imperfectbalancelife-blog

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Retire? Yeah, right.

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Hatred - Why?

I take it very personally when people say they don’t have time for others. I take it personally for me. I take it personally for other people. Because here's the truth: if you won’t (and yes, I said won’t, not can’t) take time to treat someone with basic humanity, then maybe you're in the wrong place. Whether that's a job or a relationship, it might be time to take a long, hard look at your life and ask yourself what kind of person you are — and what kind of person you’re becoming.

I’m exhausted by all the hatred being thrown around, from every direction. Is this where we are as a society now? Is this the future we’re headed toward? Honestly, this is part of why I’ve drastically pulled back from social media. My time and energy are limited like everyone else’s, and I have to make tough decisions about where I invest myself.

But here's the thing: I won't lose the part of me that's human. Caring. Empathetic. Kind. I’d rather cut off my hand than let that go — though I know that’s not something I’d have to do in 2025. But it’s worth mentioning because sometimes the world feels so… cold.

I just wish we could do better. My heart aches for those who choose to be contrary — they’re hurting, just like the rest of us. My hope is they’ll find a better way to cope.

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Sometimes you gotta love yourself first. And laugh when you can.

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Let's celebrate some wins together!!

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Aria? I really like it. What do you think?

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I must say, I love this so much!

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Lessons from a serial killer (sort of)

I've always been fiercely independent. Like, MacGyver-meets-Beyoncé-with-a-hot-glue-gun independent. I learned early on that if something needed to get done, it was probably up to me. Parents? Absent. Mentors? Rotating cast of questionable influence. Life coaches? Unless you count the inside of a Snapple cap, none.

Over the years, people have floated in and out of my life like poorly written guest stars in a long-running drama. And while I’ve met kind people, helpful people, and even slightly magical Trader Joe’s cashiers, I can’t say anyone ever had a truly significant positive impact on me.

Why? Because I’m allergic to imperfection. I was raised on a strict diet of internalized perfectionism and emotional bootstraps. So if someone dared to inspire me but also forgot to return a text or used Comic Sans unironically, they were out. No one, and I mean no one, ever lived up to the impossibly high standard I held for myself—and by extension, everyone else.

So, naturally, I became my own role model. Pathetic? Maybe. Efficient? Absolutely.

But then… enter Dexter.

Yes, that Dexter. The guy with a secret nighttime hobby that involves plastic wrap and murder—but also, a day job and a disturbingly well-balanced routine. Don’t worry, I’m not about to go vigilante. My version of going rogue is ignoring emails for an hour. But what caught my attention wasn’t his extracurricular activities—it was his attitude.

By day, Dexter is chill. Zen. Cool as a corpse (too soon?). One coworker in particular hates his guts—and not in a cute “rivalry makes the workplace spicy” way. This guy follows him, harasses him, practically breathes down his neck trying to expose something. Meanwhile, Dexter just… shrugs. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t retaliate. He doesn’t even vent about it on Reddit. He just lets it roll off.

I was shook.

Because if someone so clearly unstable (and let’s not forget, deeply homicidal) can master the art of emotional detachment, then maybe—just maybe—I can stop having full mental breakdowns when someone corrects me on how to pronounce “acai.”

It hit me: I spend so much of my energy reacting. Fuming. Replaying conversations. Holding grudges like I’m getting paid. All because when someone critiques me, it feels like confirmation that I’m not perfect—and if I’m not perfect, then what am I even doing here?

But Dexter? He knows it’s not about him. That coworker isn’t obsessed because Dexter is flawed—he’s obsessed because he’s insecure. It’s classic bully behavior. And instead of getting riled up, Dexter conserves his energy for the things that really matter—like, you know, murder. (Again, not my thing. I’m more of a couch-and-snack kind of person.)

So while I’m not taking up Dexter’s entire lifestyle, I am borrowing a page from his playbook. I’m learning to let things go. To save my mental energy for things that actually deserve it. To stop trying to prove I’m perfect and instead be okay with being human. (Maybe not Dexter human, but… you get the idea.)

So here’s to calm. Here’s to detachment. Here’s to the weirdest, most unexpected role model I never asked for but probably needed. And if I ever get harassed by a coworker again, I’ll channel my inner Dexter.

Minus the knives

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"Big tree fall hard” – A grandparent’s tale of love, luck, and bug spray.

Holy Lord, y’all. If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. Seriously. This morning’s headline reads: “Woman vs. Toddler Oil Slick — Gravity Wins.”

Let me set the scene. I am blessed beyond measure. Three beautiful grandbabies call me theirs, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. I. Am. Blessed. But let me tell you something about living with a toddler: it’s not for the faint of heart, nor the weak of bottoms.

There’s a certain 3-year-old in this house who wakes up before the roosters, before the sun, and apparently, before his common sense kicks in. This morning, while the rest of us were blissfully unaware, dreaming dreams of bacon and coffee, he was downstairs on a solo mission. His tool of choice? A full bottle of bug repellent. His canvas? The tile floor at the base of the stairs.

Now enter me: chipper, unsuspecting, and on the hunt for breakfast. I come bouncing down the steps like I’m in a Folgers commercial, only to meet my match at the bottom — a surprise oil slick courtesy of my favorite little agent of chaos.

Let me tell you, big tree fall hard. There was no grace. No slowing down. Just a cartoon-style slip, a flail, and a WHAM! right on my tailbone. If there’d been sound effects, it would’ve been a Batman fight scene — BAM! POW! THWACK!

As I sit (well, lay) here writing this, I’m icing my butt and reflecting on life. Mainly wondering how I went from “I’m gonna grab a muffin” to “I might need a chiropractor and a new floor policy.” At my age and size, this kind of fall is not cute. Not even a little.

And yet… I’m grateful. I’m grateful that my sweet boy didn’t try to drink the bug spray (praise hands). I’m grateful for the giggles he brings, even when I’m wincing in pain. And I’m grateful that this forced rest may have been the universe’s very slippery way of telling me to slow down.

So here I am, grounded — quite literally — reflecting on the chaotic joy that is grandparenthood. Living with a toddler is a full-contact sport, and I’m gonna need an ice pack, a prayer, and possibly some bubble wrap. But I wouldn’t change a thing… except maybe the floor’s new “shimmering bug-proof finish.”

Stay safe out there, folks. Watch your step. And hide the bug spray.