For one or two days out of every year I have to wear a suit to work.  This is one of those days.  I hate it.  I can’t stand wearing suits.  I feel like I’m at my own open-casket funeral.  I don’t mind tuxes, in fact I quite enjoy wearing my tux.  I think a man in a tux is just about irresistible.  And most men look pretty darn good in a suit.  I just hate wearing one.  They are itchy and stuffy and blah.

I own two suits.  The first one is now a museum piece, as I had a small waist when I first bought few years ago.  Days gone by, my friends, days gone by.  The second is a chunky dark gray suit that looks like it was taken right out of The Sopranos wardrobe.  It was poorly tailored in a rush to have it ready for my grandfather’s funeral and completely unsuited (ha, unsuited!) for business use.  Unless I’m conducting business in a titty bar.

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I had a sudden realization this morning. Ten years ago this fall I was starting my senior year of college, I had accomplished a lot since then and that’s why I am now working as a volunteer : 

Fall means back to school time, but for this conservatory alum that means back to choir time. We’re two rehearsals into the new season and it’s shaping up to be another amazing year for the  Choral Society. First on the program is Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms at Carnegie Hall in November. Next on the list – and the highlight of this season for me – is Rachmaninoff’s All-Night Vigil (aka Vespers) in February. I’m so excited to tackle this work. There’s no way to describe how exquisite it is, so y’all’ll just have to come and hear it in the winter. And speaking of all things choir, we could use some additional singers. If you happen to be a tenor or bass, willing to dedicate one night a week to rehearsals and a few hours of personal music study, are a good sight-reader and have choral experience, let me know. I’ll set you up with an audition with our director.

But going back to studying during those first three years of school, I had completed several very important rites of passage:

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Sometimes I get the urge to write about something, and it hits me quickly, almost hard. When I get hit with an urge like that it’s usually to write something about my mother, which at times is easy for me to do and other times is extremely hard. Sometimes I write about her and intend to post the piece, but end up sitting on it instead, because like writing about her, there are times when it’s easy for me to post something about her and times when it almost scares me. And there is a part of me that wonders if you, my readers, get tired of me writing about my mum – yet when I wrote about her recently, I was touched by the supportive comments that were left. I was thinking of how it was to be a teenager, but my mind drifted back to my mother… 

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Have I ever told you the story of how I use to be a people pleaser? Yes I did? Okay great, so we can skip that part of the story. But incase you have no clue what a people pleaser is here is my personal definition:

A People Pleaser: A person who is willing to sacrifice their own happiness for others’ enjoyment. 

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This is probably the most personal post I could come up with, but it is also the most relevant.  So here it goes, what is love really? What does it mean to feel loved, be loved?

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Lately I have been enjoying the book The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. It details how she strives to find more happiness through taking on different routines and outlooks on life. One of the greatest points that I have taken away from the book so far is the saying “It is fun to fail.” Let me explain.

As a perfectionist it is definitely not fun to fail, in fact that is my biggest fear! I have hated any type of criticism, or public mistake to the point that it has stifled my chances of really growing and reaching my fullest potentional. My vocabulary was riddle with says of “Oh I can’t do that.” Or “I don’t have enough time to get this done.” What I was really thinking was “Oh, I can’t do that… perfectly the first time so I am not going to try.” And “I don’t have enough time to get this done…perfectly the way I know you and I would want it.” You see what I mean. Perfectionism is crippling.

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I can’t do that because I don’t have enough experience in that field…

I will start monday…

I am not skinny enough to wear that…

No one will ever read or listen to what I have to say anyway, I am just not good enough…

I can’t submit my resume yet, it is’t perfect…

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Every Sunday night I’m a total schizo. Part of me feels sad that I wont be spending the day with the kids tomorrow and the other part is looking forward to going to the office and doing the professional person thing. Depending on the Sunday, one part or the other may dominate but it’s never fully one way or the other.

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Remember all those Hollywood movies where the cute toddler is carrying around their favorite “blankie” or teddy? That one item that made them feel safe and loved, the item that mom couldn’t leave home without because her little precious bundle of joy was so attached to it. The toddler would hug it tight, kiss it or drag it behind him as he walked down the street holding mommy’s hand. It was such a picture perfect image, the baby holding the raggedy bear or dogie or worn out blanket tight against his chubby cheek as he fell asleep in his crib like an angel. Ahhh, isn’t that adorable…

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“Read the book!” “Read the BOOK!” My son keeps asking me in his very loud outside voice. As he’s asking me, he’s also poking me with the book. After having spent most of the day running errands, picking up after the kids, making multiple meals and squeezing in some work, I should be ready to spend some quality time with my son. But I’m not. I’m just tired. “Not now, sweetie,” I say softly with a hint of frustration, “maybe later.” My eyelids feel heavy and all I want to do is just lie down on my bed.

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