I’m Not Old-Fashioned, I Just Have Standards

I’m an old-fashioned woman living in a very modern world, and honestly, I’m not sure who approved this arrangement. I like manners. I like people saying please and thank you. I believe in holding the door open for someone behind you instead of letting it slam in their face while you stare at your phone. I believe if somebody invites you to dinner, you don’t spend the entire meal taking pictures of your food and ignoring the person sitting across from you. Apparently, this makes me old-fashioned. Fine. I’ll wear the badge.

I still believe in sending a thank-you note. Yes, an actual note. On paper. With a stamp. I know. Very radical. I think when someone does something nice for you, you should acknowledge it. Not just hit the little heart button on Facebook three weeks later.

And dating? Lord help us. I remember when a man actually asked you out. He didn’t send, “U up?” at 10:47 p.m. and consider that courtship. He asked. You made plans. He showed up. Maybe he even picked you up at your house. With his car. Not an Uber.

I’m not saying everything about the old days was better. Let’s not get carried away. We had rotary phones, television antennas you had to adjust just right, and exactly three channels—and somehow we survived. Then HBO came along, and suddenly we were living fancy. For an extra $10 a month, we could watch something besides those three channels. Of course, if we wanted to watch it, we had to get up and flip a switch on the television. Yes, we actually had to walk across the room. And somehow, we still managed to function.

But I wouldn’t mind bringing a few things forward with us. Like respect. Like keeping your word. Like showing up when you say you will. Like looking people in the eye when they’re talking to you instead of scrolling through Facebook while saying, “Uh-huh… yeah… totally listening.” No, you’re not. You’re watching a video of a raccoon stealing a sandwich.

I also believe you should dress appropriately for the occasion. Not every event requires a fancy dress, but apparently some people have decided pajamas are acceptable attire everywhere short of a wedding. I’m sorry, but if your outfit is also appropriate for taking a nap, we may have missed the dress code.

And I believe in hosting people. I like setting the table. I like making food. I like having people over and actually sitting around the table talking, laughing, and telling stories. Not everybody sitting in separate rooms staring at separate screens while the television provides the only conversation.

I miss the little things. People bringing something when they’re invited somewhere. Neighbors knowing each other. Kids playing outside until somebody yelled their name from the front porch. People actually visiting instead of saying, “We need to get together sometime!” and then communicating exclusively through Facebook reactions for the next five years.

I believe in birthdays being special, Christmas being about more than what you bought on Amazon, and I still think handwritten cards mean more than a GIF with glitter exploding across the screen. I believe if you love somebody, you should tell them. If you appreciate somebody, thank them. If you hurt somebody, apologize. And if somebody is standing behind you at the door, hold the damn door.

None of this requires a time machine. It just requires a little effort. Being old-fashioned doesn’t mean I hate modern life. I love my cell phone. I love the internet. I love being able to order something at midnight and have it show up on my porch before I’ve had time to wonder why the hell I ordered it. Technology is wonderful. But technology was supposed to make life easier, not make us forget how to be human.

So yes, I’m an old-fashioned woman in a modern world. I like manners. I like romance. I like handwritten notes, real conversations, family dinners, thoughtful gestures, and people who actually mean what they say. Maybe some of those things are old-fashioned. But if being old-fashioned means I still know how to treat people, I’ll gladly be old-fashioned.

The world can keep its shortcuts. I’ll keep the manners.

You Were Invited, Not Sponsored

People say gift-giving etiquette is becoming a “lost art.” Well, if it’s lost, head on down to the Lost & Found because apparently your common sense is in there with it.

There are some things in life I really thought we all just knew.

• Don’t wear white to somebody else’s wedding. 
• Don’t show up to Thanksgiving empty-handed and then leave with three containers of leftovers. 
• And if somebody invites you to a birthday party, wedding, or baby shower—you bring a gift.

I didn’t realize this needed its own public service announcement, but apparently... here we are.

If you accept an invitation to a celebration, GO BUY THE GIFT. Somebody thought enough of YOU to invite you. Your name made the list. They wanted you there. They planned the party, bought the food, ordered the cake, cleaned the house, decorated, made room for your butt at the table and spent their money so everybody could have a good time.

So… where’s their damn present?

You don’t just stroll in empty-handed, eat their food, drink their drinks, have a piece of cake—and possibly a second piece because “it was really good”—then holler, “Thanks for having me!” on your way out.

Thanks for having you?? You ate $23 worth of food and brought NOTHING. 🖕🏼 Who raised you?

And BABY SHOWERS. Lord help me with this one because the instructions are literally IN THE NAME "SHOWER". What exactly did you think we were showering her with? Compliments? Good vibes? Our sparkling personalities?

GIFTS, people. GIFTS. We are SHOWERING HER WITH GIFTS. That is the entire damn concept of throwing these types of parties!  Why do you think she made a registry? To give you something to scroll through and say, "Oh, that's cute."  It's there because babies apparently need approximately 900 things, including gadgets none of us knew existed before somebody got pregnant.

Graduation?  Bring a card with a gift card, cash - something to celebrate the kid surviving twelve years of school without completely losing their mind.

Housewarming? Bring something for the house. A candle. A plant. A bottle of whatever they like. Even a cute kitchen towel is better than showing up empty-handed and immediately asking where the bathroom is.

Weddings? Same deal. You’re celebrating two people starting a life together. Birthdays? You’re celebrating somebody because it’s THEIR day. Bring a gift.

And before somebody gets their panties in a wad, I’m not saying you need to spend a fortune. Nobody needs to take out a loan. Buy something from the registry. Get a gift card. Put $10-? bucks in a card. Wrap up a candle. Hell, bring them their favorite candy. It’s the thought. But there actually needs to BE a thought.

Would you clean your house, decorate, buy the food, order the cake, find and rent a venue, spend your money, plan everything and invite the people you care about—only to watch them parade through the door empty-handed like they accidentally wandered into a Costco sample aisle?

They thought enough of you to invite you, spend their time and money making the celebration happen, and make a place for you to be part of it.

Think enough of them to bring the damn gift. Because you were invited, not sponsored. 😂 They’re throwing the party. They shouldn’t have to sponsor your attendance, too.

My Ass Would Like to Discuss These 2.64 Mile Adventures I Go On

I walked 2.64 miles today. Two point six four! That sounds pretty impressive until you realize my ass is now acting like I personally betrayed it.

When I started walking a few weeks ago, I was doing about a quarter of a mile. Now look at me, out here walking over two and a half miles like I’m training for something. I’m not sure what I’m training for, unless it’s the ability to sit down without making a noise.

The walk itself was actually pretty good. I enjoyed the fresh air, the neighborhood and pretending I’m one of those people who has their life together because they exercise every morning. Then I got home, sat down and discovered that apparently, my backside did not approve of today’s adventure.

My legs are tired, my feet are tired and my ass hurts. I’m pretty sure there are muscles back there that have been unemployed for years, and now they’re demanding better working conditions.

I did it, though. I walked 2.64 miles, which is a long way from that quarter-mile nonsense I started with. I’ll probably do it again tomorrow, assuming I can get out of this chair without needing a rescue team.

Progress is progress, even when it hurts. And if walking is supposed to make me healthier, I would appreciate it if my ass could stop taking it so personally.

Before the Bills and the Back Pain

Sometimes I wonder what I would give to go back to page one of my love story.

Not because I want to change the ending. Not because I would choose someone different. But because I’d love to read those first few chapters again while knowing everything I know now.

I’d like to see us before the mortgage payments, the kids, the jobs, the bills, the arguments, the losses, the responsibilities and all the ordinary life that somehow piles itself on top of two people who once couldn’t get enough of each other. Back when a phone call could make your entire day. When you noticed every little touch. When staying up half the night talking didn’t seem ridiculous because tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as right now.

I wonder if I appreciated that version of us enough.

Probably not.

That’s the funny thing about beginnings. You rarely know you’re standing in one. You don’t realize that someday you’ll look back at an ordinary Tuesday night, a cheap dinner, a song playing in the car, or the way someone reached over and grabbed your hand and think, God, I’d give anything to have five minutes of that again.

But I wouldn’t want to stay on page one.

Because page one didn’t know what was coming.

Those two people didn’t know how many times life would test them. They didn’t know there would be days when love felt effortless and days when loving each other was a decision. They didn’t know the people they would lose, the children they would raise, the mistakes they would make, the forgiveness they would need, or how many times they would have to find their way back to each other.

Page one is beautiful because it’s full of possibility.

But there’s something pretty damn beautiful about page 10,000 too.

That’s where the wrinkles are. The inside jokes nobody else understands. The stories you’ve told a hundred times. The fights you barely remember what started. The quiet nights when nobody is trying to impress anybody anymore. It’s knowing exactly how that person takes their coffee, what will make them mad, what will make them laugh, and when they need you to just leave them alone for a minute.

Maybe I wouldn’t give anything to actually go back. Maybe I’d just like to visit.

I’d whisper to that younger version of myself, Pay attention. This is the beginning of something you’re going to spend the rest of your life remembering. Then I’d come right back here. Because page one may have had butterflies. But these pages have a whole life written on them.

Just Say You’re Sorry

Why have we made apologizing so damn complicated?

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Not an apology.

“I’m sorry, but you…”

Nope. You just took it back.

“I’m sorry if you were offended.”

Oh, we’re getting worse. 😂

Sometimes you had good intentions and still hurt somebody.

Sometimes you misunderstood.

Sometimes you were tired, angry, defensive or just plain wrong.

You don’t have to hold a congressional hearing to determine exactly what percentage of the argument belonged to each person before saying:

“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

An apology doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t mean the other person was perfect. And it doesn’t erase your side of the story.

It simply means you’re grown enough to recognize your part of it.

Your ego will survive.

And so will you.

Somebody needed to say it.