Part of the problem (in my perception) is that my dad essentially has no idea of the adult I’ve become. How he relates to me, even now, is through the prism of viewing me as a child. As some confused teenager that doesn’t know shit, needs to be told what to do, and is subject to the influence of those more worldly, more experienced people around her. This is tragic because I am proud of the woman I’ve become, and I want to believe if my father really recognized that – really, really “saw” me as the person I am – that he would be proud too.

I haven’t the heart to judge him, either as a father or as a human being. He’s my dad, and despite the fact that I realize we may never see eye to eye or spend happy times together like other families do… I love him. And I think somewhere deep down, my dad loves me. But I am still in that foreign country without a translator.

Of all the messages I would want my dad to receive if it was within my power to communicate, I would tell him this:

“Dad, I know how hard it must have been for you, raising me and my brother. I’m a mom now too, and half the time I feel like I’m screwing up royally myself. I know what’s it like to do the best that you can with the circumstances you’ve got, and leave the rest to God that your kids turn out okay. Dad, I want you to know: I’m okay. I’m okay, and I’m living the life that I want, a life that makes me happy. Thank you for helping make me the person I am today. Everything in my own life, every positive thing that I do that impacts someone else, you get to take credit for because without you… I would not exist.

I love you always. Your daughter, Shirley.”

Mental Gymnastics

It was a surprisingly good Friday after what turned out to be a highly emotional week; full of dramatic events that – as usual – I find myself directly involved in. In fact, just a small percentage of those events were instigated by me, but the ones that WERE caused these massive ripples, like when you throw a stone into the center of a very calm, very still body of water. Some of those ripples seem to go on forever, getting bigger and bigger, covering a wider and wider area, until pretty soon that very calm, very still body of water is in chaos; alive with the movement, and disruption.

In the course of my work I make a lot of phone calls; this morning’s agenda was fairly light as I realized that I felt so emotionally drained I couldn’t face the challenge of overcoming strangers’ natural objections to speaking with a salesperson when one happens to call. I have a good record on the phone; I have a very soothing phone voice, I’m very quick in establishing rapport, and I know just how many questions I can ask before I push my prospect over the edge into annoyance or irritation. Being empathetic comes with its perks, and in a sales career I find it an absolute requirement in order to do my job, and do that job well.

It’s close to noon and I leave the office to meet a friend for lunch a few cities away. Driving down the main street on my way to the freeway, all of a sudden I see brake lights in front of me. I slow down, and notice that all three lanes of traffic are merging into the farthest right lane. Now, I’m in a hurry, but not so much in a hurry that I’m enraged by the delay (that does happen, but not today). I signal, look in my rearview mirror to make sure the guy behind me is paying attention, I inch over to the right, very, very slowly… the minutes trickle by like beads of sweat rolling down your face on a hot summer day. But I’m thinking, you know, it’s cool.. it’s Friday, I’ll get there when I get there… if it’s a few minutes late, no big deal.

Finally my car brings me close enough to see what’s going on. Two police cars with flashing blue and red lights, an ambulance facing the opposite direction of my flow of traffic, a car off to the side. These vehicles register in my peripheral, it adds to the information my mind is collecting automatically, filling in the blanks: Brake lights. Traffic. (processing: Shirley, you need to slow down) Merging to the right. Signaling. (processing: Shirley, you need to watch these other drivers so you don’t hit anyone and nobody hits you) More merging. Glancing behind. More signaling. More merging….

… And then I’m driving by the accident itself. The only thing that my eyes focus on – and that my mind immediately registers and processes, literally a split-second – is a motorcycle lying on its side: a cruiser. I feel this jolt; a physical reaction throughout my entire body. I remember feeling uneasy, and I looked all around the bike as I crawled by in my car… no body. I did not see a body. I think if I had, I would have vomited right there, in my car.

The mind is a strange and mysterious thing. Everything we see with our eyes sets into motion a corresponding chaos in our brains – just like those ripples that get bigger and bigger – the movement in mine is a movie on fast-forward: the phone call from the hospital that my husband was involved in an accident. I was at home watching “True Blood” at the time (I have not watched an episode of “True Blood” since that night). Seeing him in the hospital, three weeks in intensive care. Looking like he was sleeping. All these machines hooked up, beeping noises, nurses coming in, checking his vitals, hanging up a fresh bag of blood.. Bunny, wake up… wake UP! Quit messing around – you’ve had your fun. This is really a sucky thing to do to me… really, enough is enough. And the disruption… Shirley, he’s gone. He’s dead – he died back in December. He’s gone.

At the time this all actually happened, as I was driving to meet my friend for lunch, I managed to cut off my emotional response to these thoughts whizzing and crashing through my brain. How would it be for me to show up a blubbering mess… I hate for my friends to worry too much about me. But, now, alone in my house, just my laptop, me, and my thoughts – I mourn my loss. I’ve lost plenty of things – valuable things – in my life, you would think I would be desensitized to it by now. But each new loss connects itself to the pain of everything I’ve experienced in the past. That’s how unintentionally cruel a person’s mind can be. Mine, particularly so.

My cat Eezma is sitting on the floor in the corner of my office… she’s been hanging out in this same spot for the last week or so that I’ve noticed; she isn’t acting like she normally does – just sitting there, staring off into the distance or with her eyes closed – a thought jumps into my head: She’s getting old (I do a quick mental calculation: almost 10 years old). The next thought: How long do cats live? She’s going to die someday too… I cut off my emotional response before my mind can connect back to my most recent death experience, that one from December.

I listen to the sounds coming out of my living room – my son’s first violin lesson. His teacher, Rob, is explaining the proper way to hold the violin. I hear Christopher play a few notes… and my mind jumps forward to seeing Christopher play the violin in a concert – somewhere, sometime. And I am reminded again that I am alive, and that each day brings with it something new to learn. Some unexpected adventure. I’m not quite done yet… I’M. STILL. ALIVE. And I gotta keep moving.

The Victoria's Secret Story

So, I think you are going to laugh when you read this story; everyone laughs when I tell it to them in real life! In order to tell you the REAL “Victoria’s Secret Story” I have to tell you another story first (for background). Some years ago when the Bunny and I first got together and I started to get acquainted with his family, I became fast friends with Jessica, his favorite niece – okay, I call Jessica “his favorite niece” because I know the Bunny was “her favorite uncle”… anyway! Jessica and I became friends.

It is a well-known fact – and a childhood pal I recently met for drinks also can attest to this – that I have never been very skilled in dressing myself. No, I can handle matching the same color socks; but I’m just not good at picking out clothes that accentuate my body type. That make me LOOK good. This is carry-over from my self-image problems which were burned into my poor fragile psyche from back in my formative years. So one day Jessica tells me “C’mon – I’m taking you shopping.” We head over to Kohl’s, one of my favorite clothing stores.

So, Jessica rolls up her sleeves, spits in her hands and rubs them together (no, I’m kidding, but I’m trying to give you the right mental picture) and surveys the racks of clothes with a practiced, knowing look in her eye. I make sure to tell her my pants size: 12. She looks at me with this skeptical expression and says, “You do NOT wear size 12!” I insist. “Jessica, really.. I wear size 12.” Now, in her head Jessica is thinking HELL NO you don’t wear size 12 you big DUMMY! But, she doesn’t comment aloud. “Okay,” she says, and she begins to roam around the store, selecting potentially cute outfits for me to try on – pants size 12.

We go to the fitting room. I try on my first pair of pants. I come out to model them for her, and she stands with her weight on one foot, chin in one of her hands, one eyebrow raised, checking me out from top to bottom. I turn around in circles so she can get the full view. Finally, after some minutes of silence, Jessica says, “Hmm. I don’t know… they just don’t LOOK right! Let me try something.”

She leaves and comes back with the same pair of pants, size 10. Her face says “humor me” and she hands the pants to me, saying, “Let’s see how these look on you.” I try on the size 10, come out, model, spin – just like before. That look is still there, the one that says “Hmmm… doesn’t look right.” She goes back and returns with a size 8.

By the time we left Kohl’s, I was wearing SIZE 4 PANTS. W.. T… F!! I couldn’t believe it. My brain could not process that my real pants size was NOT size 12. I had worn between size 10 and size 12 pants sizes all of my life. Needless to say, we got home that day and the Bunny was tickled, the fact that when his wife left that morning she wore size 12 pants, and a few hours later she came home wearing size 4 pants. Doh!

So here’s the Victoria’s Secret Story: Recently I had reason to go out and buy a strapless bra. I don’t own a strapless bra, but I bought a strapless dress to take a special photograph (subject of a future blog post) so I called upon my “official dresser” – Jessica! Time to go shopping! On a mission, I think we started at Macy’s – I forget why we started there, but we go to the bra section and talk to the salesgirl about the bra I am looking for. Again, I tell her my size: “I usually wear between 36 – 38, cup size B or C, depending on the bra.” The salesgirl looks at me, then looks down at the ladies, then looks back at me and says, “No, you are at least a D – maybe double D.” What do I do, I get mad. “I am NOT a double D! I am a C or a B!!” Fuck! These people don’t know SHIT! Anyway, so the salesgirl has me try on a 32 D – the “32” part was too tight. NOT comfortable. So Jessica makes an executive decision: let’s go to Victoria’s Secret, they will measure you properly there (after all, they ARE strictly a lingerie store).

At Victoria’s Secret, the salesgirl comes up and whips out her measuring tape. She reaches behind me, and first measures me underneath my arms and under the ladies, looks at the number, then she glances at the ladies themselves and looks at us both: “Oh, you’re a size 34 D.” Again, I get mad. “That CAN’T be right! I’ve ALWAYS worn a C cup!” Jessica tries to break the news to me.. then you’ve been wearing the wrong size bra all of this time. We go over to the dressing room where another salesgirl is standing in front of this cabinet - the cabinet holds a bunch of bras in different sizes, for 'trying on' purposes. (An aside: for all you women out there, if you have never shopped at Victoria’s Secret before, you MUST go buy a bra there at least once – it is a truly amazing experience. And you might find out you’ve been wearing the wrong size bra all your life.) The first salesgirl (the one that did the measuring) tells the one standing by the cabinet: “This lady needs a size 34 D.” I interrupt, “No, I’m sure it’s a C, not a D. Could you please give me 34 C?” She acquiesces to my request. I go into the changing room, and try on the first size 34 C bra. It looks awful.. the ladies are spilling out all over the sides. Yuck. I open the door and get the salesgirl’s attention. She comes over.

I point to all the spillage. “Why is this happening here?” She answers me in a matter-of-fact voice, “Because you are wearing the wrong cup size.” Dammit! DOUBLE D DAMMIT!!! I give up. I surrender. Okay, bring me the 34 D. Back in the changing room, I put on the bra, size 34 D… W.. T… F!! I cannot describe to all the men out there the wonderful feeling of wearing a bra that actually fits properly - but the women all probably know what I'm talking about. It was FRIGGING awesome. I grudgingly admitted I was, in fact, a size 34 D.

Now you know why people laugh when I tell this story. Nobody understands why having cup size D boobs would be upsetting to me. In my head, big boobs mean I’m a “bimbo.” I don’t WANT to be a bimbo. I certainly don’t want to attract people for the way I look – I want them to be attracted to me for ME.. because I’m smart, and I’m funny, and I have a good heart, and because I love animals, I’m low-maintenance, I’m a great cook, I’m fun to hang out with, etc. A good friend pointed out to me recently, “Shirley, you have to consider that maybe people ARE attracted to you for all those things. You have all of those qualities, AND you’re a size D.” Hmmmm. I guess that’s possible. Maybe. But I still watch pretty carefully when I meet new guys – if the eyes linger a little too long on the ladies, I know it’s not going to work out.

It does put a smile on my face to imagine what the Bunny would have said when I came home that day and he would have found out his wife was now a size D. No breast enlargement required! Just fifty bucks for a new bra; a bra in the right size. Who woulda thunk it.