Romantic Times And Pepitas

I haven’t blogged in a while because, well, life happens. Also, I’ve been bloated.

That last thing isn’t really important.

Life has been crazywonderfulpainfulbeautiful. Every day. I’m narrating great books (GOOD BOY by Sarina Bowen and Elle Kennedy is coming up, books by Susan Mallery, and maybe/hopefully/pleasegodyes the new Rizzoli & Isles book by Tess Gerritsen). I’m writing a book, and gearing up to take Blunder Woman Productions all the way to 11.

 

 

 

And on Tuesday, I head out with my dear friend and colleague Amy McFadden for some Romantic Times. I mean, we’re GOING to the Romantic Times convention and meeting a bunch of narrators. I’m panicking, because, bloated.

I’d had mad plans not to be bloated. I started a diet again in January. I tried shakes and smoothies. They made me gag. Like that embarrassing kind of dry heaving. I’m really a sensitive flower, see.

Then I went gluten free. I lasted two weeks before I wanted to crush everyone’s dreams in between my palms and laugh.

Maniacally.

If a diet is making you evil, it’s probably a sign it’s not a good fit.

Then I tried to count calories but I got so obsessed by it I ended up crying over an arugula salad that was sprinkled with pepitas. There were too many pepitas. I didn't have enough calories left to eat all the pepitas! Imagine me, sobbing, saying “Pepitas!” with a sense of loss over and over.

 It wasn’t pretty.

Then I said “Fuck it” and ate enough pasta and bread that I started talking with an Italian accent. Not a pretty Italian accent. Oh noooooo. A MOB Italian accent. 

 

See? Bloated.

Here’s the thing. I’ve got to get over this. I don’t look like I’m twenty anymore. When I was twenty I was super poor and unhappy and I also had bangs.

It wasn’t a good look for me.

Now, I look like who I am: a mom, a wife, a sometimes anxiety ridden goofball. I’ve got to just breathe through it and hope that when others look at me, they’ll see the parts that matter.

Not the person crying over pepitas.

The other person.

The narrator. The writer. The sometimes-enlightened-being who blushes when she drinks a glass of wine. The deep thinker and feeler. The sometimes whisperer because things sound creepy when you whisper. 

I think, maybe, I’m not alone in this. If you see me at RT, give me a wink. I’ll know we’re kindred spirits in this march toward trying-to-be-okay-with-who-you-are-now, and not worry so much about who-you-thought-you’d-be.

I don’t actually know who-I-thought-I’d-be at this point. My Dream Tanya just wanted to eat fancy cheese and write poetry, so, I guess, I’m actually not too far from living the dream.