A Day of Cerenity, November 1.

A very dear friend of mine told me tonight that major birthdays like 30 are for reflecting.
Granted, we were sitting in our sweats swigging an entire bottle of the delicious nectar of Lambrusco, but her advice still rings true.

It's also true that reflecting is much more positive than sitting naked under an old bathrobe in the dark feeling sorry for myself (Pilaar: age 29), still trying to figure it all out while job-related perks and tons of useless, free stuff outweighed my actual life achievements (Pilaar: age 28), or throwing world's best pajama party (Pilaar: age 25).

Okay, maybe not Pajama Jammy Jam. Nothing beats Pajama Jammy Jam '05. Trust.

In this time of self-reflection throughout the month of November, I thought it fitting to go on 'head and start with an Open Letter to Jesus. Kinda like the prayers that started off each and every day at Fremont Christian School. Only this time God and I are in a better place now that I'm an adult and we can speak more candidly. He's the Homie. Capital 'H' (cause He's God, we can totally do the upper case.)

Ahem.

Dear Jesus,

I pray that I turn out nothing like Phaedra on "Real Housewives of Atlanta." Although if Star's body continues to rival Apollo's that is certainly acceptable and welcomed.

Thank you so much for your many blessings! I appreciate being genetically pre-disposed to aging exceptionally well with examples like Benelia Terry, Kathy Watkins and Sharon Dean to lead me down The Path of Graceful Maturity. It's nice to look into the face of the future when it has such well-appointed, milk chocolatey smooth skin. High five, Jesus.

Thank you for your free of charge, round the clock omniscient surveillance and protection. I have done many, many, many, many stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid things. I've given blood after eating a mere apple for sustenance. I've picked up dudes off the street. I've gotten inebriated and fallen into bushes and/or gotten into fights. I've dated losers. I've smoked Black and Milds. I've done things considered unfitting of a sheltered girl with a private school education. There are some things that have happened in gas station bathrooms that I'd rather not share. I've driven without insurance or valid registration. I've been to Amsterdam.

How, praytell, am I still alive with all of my working mental capacities intact?

You, Jesus. That's how.

Jesus, I am not worthy of the everyday blessings you've provided me in the form of my friends and family. I am not worthy of the laughter, the lessons, the Lambrusco. It's hard to hear that I'm not quite as perfect as I think, but the people you've put into my life to teach me about loving myself and others as YOU would love them are awesome, Jesus. Just freakin' dope. Of course you know this though, you're Jesus! Such a cool job.

Thank you for Starsky, Jesus. I can't without him. I just can't. Well, I mean I couuullllddddd but I just really, really, really don't want to. You broke the mold with this one Jesus. And then you gave him to me. I am forever and eternally (redundant?) grateful.

And lastly, thank you for granting me the passion to write. Although I'm not sure it's exactly what You planned, I can make anything funny! Anything from bacterial vaginosis, to dusty shoe-stealing wenches, to quitting my wretched job to mexican diet pills to racism. Racism is funny, Jesus! Because of You. Thanks. (insert finger guns, Jesus)

At least every day this month, I'm gonna make you proud of me and write something. Anything.
Flexing that writing muscle like a squat thrust at Bally's Total Fitness. Or a chest fly after I've snuck in at Crunch. After they kicked me out that one time though, I really hate Crunch (just a sidenote, Jesus, but I digress.)

You are awesome.
Let's do this.
Amen.