Happy

Just a few days ago, the very nice man to whom I spill my guts once a week or so asked me a rather simple question:

"Where do you see yourself in 10 years?"

That was easy.

"Living at the beach," I replied.

Of course, I had just had the time of my life at the beach and the memories were so fresh I still had sand in my shoes and, very likely, tequila in my bloodstream.

Just days before, I had spent my 52nd birthday in the company of my two best girlfriends, an adorable young airman, two half-naked and half-drunk hotel employees and some really good bartenders in Pensacola Beach, Florida -- my favorite place on earth. It's the place where my husband and I go for our summer vacations and a couple of our winter anniversaries. It's the place where the water is the perfect color of turquoise and the waves actually make a sound. It's the place where my soul seems to be at peace.

It's also the place where they make really, really good Margaritas and Pina Coladas.

So it's the place I decided to go with my girlfriends when I realized that my birthday would be on a Saturday and The Coach would be on a baseball field five hours away. I've spent too many of my birthdays waiting for him to come home to me -- empty damn-handed. So this year, with his encouragement, I decided to run away from home for a weekend. And take accomplices.

Bright and early on my birthday morn, my two young, no-longer-married friends Daniell and Kristal pulled into my driveway. We filled the trunk of Daniell's brand new car with wayyyy to much stuff,  opened the sunroof, hit the road and settled on a music genre. We started with the 80s -- for me.

And we started with a nice, polite selfie pic.

But by the time we got to Biloxi ...

We were rockin' the Top 40, singing the nasty version of "Thrift Shop," Googling the lyrics to Beyonce's "Drunk in Love" and bombarding our friends with pictures on Instagram and Facebook.

And we hadn't even had a drop to drink yet.

By late afternoon, we had listened to the 70s, the 80s and the Top 40 more than a few times, knew all the words to "Drunk in Love," (and what they meant), had stopped for orange juice at the Florida Welcome Center -- and pictures.

Blue Angel and Not Charlie's Angels. 

Orange juice! But, there was no Vodka.



So we hurried to our destination and, by sundown, we were on our first cocktails of the day. I started with a classic Margarita at The Margaritaville Beach Hotel. On the beach, of course.

It was the first of many cocktails. Yes, there were many. And shots. Many of those too. Ones I'd never heard of. And Pina Coladas. And a very tasty drink called a Junebug. And something called Rumplemintz. And drunken texts to my husband, who was on a bus on his way home to an empty house.

(Heh heh. Serves you right.)

And the next day we headed home only slightly hungover with wonderful memories, a new friend and plans to return next year for some reason. Any reason.

And I made the resolution that, someday, I would live at a beach. Any beach. Hopefully, Pensacola Beach, but I'm not all that picky.

But this was more than just a Girls Weekend or a birthday weekend or even a beach weekend. This was my Get Out of Jail Free weekend. I've just spent a long, hard 16 months of being trapped in my own home or close to it as I took care of my mother-in-law Jane and gave up my life and my identity to do it. I've been hiding away from the world in a darkness of sadness and depression. The one day I did run away from home in frustration, I went to Big Lot's.

Now I'm free. This weekend was me asserting my independence once more. It was me finding myself and my soul, reconnecting with my friends. And fun. It was the first time I've gone off with friends since my college days. It certainly was the most alcohol I've consumed since then. And the most fun I've had in a long, long time. It was me, being reborn.

So Happy Birthday to Me!

Happy to Me!

Happy

It took me 51 3/4 years and a little bit of journaling to come to a major realization about myself:

I have spent most of my life trying to make other people happy.

I spent the first 50-something years of my life trying to please my mother, trying earn her approval, her praise, her acceptance. For whatever reasons, I always felt like I failed at that. I felt like I always fell short, did something wrong, never had a good or a clever idea, never lived up to her expectations.

Now for the past year I have tried to please my mother-in-law. I've made her comfortable, given her a room in my house, a comfortable chair, a bed, closet space, a big screen TV, food, table service, health care and transportation, all in an effort to make her happy.

And I have failed miserably. Nothing -- and I do mean nothing -- I do makes her happy. She hates my house (too old), our routines (not set enough), our lifestyles (no routines), my husband's job (gone all the time), my freelancing (you go upstairs to work), my parenting (too much to list), my refrigerator, (can't open it), my cooking (too much to list), the pool (it's outside) and my living room (too bright. She has to wear sunglasses).

She also has pretty much hated every attempt I have made to make her life easier, from the way I arrange her room to the way I try to organize her chair-side table.

Along the way in my life's journey I have to please lots of other people --  other family members, teachers, friends, lovers, coaches, bosses, editors, newspaper readers, blog readers, my few book readers, my neighbors, my fellow citizens, and even complete strangers.

I've probably failed them too.

I shared this new discovery of mine with my snarky soon-to-be-teenager (Wait. WHAT??) this afternoon, and said, "I need to stop worrying about everybody else and just worry about making myself happy."

To which my snarky soon-to-be-teenager replied: "What makes you happy, mom?"

Wait. What??

"What makes you happy?"

Well...

Her. When she sings. When she draws beautiful pictures.  When she writes. When she laughs. When she hugs me. When she kisses me. When she sits in my lap. When she crawls into bed and snuggles with me.

My husband. When he's home. When he's not snoring. When he's curled up next to me in bed. When he's washing the dishes. When he's cleaning the pool. When he remembers. When he goes to the grocery. When he fills my car up with gas. When he's in his uniform and coaching third. When he doesn't lose.

My step kids. When they acknowledge me as one of their parents. When they include me in their lives.

My dogs.  Lola when she's fighting with her toys or the pillows we gave up and let her have. When she's curled up in my lap all warm and adorable. Leigheaux, when he's jumping up and down (literally) because he knows we're going for a walk.

Walking. When it's a gorgeous cold day. When it's a hot, muggy day.  When the iPod gods shuffle my diverse library of music and give me a great playlist that makes me dance. When people wave at me as they go by. When the local cop tells my husband he things I'm hardcore because I do it every day. When people tell me they wish they had my dedication.

My pool. When it's crystal clear and a perfect blue and all the plants are in bloom. When day turns to dusk and all my solar lights start to light up as the sun sets in the back yard.

Then there's:

My hammock ... Naps in my hammock ... Boiled crabs ... Bailey's Irish Cream ... Margarita daiquiris ... Lemon drop martinis ... Pensacola Beach ... The color of the water in Pensacola Beach ... Playing the piano ... Christmas music ... 80s music ... Roses ...  Chocolate covered cherries ... Birthdays ... Birthday cake... A good steak ... A good hamburger ... A good book ...  My DVR ... The Norco Christmas parade ... My home office ... Dragonflies ... A song I haven't heard in forever ... Singing it ... Good hair days ... A clean house ... Cool sheets ... Family dinners ... Having everybody home ... Good friends ... Laughing... Crying ... Writing something really good ... Seeing my book on a shelf ... Having someone tell me they enjoyed it ...

And yes, making other people happy makes me happy.

So does Taco Bell.. But, like Taco Bell,  making other people happy seems to be bad for me. I have to give it up. It simply can't be done. Not anymore.

I now know that I can't make my mom happy. She has to make herself happy.

I can't make my mother-in-law happy. She has to make herself happy..

I can't make my husband happy.  I just seem to do that naturally (and well).

The rest of you are on your own too.

I hope you're happy.