The "Real" First Post... and happy to be here!

Okay, I admit it -- I couldn't leave the “P-word” in the title of my blog.

Some of you know it started that way, and it was tantalizing for me, I assure you. I wasn’t allowed to say the word “pissed” growing up, it was considered a cuss word in our house – but I’ve since made up for lost time, to the great dismay of myself and my mother. But I'm workin' to fix that. (Or, for my southern friends, fixin' to work on that...) Which is why it didn't make sense to shout it to the world as the title of my blog.

"Fit to be tied" works better in a lot of ways -- it's a great flirtation with the idea that I might actually be "fit" one day... and it's full of southern spirit, an homage to my West Virginia upbringing.

I'm not saying it was an easy decision, just a grown-up one. Cuss word or not, I couldn’t bring myself to eradicate the word from my blog title at first. One of the hard-earned gifts of middle age is the right to call ‘em as you see ‘em, and be as authentic as you have the courage to be. And sister, I’ve got a lot of courage these days.

However, I've since made another brave new decision. I realized, courage doesn't have to be crass. I can be honest, and still be in keeping with my goal to make my language -- both in my head and out of my mouth -- a little more in keeping with what I'd be proud to know Jesus was dippin' in on.

Aside from "project potty mouth," there’s more that I’ll share as we go, in hopes that you’ll be inspired to share some of yourself back. Because that’s the point of it all, in my mind – my prayer is that this might be the launchpad for a great, ongoing conversation about each others’ middle-aged existence. Advice, frustration, laughter and tears, happiness, hopes and fears… and everything in-between.

So here’s the deal on me, and I ain’t sharin’ unless you share, too, so get ready… (Okay, that’s a lie, I’m obviously sharing either way – but it’s in incredibly poor taste for you to take, and not give, you know. It’s for the children… Okay, no, it’s not… but I hope you’ll share anyway.)

I’m a West Virginia girl, raised in a neighborhood that looked a lot like “The Wonder Years” from the street. It was situated right on a river bank, and if you went behind my house and down a ways, you saw the glorious, muddy backside of it all. That place was a magnet to me, partly because I was a tomboy who was drawn to all things outdoors and pseudo-dangerous… and partly because I was forbidden from going there, which made it infinitely more attractive.

On a deeper level, I’ve always been drawn to the truth – and I think that river bank represented the truth for me; that our beautiful, burgeoning neighborhood with the bright white streets, the little brick houses and pretty green lawns, was built right on the muddy, sludgy Guyan River, that not even the best and brightest developers could make pretty. They didn’t even try to capitalize on it, the way developers would do today, making it a focal point with a water feature in the center and a walking trail alongside.

Whether it was true or not, the river bank seemed to me to be sort of an embarrassing feature that the neighborhood would have liked to forget was there – like the extra-large derriere a woman tries to downplay with vertical stripes or dark colors. But there was many a time when that river bank was magic for me. It was a space where a fat little four-eyed girl – sassy and social on the outside, awkward and self-conscious on the inside – could slide out of sight and watch Mother Nature do her thing through four beautiful West Virginia seasons.

But the real beauty of nature, I found elsewhere. I lived for the weeks I got to spend at church camp each summer, in the majestic New River Gorge area. I met God there, because I knew that a transforming kind of gorgeous like that just couldn’t have happened by chance. Still, I didn’t really fall in love with my home state until I left it for college and adult life in Ohio.

Now, when I’m able to return home, my pulse quickens, my mood soars, and I almost hear those mountains mocking the goofy grin on my face as I cross the bridge over the Ohio River: “I told you so, I knew you’d finally ‘get it’ one day…”

It’s been a good ride in Ohio though. I married my best friend from college, and set about a clumsy course of career choices, some magic, some stunningly misguided. Through two decades and three wacked-out, wonderful children, we distracted ourselves with the cheerful street view of married life, systematically ignoring the muddy brown river out back that was rising to flood level with each passing year.

So, you know the rest of the cliché, don’t you? They say sixty percent of us are living it – some straining to keep it friendly, some in out-and-out war mode, all of us riding a dizzying existence of part-time pouting, part-time manning- or womaning-up to accept and embrace a life far different than we may have envisioned.

But this blog isn’t about divorce, necessarily, that’s just been a delightful little rerouting of my own path. No, it’s about whatever the forties and beyond are meaning to us all – marriage, divorce, kids, parents, career (or lack thereof), committing to (or giving up on) the health thing, struggling with or sharing about our spiritual or faith issues…

Hopefully, you’ll join the dialogue in the comfort that whatever you’re sharing is welcome – and is likely of comfort, entertainment, or education to the rest of us. (Ahem – within reason, of course – I have to at least keep my PG-13 rating…) So come on in. Proclaim your unabashed joy, or update the “Network” by screaming to the blogosphere that you’re MAD AS HELL, AND NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

Or, in my own classy vernacular… that we’re thoroughly blessed, and still, sometimes, just plain ol’ ... well, how about, "fit to be tied?" Thanks, Mom, I really was listening…