Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Note: I haven’t written a personal blog post* in over sixty days so I feel out of practice. Hopefully, I won’t disappoint you.

I am always on a quest for everlasting peace. I believe if I can find peace then the rock of pain that sits on my heart will disappear. Perhaps peace would pose as an angel, fly in with her white-feathered wings, and lift the pain away. Or maybe peace would be a bad-ass biker, ride in on his Harley, and drive right through the pain. There might be a way for peace to drop a bomb and blow up the pain until it becomes only miniscule pieces of dust in my blood stream. I don’t know because I don’t know what peace looks like.

However, I am getting ahead of myself. First I must explain the rock. It appeared when my sister Adrienne died on October 9, 2001. Even though the rock weighs me down, I barely notice the dull ache anymore. It’s amazing how much we humans can tolerate. How much pain we can tolerate. Sometimes, I’ll feel a sharp stab in my chest and I imagine it’s the rock shifting the way tectonic plates do. Occasionally, the rock feels lighter as if my heart is pushing it up, demanding that it roll on to another organ. Give me a break says my heart I’ve been carrying this burden for years. [insert sitcom laugh track]

The lighter feelings occur when I confuse moments of happiness with peace, which I seek everywhere. In things, in my pets, in people, even places. Oh I know a new dress won’t bring me peace, but for a few seconds when I look in the mirror, I feel good, sometimes beautiful, which is progress. When I hug my English Mastiff Winston so tight he might break (except a 110-pound woman cannot break a 175-pound dog), I feel joy. He loves me no matter what, and you can’t say that about people. Ahh … people. Boy do I seek peace in them. It’s unfair because if you give me a little happiness even for a few hours, I will mistake it for peace and not realize it. And when this inequitable transaction occurs, I will want it to happen again. And again. I will want your company the way addicts want their drugs. Their high is my peace.

Clothes, animals, friends, family—they will never bring me peace. It’s too big of a task. It’s too much to ask. I envy religious people because their faith seems to give them peace. But prayer does nothing for me so I figure god doesn’t have much to offer me either. If god exists, he’s in the people category, and I’m asking too much of him. Or her.

The only time I find the kind of peace I’m looking for—that everlasting peace that sets my heart free is when I am at the ocean. It sounds corny especially considering I’m not a “beach girl.” I’m an okay swimmer who gets seasick on ferries. I don’t own a pair of flip-flops; hell, I don’t even like flip-flops. Therefore, it’s a mystery why the ocean calms me from the inside out. Maybe it’s the sound of crashing waves beating the shore. Maybe it’s the scent of salt in the air. Maybe it’s the feeling of sand between my toes. Maybe it’s the sight of seagulls and perhaps pelicans if I’m lucky (they’re my favorite bird) flying over the horizon.

Whenever I am at a beach, I inevitably walk along the water, pick up random shells, and lose myself in my thoughts. If I go with others, I often stray away forgetting that I’m with them. Something magical happens when I am listening, smelling, touching, and seeing the ocean. The water washes right through me and takes the rock of pain with it. I don’t hurt when I’m at the ocean, which is why I insisted on spending my birthday last year at Huntington Beach. I wanted to have a good day. A happy day. A peaceful day. And I did.

The neverending search is over. I found my everlasting peace. Now all I need is my house by the sea. In Gold Beach.

AWW — XoXo

*I currently write the president’s blog for my employer TGIC Importers. Read From Alex’s Desk.

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For most of my 39 years, I have had long hair. Straight, fine, shiny hair with the color changing over the years. Strawberry blonde, dark auburn, bright red, bangs or no bangs, people define me by my hair. I don’t know how many times I have heard, “I knew it was you because of your hair.” When your hair becomes part of your identity, you become reluctant to change it.

However, as many women can attest, in times of crises, we like to change our hair. Radically. During the summer of 1996, my sister Adrienne and I decided to cut our hair off. She opted for a spiky Winona Ryder look; I chose Josie Bissett’s style—all bangs in the front and super short in the back. Adrienne’s friends at school teased her and said she looked like a boy. My friends didn’t say anything at all. Yeah, it wasn’t our best hair decision. Neither one of us cut our hair that short ever again.

When my hair grew out, I didn’t vary it for almost a decade. Occasionally I would add a few layers, but then I would freak out and want my hair all one length again. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror if my hair didn’t fall four inches past my collarbone. I only bothered to get a trim when I felt the ends hit my bra strap. I was bored with my hair but too scared to do anything about it. I took a baby step by bringing back my bangs in December 2007. When people commented on how much younger I looked, I thought I would keep my bangs forever.

After three years of managing bangs, I was bored again. Besides, bangs are a pain in the ass. I wanted and needed a transformation. It was November 2010 and my husband was working and living in Detroit. I was alone all the time. I could almost hear the stress encouraging me, even daring me … Chop it off. Chop it off. Chop it off. I knew my husband would hate short hair on me, but it would grow back and after all, it was my hair. I started researching styles using thehairstyler.com, and I made the appointment.

My hairdresser was supportive and realistic about what would look best on me. When I tried to talk her into a punk-style cut, she replied, “I don’t think you’re ready for that radical of a change.” I finally agreed to an angular cut with the longest layer hitting my chin and the shortest layer hitting the nape of my neck. My bangs were longer so she blended them into the cut. When she was done, I expected to burst into tears. Instead, I grinned. I had chopped off my locks and survived. As an added bonus, my hair is now slightly wavy when it’s shorter and cut into layers. For a girl who grew up with stick-straight hair, it was as if a miracle had occurred. Thank you hormones.

Since that first chop, I’ve had many styles. My bangs no longer exist. I tried a body wave to enhance the natural curl. I played around with a bob. I invested in hot rollers. This week, I’m ditching the bob, adding layers, and telling my hairdresser to go for it. The best part is that I’m not scared anymore. My hair no longer defines me.

Shortly after that first chop, I went out to a nightclub with a girlfriend, and I’ll admit that I was worried whether or not men would find me attractive with short hair. (I may be married, but I’m not dead.) My girlfriend laughed and reminded me that I was still the same person no matter what length my hair was. After several men asked me to dance, I realized how right she was and how wrong I had been.

The only person who turned my hair into a character trait instead of a physical attribute was … me. To all the people who saw past my hair even when I didn’t, I thank you.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. What is your biggest hair disaster? Biggest hair success?

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Best-selling author and marketing genius Seth Godin recently said on his blog, “You don’t need a new plan for next year. You need a commitment.”

When I started thinking about New Year’s resolutions, Seth’s words kept running through my head. Why plan to do something? Why make resolutions? Why say “I’m going to try to …” Instead, make a commitment. No ifs, no ands, no buts. Commit to doing whatever it is that you say you are going to do every year but somehow never accomplish.

Thanks to Seth Godin’s insightful words, I don’t have any New Year’s resolutions; however, I commit to do the following things in 2012:

1. Finish the second draft of my book. I have been dealing with this goal off and on for three years. Mostly off. I could use the excuse that writing is time-consuming (it is), but the truth is working on my book is like cutting my carotid artery open every day. It’s painful and messy—not healing and cathartic although people assume the latter is true. I feel drained, exhausted, and emotionally spent after working on my memoir. I hate it.
2. Do yoga once per week. Working out five times per week with a combination of yoga, cardio, and resistance training would be ideal (remember EMAO?), but I’m not exercising at all right now. Therefore, it’s best to keep my commitment realistic given my time constraints. Yoga Blend has two classes on Sunday that I enjoy so all I need to do is pick one, drive there, and appreciate the “me” time while I enhance my yoga practice.
3. Write my blog a minimum of twice per month. While I commit to writing twice per month, my goal is to write every week. However, like yoga, I need to have reasonable expectations of my time and energy. As a full-time Social Media Specialist, I spend eight hours a day looking at two computer screens. Despite my numerous blog ideas, sometimes I don’t even check my email when I get home let alone start my laptop.
4. Complete my 52 Postcards in 2012 project. This year I am going to write a postcard every week to someone I know or don’t know (perhaps you my devoted blog reader?). To see how you can become a recipient of one of the many postcards in my collection, click on 52 Postcards. This experiment is an exercise in writing, discipline, and a great way to share my postcard obsession with others.
5. Learn more about wine. This commitment may sound unnecessary, but it’s related to my job at TGIC Importers. I will continue to attend wine tastings at Vendome Wine & Spirits to improve my palate. I am considering taking Wine Spectator’s free, online, self-paced courses. Depending on where my job takes me, I might even enroll in the Wine and Spirit Education Trust program.
6. Stop picking at my cuticles. You know how some people resolve to lose weight every year, but never do? Well, that’s me and my relationship with my cuticles. I don’t know why I pick at them. I’m not even aware of it half the time. I don’t bite my nails—never did, but there is something about my cuticles that I cannot resist. This year I commit to not pick. It’s gross. It’s nasty. It’s unladylike. If you see me doing it, call me out.
7. Quit watching my soap opera The Young and the Restless (Y&R). I can already hear the groans and chuckles, but you have to understand. Y&R debuted in March of 1973—five months shy of my first birthday. My mother watched the soap from the beginning with me in her arms. I remember when Nikki was a young stripper who fell in love with the self-made millionaire Victor Newman. I haven’t seen every Y&R episode. I even went years without watching the show, but I know its history better than I know my own genealogy. My friend MB and I text each other about the repeated, tired story lines. After fast-forwarding through three episodes in one hour, I realized I don’t care anymore except … I want to know who killed Diane Jenkins, and I’m counting on MB to tell me.*

AWW — XoXo

P.S. What are your commitments in 2012?

*I already deleted Y&R from our DVR. One commitment down, six more to go!

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This blog is dedicated to Annah.

I recently read an excerpt from the book Dear Me: A Letter to My Sixteen-Year-Old Self.

One of the funniest bits of advice was musician Alice Cooper telling his younger self, “Trashy girls are exciting for about five minutes … keep your eyes out for a really good lookin’ church girl.”

When actor James Woods wrote, “And most importantly, call your brother on July 26, 2006, and tell him he must go to a different hospital,” my eyes instantly filled with tears.

I couldn’t help but ask myself: what would I tell my sixteen-year old self? To me sixteen is an age when we think we know everything, yet we know almost nothing. At that age, I had little freedom, energy, time, or money, but I had drive, desire, and ambition. Without too much analysis, here is my letter to my sixteen-year-old self.

Dear Andrea,

You have recently realized that your dream of being a professional ballerina will never come true. The despair that you feel right now will not last forever so don’t do anything stupid and don’t accept any more pills from mother. You are suffering the first of many bouts of depression in your life; however, you will survive. Your strength, stubbornness, and sense of humor will lift you out of your sadness.

Stop wishing you were less sensitive. Your deep sensitivity toward people and the world around you stimulates your creativity. Work with your nature—not against it.

Stop comparing your physical appearance to other girls. You may not be “model beautiful” but you will become an incredibly attractive, sexy, young woman who never longs for male company. Be yourself, and people—both men and women—will be drawn to you.

You are so afraid of being poor that you will do foolish things for money. The most rewarding experiences in life have nothing to do with your net worth or your credit score.

You already suspect that you may raise your two-year-old sister Adrienne one day. You are correct. As soon as you obtain custody of her, take her to a doctor and make him test her for hepatitis B and C. Have her liver enzymes monitored as well. These actions may very well save her life.

Remember your favorite question in The Book of Questions? You chose the answer: “a wild, turbulent life filled with joy, sorrow, passion, and adventure—intoxicating successes and stunning setbacks.” You will live such a life, and it will never be boring.

• Many of your dreams will come true in unexpected ways.
• Your parents are not who you think they are.
• Keep a journal every day.
  

Sincerely,
Your 39-year-old self

AWW — XoXo

P.S. No matter what your ballet teacher says, you are not fat!

**What would you tell your sixteen-year-old self?

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