I’m on vacation. And I’m supposed to be in Seattle in four hours. But right now I’m still stuck in New York, two and a half hours away from even taking off to Denver. I already know I’m going to miss my connection and the next flight I can get isn’t until the next morning, which means the Denver International Airport will become my bedroom for the night.

This is not how my vacation is supposed to start. I’m off to Seattle and then Portland for a nine day vacation, perhaps the most extravagant gift I’ve given myself. I’ve been wanting to visit the Pacific Northwest for two years, ever since Natalie went to Portland for the first time and kept texting me updates about how much fun she was having and how much I would love it. I’ve idealized both places as cities I want to live down the road.

I’ve tried passing the time by reading my boss’s circulating copy of Twilight, but I’m too tired to read and and feel more like a nap. I can’t calm down enough for a nap because I’m too nervous about the hordes of people encircling the Frontier desk. Even though they’re flying Spirit, I’m still nervous by their presence in front of my ticket counter. I finally caved into my hunger and bought an Auntie Annie’s pretzel. I remembered them having salt and tasting much better. Now my stomach feels like I ate Thumper. I would wander to find something better, but the LaGuardia airport really doesn’t have any decent dietary options and I’d risk giving up my seat. People are already crowding floor space and I’m not interested in playing musical chairs.

In light of my circumstances, I’m staring at people and eavesdropping. I’ve sat across from a polished businesswoman discussing a potential job move. She’s been a senior consultant for three years (apparently that means something). I don’t know what she consults, but the fabric content of her blouse and skirt is entirely too shiny; she’s wearing leopard print stilettos; and she is the fake color of tan, so I probably wouldn’t trust her to consult me on anything.

Another woman is having highly personal conversations about how she’s freaking out in life. She just had her last day at an international bank and left to pursue real estate. But right now she’s going on vacation too. The man to my right has held frantic phone calls since he sat down, repeating words like “clients,” “investors” and seemingly meaningless acronyms. He left a voicemail that said he’s freaking out in life and is having an emergency. He’s discussed state media, PR campaigns, the downfall of AIG and the repercussions for his clients. I have yet to figure out what exactly he does. I’m a little overwhelmed at how many people in this small vicinity are having crises.

My check-in gate continues to crowd even more; no one is sure what’s going on and no one bothers to address them. The airport is starting to remind me of one of my top three favorite TV shows, LOST…a group of passengers are stranded and looking for guidance, a leader, food that won’t kill them, and just wanting to get to their intended destination. The guy on my left keeps looking at me as I write this, so I cover the other side of my notebook. Um, privacy please.

The trip has gotten off to a pretty horrible start. Besides the delay, which will result in sleeping on an airport floor, spooning my luggage for fear of theft, I had to go through security twice. I was actually escorted out after my luggage was screened because I’d forgotten that my water bottle still had a couple sips in it. And no, the security screener could not just pour it out. And no, she could not just let me drink it. And no, she could not just GIVE IT TO ME. Only after she walked me out and I had left the gate could I get it back.

I hate her. I hate the line that has doubled. I hate the weather for causing so many delays. And I hate my luggage for somehow breaking the lock I borrowed from my cousin. My face and hair are already grimy and I’ve still got 12 hours before a shower is even a possibility (although I don’t have any shampoo or conditioner now because I abandoned them at work when I decided to carry on my luggage after learning about the potential of an extended layover.)

I try to be patient despite the noise and the crowd and Thumper in my stomach and children running around screaming. It’s not working. I text message angry updates to my parents, and it’s only after my dad reminds me – twice – that I’m on vacation and don’t have to go back to work on Monday that I force myself to relax and to remember that I’m more annoyed about my plan being thrown off than anything else. That I’m lucky I’m in a position to give myself this trip. That I can deal with this, even if it’s unpleasant, and it’s not worth getting so worked up about. That soon I will be landing in Seattle, drinking more coffee than my body can handle, going to book lectures, exploring neighborhoods and taking a trip to Mount Rainier to reconnect with nature. If ever there was a time to focus on when the end justifies the means, this is it.

I have a tendency to get very uncomfortable with downtime. Free time closes in on me like I’m an animal in a cage. With too much time, I don’t know what to do.

I solved this anxiety by becoming hyper-efficient, taking on enough to put the world’s best juggler to shame. Right now, I’m teaching 10 hours a day, attending weekly Bible study sessions, running a website, training a puppy, playing tennis, going to the gym, teaching Sunday school and cooking for everyone who walks through the door. You name it, and it’s on my to-do list.

Recently things have begun to pick up more than usual, and my hectic, busy schedule has turned rushed. Instead of running on the energy and interaction I usually feel, I’m scattered, tired and overwhelmed. It’s costing me confidence in my ability, but worst of all it’s costing me my kindness.

One of the great things about running at a high level of interaction is just that: the interaction. I teach a group of 10-year-olds who live and die by my book recommendations and the smiley stickers I put on their test papers. Their faces and constant need of my approval (because apparently my opinion really matters) give me more energy than the two cups of coffee I inhale every morning on my way to work.

As I was rushing into the building today, one of my students got in step behind me.

“Miss Thompson…” she began.

“Not now sweetie, I’m late. I just can’t.”

Before I even realized it, the words were out of my mouth. I was so distracted — so rushed — that I hadn’t even stopped to see who it was who had walked up behind me. My words, coupled with the look on her face, made the gears shift into place. The big picture I’ve been missing for the past few weeks came into focus. I’ve been so off for the past few weeks, not because of the number of things I have on my plate, but instead because of the way I handle them. I stopped prioritizing my obligations in a way that allowed me to truly see that those things I’ve got on my perpetual to do list are not things, but people.

I sighed heavily, took a deep breath (which was the best advice I’ve gotten this week) and relieved myself of the three bags I had been hauling into school. I gave Deborah a hug and sat down on a bench with her to talk about the book she had just finished. The copies I needed to make and the coffee growing cold at my feet faded to the background as I watched her eyes dance and listened to her story about an amazing little girl named Matilda who could do magic. I couldn’t help but think that Matilda was not the only amazing little girl I know.

I’m not going to lie, I like being busy. I like that my days are filled with 100 messy, rambunctious children, my evenings with a new puppy, Frisbee in the park, dinners with my friends and roommates. I like that I can be counted on for fresh cookies, help on homework, baby sitting or book recommendations. I simply need to find the balance between busy and rushed. The line is so close, but the divide between the two is far too much to live with. I don’t want to see that look on a little girl’s face and know that my schedule caused it.

The thing I so often forget is that my life is busy with the things and people I love, but when I forget to appreciate those things, when I forget to take a deep breath and let it all come in then I lose the busy and move into Get it all done. Check off a list. You are not a person but an action item. Rushed.

When I lose the busy I lose swapping movie quotes with my roommate, cuddling with an adorable little dog and the look on a little girl’s face when she discovers a truly amazing story.

I lose so much more than time.

There’s something about a birthday, even at this age, that refreshes me.

When I was in elementary school, the third weekend of September was about two separate birthday parties — one with my extended family and one with all of my friends. My parents always made it into something special. More than just a single party or a day, birthdays in my family were always more of a week-long event of feeling special. It wasn’t always elaborate, but the details made it a big deal.

When I got to college, one of the toughest transitions to dorm life was being away from my family during the week of my birthday. I’m not sure there was a time I wanted more to leave campus and go home. But even then, my parents made it up into town the night of my birthday. It was just a small return to the birthday memories of my past, but it felt great to have that attention spent on me again, shallow as that may sound.

Leaving college and graduating into the real world, I acknowledged that now was the time for the luster to wear off and for my birthday to become just another day on the calendar. How could it ever be the same working a 9 to 5 in an office setting? As I made my way around to that time of year again, I started preparing myself this time for a change in the way I had known my birthday for most of my life. I would break it down, little by little, until the third week in September would be just like any other and barely provoke a reaction from me. That’s what getting older and growing up is about, I guess.

Not to be melodramatic, but as we get older, we don’t get the same attention that we got earlier in our lives. We enter into professions that are new and exciting, but also into a lifestyle that puts less emphasis on making us feel good and more emphasis on making us more productive.

As depressing as that all sounds, I found that I was wrong on all counts. What I expected and what I got were so different that I can’t really find a way to show my appreciation for the people around me who proved me wrong — in a good way.

My birthday was great. At 24, it was still about the little things. It was about my carpool partner surprising me with a package of banana Laffy Taffy and my co-worker baking peanut butter and chocolate cupcakes. It was about a solid hour of reading and responding to birthday wishes on Facebook from close friends and casual acquaintances.

And yet, even with all of those treats to make me feel special, the icing on the proverbial cake was still about family. It was about my Aunt Carla, a high school gym teacher, texting me at 5 a.m. to wish me a good day. It was about my parents coming to Kansas City and taking me to dinner just like they did every year we’ve spent apart. It was about lunch with a special someone who, for two years now, has made my favorite day of the year even more memorable than ever before. Like a lot of things when it comes to growing up, birthdays are different than they used to be. They will never be the same as we remember them or as we would like for them to be, but I’m beginning to feel pretty strongly that that’s not such a bad thing. As long as, for one day a year, you allow yourself to feel good about being you and making it another year — no matter how many candles it takes — you still deserve to have a happy birthday.

I am playing in a fantasy football league this fall. This is my first fantasy football team. I am not sure what finally motivated me to sign up. Friends invited me the previous two years and I turned them down for several reasons: time, a lack of appreciation for football in general, an apathy for pro football in particular. And these reasons precede even thinking about the larger fan implications: rooting for individual player success over team success, rooting for players on ‘hated’ rivals.

With plenty of reasons not to play, I am still surprised that I took the plunge. I am glad I did, however. Playing fantasy football has given me a new perspective on another area of my life — Fantasy Wedding, my real bread and butter.

Fantasy Wedding is a completely different animal from Fantasy Football. First off, there is no draft in Fantasy Wedding — you are the team. Second, points are not based on some distant sporting event — instead they come from each and every wedding that you, the player, I mean guest, are a part of.

Here is how the scoring works:

3 points – If you are the Maid of Honor or the Best Man

2 points – If you are in the Bridal Party

1 point – If you are otherwise involved in the wedding, e.g. florist, usher etc.

Of course you can land multiple points if you fill multiple rolls at the same wedding. If you are standing in the Bridal Party and you mailed all the invitations, well that’s 3 Fantasy points for you. Also, you can score from the same position multiple times. If you are the usher for 8 straight weddings, then you take home 8 points. Great work.

Fantasy Football prompted the recent revelation that I am a Fantasy Wedding stud. Right now I am sitting at 11 Fantasy points. By the end of next summer I will be up to 15. I know that 15 is a marvelous accomplishment because one of my buddies is getting married next summer (there’s two of my points) has zero points. In fact, he first attended a wedding 3 months ago.

I started talking about Fantasy Wedding Points (FWP) with my roommate recently. She is also sitting on 11 FWP. Her comment was that her friends are divided into two categories: Category 1 is all the married (or soon to be married) people; Category 2 is all the people who have never been to a wedding.

What’s interesting is that both groups tend to look at us Fantasy Players with a lack of understanding and a hint of incredulity. Category 1 people just cannot fathom why I am not married yet. Comments such as “There will be some cute bridesmaids there!” or “I can hook you up with my friend, she’d be perfect for you!” seem to flow from Category 1 people all the time. Meanwhile on the other end of the spectrum, Category 2 people cannot fathom the appeal of weddings, scoffing “Really. They are fun?”

While my current positions I much maligned and little understood, it actually has a lot going for it. All of my married friends are busy having real lives and buying real houses which offer me great locations to go and visit. These friends proffer a balanced long-term perspective on all my normally trivial pursuits — “I think you should bike more. Wait, are there girls that bike?” Oh wait, that actually isn’t a benefit.

On the other side of things, I get to dance my face off at all the weddings, and become an expert on wedding options and procedures. This earns me the honor of sharing advice with my buddy who is getting married even though he has only been to one wedding. And what male hasn’t wanted to help plan a friend’s wedding?

Even though the tangible benefits of my position are dubious at best, and that any elite status I can claim is limited to a Fantasy perspective, I don’t care, I still enjoy this position. Just think about this for a little perspective — 15 million people in the United States play Fantasy Football, which definitely has no tangible benefits. Fifteen million people can’t be wrong, can they?

I call her Sissy, but the name doesn’t really fit.

My sister Sallie is tough. I make my living writing about men who are tough. Men who can bench press my sister 100 times. Men who run at each other full speed, collide, get up and do it again.

But they got nothing on my sister. Sallie tells me that the uterus is the strongest muscle in the human body. I can’t really vouch for that with me lacking the uterus and all, but I believe her. She’s studying to become a midwife so I’ll take her word on these types of things.

She also just gave birth to a baby boy on Sunday. Now, as any woman would tell you, that’s tough. But a lot of women have babies every day. Before I have a mob of angry women pounding at my door, let me share that I respect the heck out of any woman who brings a child into this world. I’m happy I don’t have to go though that pain.

Anyway, that’s not why my sister is tough. Nine days before she gave birth, my sister separated herself from the pregnant women of the world. I was in Colorado on my way to a wedding, and my sister’s friend called to ask if Sallie and her son Tayte would like to go on a hike.

Most would be surprised by sister’s answer, but I wasn’t. The only challenge I’ve ever seen my sister fear is an algebra equation. But when it comes to climbing a mountain or running a marathon, pregnancy is no deterrent for Sallie.

So, nine months pregnant, Sallie hiked two miles up a mountain and two miles back down, rarely stopping to take a break. I walked behind her the whole way. I am the protective brother. I knew she wasn’t going to fall, but if she did, I was going to catch her.

People would pass us the other way up and down the mountain, sweating and breathing heavily, feeling a sense of satisfaction that they had conquered the trail. This was no easy trail. We weren’t climbing Everest, but it was rocky and steep.

As each person passed, they would catch a glimpse of my sister’s belly and their jaws would drop. “Oh my,” was a common reaction. My sister was almost annoyed. She didn’t see the big deal. But it was a big deal, and I had a big smile on my face each time. Yep, that was my sister.

Sallie is an inspiration to me. Like I said, she’s studying to become a midwife while raising two boys – now three, four if you count daddy Cory and she probably would – but at 31, she’s finally found her dream job. And nothing is stopping her. Nothing has ever stopped my sister from living her life or climbing a mountain or conquering her next challenge.

Sallie lives to her own tune. I think she’s weird sometimes. She doesn’t eat gluten and I didn’t even know what gluten was until recently. Scratch that, I still really don’t know what glutton is. I don’t even know if I spelled it right.

She’s kind of a hippy and will only eat organic and clean with organic soaps and use organic deodorant.*

*Organic deodorant does not work. Believe me. Remember, I followed her up a mountain – downwind – last week. I would know.

But Sallie has never cared what anyone else thinks is weird, and that’s what I love about my sister. She believes in herself and follows her dreams, and I’m so happy that she has finally found her dream job. She searched for so long before she finally discovered it a couple years ago.

Sometimes I care a little too much about what other people think. I’ve been tired lately, and when I’m tired and feel overwhelmed with work, I wonder whether I’m capable of following my dream.

But then I think of my sister. And now I’ll think about her nine months pregnant, hiking up a mountain on a hot day, not batting an eye.

My Sissy is no sissy, and we should all tackle every challenge like she does. No fear and no hesitation… but with the good deodorant.

I am a morning person. Always have been. I was born at 6:56 a.m., and still get going thereabouts. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept past 9 in the last year. I feel like I own the mornings — I have energy. I usually feel good, sharp.

Childhood mornings were lovely. They were lively, lots of people up, babies, toddlers, Dad making CLOMP CLOMP sounds on the kitchen floor in his work shoes, oatmeal on the stove, Mom stage-managing as everyone got fed, shod and out the door.

Mornings in college were different, but still MINE. Freshman year I’d often have a diet cola (couldn’t afford Diet Coke) and a Pall Mall cigarette (couldn’t afford Marlboro or Camel) for breakfast, hustle to the bus in ill-fitting pants — somewhat heartbroken that year, I lost some weight. I had an 8 a.m. calc class my first semester, and I bet it wasn’t half as bad for me as for most people. I was alert, took notes. I wrote trying-to-be-funny, unfunny haikus to entertain myself, and ended up with a B.

My first senior year of college, second semester, I decided to get addicted to coffee, which amplified my mornings to somewhat of a religious experience (until my caffeine tolerance caught up). That semester I had a full-time editing job at KU’s magazine, 15 hours of classes, a part-time job at a sports bar 45 minutes away, a Big Brothers Big Sisters commitment and a new boyfriend. Two or three cups in, I’d be buzzing as I made the brisk, 10-minute, straight-uphill walk to the newsroom. Sun not fully up yet? No problem — I was emanating energy, glowing. One year later (my second senior year), mornings were my escape. I would buzz out as early as possible, 7:30 or 8. I was eager to be out of the house, where I was deeeee-pressed. My best friend, TOD’s Jacky, had moved to New York, the boyfriend was away in the Army and I had roommate troubles. I once ran into a roommate at 6:30 a.m.: She was coming home from a night out, I was headed to my morning shower.

I’ve loved all the mornings, but here, they are exquisite. Like, a joke. My living room deck and window look into a tree-filled valley — WITH A CHURCH STEEPLE VISIBLE — and hills in the distance. There’s often a gorgeous mist. We have windows open half the year. It’s like waking up in an extremely luxurious treehouse.

The flipside of my God-given superhuman morning affinity is that I crash about 2 p.m., to the extent that I have to be very careful with what I eat for lunch (NO. CARBS.) and have nearly fallen asleep at the wheel. Still, it’s a small price to pay for MY glorious mornings.