I used to try to lie on the eye tests that were given at school, but this never worked–my eyesight was always deemed fine and I never got the cool purple-framed glasses for which I longed.  As an adult, thankfully, my longing for glasses went away, although I suppose this blog is proof that the ‘longing for attention’ thing never really did. O.o

About a year ago, I started noticing that companies began printing can labels in a much smaller font, and that the only way I could read them was to hold them at arm’s length from my body.  Squinting also made them legible.  Soon, I noticed my bedside light must have been broken, since reading in bed became next to impossible, as the text was too blurry to see.

One day, a friend casually remarked, “Hey, did you notice that you squint a lot?  I think you should get your eyes checked.”  I became indignant:  “Nahhhh, not me!  My eyes are fine!”  After about six more months of squinting and holding things at arm’s length, I did a little research and discovered that vision changes at 40 are common and that many people (even those who’ve never had vision problems) at that age begin to require reading glasses.  I filed that away, but continued to struggle and refuse to admit I needed glasses.

Fast forward to this past Christmas, when a girlfriend who is my age came over to wrap presents.  She had her readers atop her head and tossed them to me to try.  As soon as I put them on, well, it was a miracle.  There was no denying any longer that I need reading glasses.  I’m 41, still feel like I’m 18, but facts are facts:  I’m old and it’s all downhill from here.

If I’m being honest, I think they’re kind of cute!  Yay, I finally got my glasses!

Don't I look smarter already?

My heart is whistling so it can pretend it’s not afraid.

At the end of it all, once I am through the misery and the suffering, when I have strangled the lies of the way things were, quieted the obsessive drone in the brain that says Him, Him, Him and uncovered the hiding places of The Ways In Which He Actually Sucked, I find myself.  Myself, again.  Faithfully intact, with a heart that is still honest and unafraid.

“Let’s do this shit again,” my heart says.

I was assigned to Headquarters Company, 122nd Signal Battalion in Tong Du Cheon, South Korea.  The ratio of male to female was so lopsided that upon my initial arrival, I was extremely guarded, and used my ‘marriage’ as a shield to protect me from the  persistent male attention (and mind you, I’m not saying I was or am a great beauty; At 75-1 odds, a  woman need only have a vagina to be considered the hottest little thing in combat boots).

I was lonely in South Korea.  Many, if not most, soldiers are.  I took university-level classes on base when I could.  I can’t remember the class I took that required me to find a tutor, but knowing myself it was math of some kind.  My tutor was a guy in my unit–handsome, athletic, older than me, and absolutely the most forceful, stubborn, and commanding man I’d ever met.

He thrilled me and frightened me in equal measures.  I was young and did not yet know well who I was or would be.  I fell for him and we began an exciting, albeit brief, affair. Perhaps due to his poor childhood, he was not an affectionate or emotionally-giving man.  In some ways, he was very hard on my self-esteem and confidence.  I mostly felt  unsure of myself when I was with him–unattractive, unworldly, average.  Looking back, I can see he was not the first and would not be the last in a series of emotionally-stunted men with whom I would choose to become involved.

He left Korea and the service a few months later, and I was distraught.  I believed myself to be in love with him, so when he chose never to write or try to maintain contact with me, it  hurt.  I thought I would never get over him.

Of course I did, and of course I moved on.  Initially, within the first year, I’d say, we kept sporadically in touch (my doing).  We lost touch again until around 1999, whereupon with the growth of the internet, we reconnected briefly.  I was at the end of a long term relationship, restless, and doing that ‘reminiscing about exes’ thing that can be so dangerous.  They say hindsight is 20/20, but historically my bad memories of exes tend to fade, leaving only the positive things I remember.

Our rekindled friendship didn’t last long–we were both years older, living our own lives, and the extreme differences in our personalities that had been masked by my youth were now glaringly apparent.  We seemed light-years apart in our world views and our long distance conversations were fraught with tension.  On the phone, I said something that pissed him off, he hung up, and I never heard from him again.

Until this comment that he left on my blog last August, which I did not see until I logged back into this site a couple of weeks ago:

Well, well.

Here you are. How’s the 3rd largest contingent of anti-American sentiment treating you these days? It must assuredly be “paradise.”

I see you’re still globe-trotting in your quest for life’s answers. You needn’t look very far; yet some people seem to thrive on the search while forgetting the original motivation behind it.

Have a margarita on me.

From the moment I read this, it rubbed me the wrong way, and I have been stewing about it.  I will admit that I have thought of him over the years, and fondly.  I assume he has lived a full and interesting life, maybe gotten married, worked in a career he enjoys, maybe has children.  I presume he has been able to conquer whatever his demons were and has made a happy life for himself.  At least, I have always hoped that he has.

And yet, in just a quick couple of sentences he dashed off-the-cuff, he seems to belittle my life and my choices, without really knowing anything about me or what my life has been like.  The quotation marks around the word “paradise.”  The snide remarks about globetrotting while forgetting original motivation–what exactly is that all about?

What I can’t understand is why he bothered.  I realize it’s not too hard to find me with a google search–I am an open book, after all, but he did have to go to some effort to locate me.  But if this is how he feels about me, why comment at all?  And publicly, rather than sending a private email (and there was no valid email for me to respond privately)?

It felt like a drive-by shooting, if you want to know the truth.

At the same time, I have been happier at times than I’ve remembered ever being–I think what this all boils down to is that I am fully aware of living for maybe the first time in my life.  Happy or sad, I’m aware that this is it, the one chance I get.

A lot has happened to me in the last couple of years–things I never told you.  I fell in love–to an infinite degree that crushed me when the relationship didn’t work out.  I am still gluing the little pieces of my  heart back together, but I am encouraged that I could feel that way again.  I thought maybe I never would, but now I know I could and will again.

When my domain for this blog expired this past October, I hadn’t written a blog since late June of 2010.  I hadn’t even logged in to check for comments.  Without hesitation, I renewed the domain even though I had no idea when or if I would ever feel like blogging again; I see this now as an act of good faith I showed toward myself.  I did not berate myself or lay on a guilt trip, I just said, “Ok, you’re renewed for a year.  Write when you feel like it, kid.”

I feel like it again.  I will be back.

I didn’t want to blog about it for a number of reasons.  First, I didn’t want to scare people who love me.  Second, with a fledgling business, I did not want to alienate potential or current clients who might stumble across this blog and not want to work with me.  Although I have always done what I can to keep my professional life OFF this blog, I’m not obtuse enough not to know how easy it is to find me with a google search.  Finally, the worthlessness and despair I felt was so complete as to render any attempts at trying to make sense of it moot, and I could not then and still cannot find the words to describe how bad I felt.

Long time readers of this blog already know that in the last year, I’ve made a number of major life changes, with extremely positive results.  I am, and have been for almost a year, the happiest I have ever been.  While I still struggle from time to time with depression, I recognize the signs now and can quickly mend the things that are amiss and change my thought patterns to feel better.  Recently, it occurred to me that for the first time in my life, I know myself to be a happy person who sometimes gets sad, and not a sad person who is only occasionally happy.  The incredibly positive change this self-realization has effected in my life cannot be overstated.

All of this said, in the last month I have struggled mightily with insomnia, which for me is often a precursor to slipping into a depression.  Several nights ago, when it was five am and I still had not been able to close my eyes without being visited by the Shrieking Weasels of Impending Doom, I decided to do some research on a life-affirming movement I’d heard about a few years ago:  The Free Hugs Campaign.

In 2004, a man who identifies himself as Juan Mann found himself in his hometown of Sydney, Australia, after a number of years living in another country.  He arrived back “home” with only a suitcase of clothes, a world of cares, and a sense of disconnection with the life he’d once lived there.  Landing at the airport with no one to greet him, he found himself looking longingly at other travelers around him who were laughing and hugging their arriving loved ones.  He wished  he had someone to hug him.

In this moment of isolation and despair was born a revolutionary idea.  Juan Mann “set up shop” in a busy Sydney outdoor mall, holding aloft a large, hand-lettered sign that said “FREE HUGS.”  Then he just waited for someone to take him up on his offer.  At first, people laughed at him, stared, and whispered.  Eventually, an older woman came up, told him she was having a terrible day as her dog had just died that morning, on the first anniversary of her daughter’s death.  She needed a hug, and Juan had a hug to give.  It didn’t take long for others to follow suit, and naturally such a subversive idea (What??  You’re not selling anything?  There’s no catch, just a free hug?) caught people’s attention.

A local band, Sick Puppies, was moved by Juan’s mission and presented him with a video they’d made of his Free Hug footage set to one of their songs.  This video became an internet sensation, spawning Free Hug Campaigns in dozens of countries all over the world.

Here you can watch the “original” Free Hugs video:

And here is one of my favorites of the “copycat” Free Hugs Campaigns, in New York City:

What does all of this have to do with me and my story of depression?  Perhaps nothing more than an epiphany that we are all more alike than we are different, and that it is vitally important that we connect with each other and help each other get through lives that can at times be difficult, lonely, or filled with hopelessness.  We must be there for one another both in sadness and in joy.

Every year, International Free Hugs Day is held on the first Saturday in July.  This year, it is July 3, which is incidentally the day before my 6 year anniversary of living in Mexico.  I will be showing my gratitude and love for my adopted country by participating in Free Hugs Day in Playa del Carmen on July 3, offering free hugs to Mexican locals, ex-pats, and international tourists alike.

I would love it if some of my friends would join me, but if they won’t, I will go it alone.  If you can’t be in Playa del Carmen on July 3, consider participating in the Free Hugs Campaign in your own town.

Anyone from Cancun, Playa del Carmen, or Tulum (or anywhere in the area!) who’d like to give out some free hugs with me on July 3 can contact me via this website.  My email address is under the “About Me” tab.

I looked down toward the beach in front of the neighbor’s house and saw four fully naked, attractive young women laughing their fake laughter and building a giant sand penis.  Then I saw one older, unattractive bald man FILMING them. 

I admit, I couldn’t help watching.  The scene was just bizarre…first, it has been unseasonably cold here, and this day was no exception.  The sun was out, but STILL, it was far too chilly for full on nakedness. Second, while Tulum attracts the nudies and the hippies, this scene was just so unnatural and forced that it stood out much more than seeing some random crunchy-granola hairy man walking down the beach. 

As I went back to my work, two of the women were hugging up on the unattractive man, giggling and running their french-manicured acrylics up and down his chest.  My imagination portrays this man as a wealthy old perv with a skewed sense of the sexy from many years of watching porn, but I admit my own bias has the heaviest hand in painting that portrait.   I’m not averse to pornography and think it has its place in a healthy sex life, but prefer scenes that feature people who look like people engaging in relatively  normal activities.  Not, say, four naked women building a giant sand penis while a man old enough to be their father films them.  But that’s me. 

One thing is certain, I’ve never seen anything this interesting in Playa del Carmen.  I don’t know if they were all staying in the rental home next door, but at 2am, there was a lot of shouting and slamming of doors over there.  Trouble in paradise?

When I saw the photos we took of our wine/Almond Joy/gummi bear/Hershey’s bacchanalia, I couldn’t help but think that these photos would show all of our Three Legged Race sponsors just what an Olympics-quality team they’re standing behind.

For anyone considering sponsoring us, don’t miss your chance to win a date with these chicas by being the highest individual donor; they truly know how to have a good time.  Our friend Maureen saw these photos and said we remind her of Lucy and Ethel.  That was one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever gotten…Sara and I crack each other up.

I don’t feeeel so good.

I’m not sleeping, I’m just resting my eyes.

Do we have anything in our teeth?

If you’d like to sponsor our team and raise money for Firemen who desperately need you, please donate by going to www.PayPal.com and clicking on the link that says “send money.” Then just follow the prompts to donate directly to us by using the following email address:

info@caribesunrise.com

Please be sure to write in your comments/subject line “Three Legged Race.” We will keep you updated with donation totals.

For further information or to register your team please call: 984-135-1233 or e-mail:

kegsbar@hotmail.com

We are also taking business/corporate sponsors!!  Contact us at info@caribesunrise.com or editor@playamayanews.com if you’d like to be mentioned on Playa Maya News, Playa.info, and Heather in Paradise!!

Ok, so Ima talk about my period and blood and female shit, so if you’re a squeamish “man” who’s too chicken to buy tampons for your girlfriend then you better check out now. Consider your sackless asses warned.

Now, for the rest of you…Look into my eyes…you are getting very, very sleepy…

I am slightly embarrassed to mention that my period took me by surprise at the Labor Day picnic I attended in Chicago this past September. Let me remind you all that I am 38 years old. Since I’ve only been getting my period every month for the last 25 years (that’s 300 chances to get it right, for those of you not standing by with calculators), it’s only natural and totally forgivable that I was not prepared and had to avail myself of the International Lady-Emergency Hotline to get straight (Martina to Katie to Heather and…SCORE!! And the crowd goes wild!!).

After 25 years of monthly spontaneous bloodletting, one might think that sooner or later one would start to run out of blood and that the “end” years of the Bleeding Game would result in fainter and fainter episodes of cramping and clotting. That over time, the quantity of flowage would be directly proportionate to the ever-lessening quantity of wishful eggs-to-be-released. That my PMS would infinitesimally dissipate and my menstrual discomfort slowly, but surely grind to a complete stop, to the strains of creepy organ music distortedly unwinding in a slow motion Merry-Go-Round nightmare.

But no. That’s not how it has been for me. I’m starting to think that Mother Nature, She’s got it out for me big time. I’m pretty sure that vindictive bitch wants me to give birth and She hasn’t exactly been a shrinking violet in letting me know it, increasingly making my periods heavier, longer, and harder to endure than ever. My period used to be a gentle little procreation reminder each month, a charming Victorian glove slap saying, You cad, you are wasting our time, but now it’s a back-alley beat down that practically leaves me in traction and only able to communicate by blinking. If I’m found soon in the bottom of a lake, handless and with my feet sunk into cement, you’ll know that only my childlessness is to blame, and Mother Nature is the culprit.

Because I’m the faithless traitor. The one rejecting Her simple fertility demands, the careless slut reaping all the benefits of sex with none of the penalties. The mocking vixen sitting motionless, watching all her freely-given figs wither on the branch.

And I have to admit, She’s starting to get to me. I feel like a POW caving under torture, giving not only my name, rank, and serial number, but also top-secret information that will breach every security device I’ve installed over the years to protect myself from motherhood.

After all, as my family and friends can attest, I have always loved kids, especially babies (sweet Christ, I could eat babies for breakfast every single day of my life and never tire of them). I met my friend Keersten’s new baby a few weeks ago and had to be physically restrained from swallowing little Elsa whole, booties and all.

When I met M. over 8 years ago, he made it very clear from the absolute start that he unequivocally did NOT want children. And in my not-quite-30-year-old-and-attitudinal state, I thought, “So fucking what, buddy? What makes you think I even WANT to have a kid, sheesh! And even if I did, what in the hell makes you think you’re such a great catch?!” (Ah, how quaint the beginnings of long relationships look through a telescope.)

I have been truly ambivalent about it for many years, unsure whether or not I should or should not have children. Struggling with massive self-centeredness and feeling unequal to the monumental task of raising a well-adjusted little person. Knowing that if I DID decide that I wanted to be a mother that it would mean leaving behind someone I love and disrupting my entire life.

Something that bothers me is this: Any idiot can have kids. The dopes, they’re not sitting home worrying about overpopulation or the sort of psychological damage they’ll inevitably inflict upon their children. They’re just out there breeding indiscriminately, instilling in their kids the same fucked-upedness that threatens to end our planet. It’s the people like me, people like my friends, people like you, who value education, the arts, critical thinking, who shun racism and homophobia and sexism and lots of other –isms, we’re the ones who NEED to be having babies. And I feel in some ways that my refusal to do so (and my friends’ refusal to do so; I have few friends with children) is a real dereliction of duty, a lazy shirking of responsibility to our race.

I thought I’d left this battle behind for good, consoling myself with the fact that there are LOTS of ways for me to have kids in my life without having to mother them, should I decide in the future that I need more shortie time. I am still of the belief that in the unlikely event I should decide to mother, I will opt for non-biological motherhood, since I get overwhelmed and sad thinking about the amazing number of existing kids who need parents, but don’t have them. I don’t have to squeeze a kid out of my vag to love it fiercely enough to kill anyone who tried to hurt it. My nephew and niece are living testaments to the truth of that sentiment.

Until recently, this has only been a philosophical dilemma, but lately I’ve been feeling like I’m engaged in an all-out monthly war game: Brutal, hand-to-hand combat with my own body. It’s pretty apparent to me that at this late date, neither one of us is going down without a fight.

I want to sincerely, deeply, from the bottom of my shriveled little black heart thank all of you who have checked in every day to be faced with nothing new, to you who have written me a note of encouragement or sent me an email or a text.  Under the bell jar, not much sound gets through, but from time to time the noise made is just raucous enough to break the seal.  I think I’m back.  I think I’m on my way back.  I’m sleeping, anyway.

While I was underwater, this blog quietly slipped over 100,000 hits.  Amazing, that.  So I thought it might be thoughtful for me to put together a page of what might be considered my “greatest hits to date.” So that anyone stumbling across my blog wouldn’t have to wade through as much crap as you have all had to.

I have a few particular blogs of mine that I think might be “winners” in that they generated the most comments.  I also have one or maybe two that I think are actually decent writing.  But ultimately I believe that you are the judges.  You tell me your favorites of the blogs I’ve subjected you to over this past year.  I’ll put them together on a little page, it will be like Heather in Paradise Cliff Notes for the lazy student.

As soon as my computer is saved, the new blog will be posted.  Thank you for bearing with me.  I will try not to leave you again, I promise.  Because when you’re gone, I miss you.