Today was my Boy Dolphyn's parent/teacher conference.

It started snowing this morning around 7am. I remember thinking, "I wonder how the roads will be come 1 o'clock when I need to drive to the school." I shook it off...this is Texas ya know, the weather could very well reach 70, regardless as to what The Weather Channel says, with how unstable it is here.

It continued to snow. All day.

12:30 rolls around and I hop in the car, figuring I would need to drive carefully and I'd rather be oober early to the school than late. I say a quick prayer: "God, help me drive on these streets, help me make it to the school safely for this conference."

And I proceed to drive....

...only to come to a slow spin as I turn the corner. It's frightening when breaking does nothing. Thank God my neighbor's car was not parked in front of her house. I would've ran into it.

I pull out of the middle of the street, park, and say another, more detailed prayer: "God, please help the tires to have traction on these roads. Please bring my angels to help keep me safe, to shield me and to help the car function properly. Please bring me to the school and back safely, with no problems....."

This is when I think, "I could reschedule. The teacher will understand."

I debate myself with, "But I need to not fear a slick road. I need to get over that."

Before I allowed my thoughts to carry on, I end my prayer with, "And if You feel I shouldn't go, let me know."

So I CRAWL down the street, take the turn like a boss and wait at the stop before pulling out onto roads that seemed to be in far better shape than my 'hood.

I'm seeing the answers to my prayers unfolding before me until a neighbor slowly pulls into the neighborhood and hits me.

A lovely fender bender.

No one is hurt, she is apologetic, and I am realizing that it was God's telling me to reschedule...and God's allowing of this accident to tell me I needed to stay home.

I call Mr Hunter to come down and assess the damage. I'm assuming we'd need a new rear fender. I didn't dare look. I didn't want to come off like I was going to find as much damage as possible in front of the person who regretfully hit me. Neither is my 1997 Jeep Grand Cherokee anything to shout about and cry over if it got hit with the issues it already has (read: NO HEAT, transmission issues, wants to die at idle).

But there was NOTHING. No dings, no scratches, no paint smears.

The lady's car was a little worse for wear, but not by much. "I had just got this car out of the shop today, too!" she exclaimed.

I had Mr Hunter drive the car home, now that I'm permanently scarred for life. ;)

But I found the tender mercies of the Lord today. I found that the Lord didn't want me on the road. Maybe I'm the world's worst driver and he stopped me from hurting myself and anyone else that may be in my way. Maybe he wanted to make sure His children would be safe if one spun out of control on a patch of ice and me being on the road would hinder that.

Maybe He just had something better in mind. Maybe I shouldn't question it.

Sometimes we don't know why God allows things to happen. But as I grow older and strive to keep a solid connection with my God and Lord and the Holy Ghost, I have found just how often we are taken care of. Those little coincidences are never mere coincidences. "Oh, I'm glad I thought of that!" or "What a coincidence that I got this job just as I was laid off from my other job!" or "What a coincidence that I needed something and someone had it!" or "How nice that it's overcast today as I'm working outside in this heat."

Nope, those are God and his angels saying, "Hey you! I love you! I've got your back. I'll keep watch over you. Don't let those hard times bother you, you're in my care! I will make it better. You do your best and I will do the rest. You're mine to care for and I will."

Five days ago I heard the devastating news that my good friend passed away in her sleep.

She was 37.

She has 4 kids and one amazing, sweet husband.

This passing was completely, 100% unexpected.

This was a woman who I thought would live to be in her 100's; old, cranky, healthy as a horse and sharp as a tack.

I never would have guessed this would be a woman that God decided he needed a little earlier than what my crystal ball was predicting. 

And I wonder if she agreed as she was taken home to her Maker. 

This was a gal who loved everyone fiercely, and she loved her children even more. As her husband quoted her at her funeral, "I don't want to raise average kids to send out to the world, I want to raise the best."

And so she did. She was 5 feet tall and tough, but all in the name of love.

What I loved too was that she never once worried what others thought of her. She was too busy making the world a better place, raising her kids to be the stellar children that they have become in the short time she has been with them, serving others and finding humor and happiness all in between.

I. Loved. This. Girl. 

She used to live behind me, our homes shared the same alley. How I loved that she was right there. The knowledge in that brought peace to my heart. She was such a brave, courageous woman that though I was 950 miles from my family and felt the vulnerability of that, her friendship was enough for me to feel safe in this new state, full of new people and ridiculously stupid drivers (like the time when she mentioned how ridiculous it was that people stopped a whole car-length behind other cars at the intersection or how they would stop several feet before the intersection line--she turned that into a story so funny I nearly cried). She and I would laugh the day away. There was always something to talk about, something to laugh about, something to smile about.

She gave the best stories. She could turn a generic story about running to the store to get some milk into a laugh-fest, adding details of humorous things only she had the knack to pick up on. 

She once told me the story about her older sister's worthless boyfriend, how he treated her sister terribly and somehow, she found a way to get us all laughing in the end. Every story had humor.

After finding of her passing I cried. Tears would fill my eyes and before I had enough in them to make them cascade down my face, I would instantly be reminded of a funny story or experience that had her in it. My tears of sadness turned into tears of laughter. And this carried on to the next day. 

I wished that for just a few minutes, that would be allowed to mourn, to let it all out, to cry it away.

And then I got a very distinct impression. I felt it was my friend giving me these funny memories, these moments we shared with loud laughter. I then understood that my friend was telling me that she didn't want to be remembered through tears of sorrow, but through the good times, through the humor. 

And once I embraced that, I decided that I would honor that request.

I firmly believe that just because someone dies it does not mean that they are forever no longer in existence. Just because my friend is not here, inside her physical body, she still lives! She's still here! 

A couple times I heard her laughter during these past few days. No one has the laughter she does. Hers is unique. It's loud, heartfelt, popping, and contagious.

I hope to hear it more. I hope to view the world more as she did. So much I learned from her in the six years I have known her. How I wish I would have told her before she passed how much of that I have taken with me and how much it has changed me for the better.

I quote her all the time. I wonder if I ever told her that.

I find humor and happiness in all things. She inspired that in me. "Life is too short," I would say, "to be serious". And I see that she was the prime example of my own words.

I found that being a strong, courageous woman is a trait I should never shun from being, something I should never apologize for. Being stubborn too, I have found, is not a trait I should ignore or be embarrassed about. This woman was strong, this woman was stubborn as hell, but all in the name of love and in the name of honoring her children and keeping her family safe. She didn't care what other's thought of her, she knew what was best for her family. And what she was was the best mother and wife that family could have asked for. 

How many times do people come into our lives, touch our lives for the better and we never tell them? Too many times. 

Pam, I hope you're reading this. I hope you know how much I keep you close to my heart. I hope you know that I know you are not far and that I know you have checked in on me, just as you would do with all your friends and family. 

You are the perfect example of loving, mother hen. 

And a life-changing friend. Your work has not ended, but just began. And I know you, you'll dive in head-first protecting, comforting, healing, guiding, all with that unconditional love you have and finding humor in everything to go tell those on the other side. 

If only I could hear those stories. 

God bless you, my friend. And thank you, for blessing my life.

My friend Jane, wrote this:

I think DYT has taken a beautiful system and made it accidentally a tool of judgment. (...) What happens is we want to say "I AM" and "YOU ARE" definitely this type. And if you're wrong, then you're fooling yourself. Don't you see it? And thus self-judgment and judgment of others. 

And it had me thinking.

Why? Because I am guilty of this. Have I been upfront and told my friends that I thought their Typing was wrong? I hope not. Sure, I find frustration when a friend is beating a dead horse over something we all already know is her Type and yet she won't listen or is continuously wanting confirmation on a Type.

Does it really matter if we know what our Type is?

For me, and for some I know, yes.

But for others?

I don't think so. Or maybe the better answer is: Not yet.

I'm part of a Facebook group that houses a kaleidoscope of women. All of different ages, all from different parts of the world, all with their own, unique story.

And I have found that knowing your Type does not come easily as I thought, and as a lot of others believe. A friend's recent posting has had me feeling somber and turning inward, knowing that I needed to write and praying as to what I should.

Time and again we fail to understand that if we walked a mile in our friends' shoes, that we would see life and ourselves differently. Maybe knowing who we are isn't so "black and white" or an eye-opening experience.

While I can't always state a person's dominant, I am pretty fair at knowing what their two strongest energies are. And there are several instances where I talk to my friends, who are dead set at claiming a certain Type and here I wanna yell, "No, you're not a 3! You're a 2/4 or 4/2!" and yet what I'm not seeing is why they claim that type. What if Dad was an abusive Type 4 and Mom, an avoiding, beat down Type 2, who didn't know how or even appear to TRY to protect her children?

What if someone believes that being a certain Type meant being safe? What if it meant that all people would love them if they were that Type? Or, what if being a certain Type provided protection to a very wounded inner child?

Can you see now, why someone would want to claim anything other than those Types that may appear to harm, even if that is their true nature? We condition ourselves at a young age to learn what is good, what is bad, and how the hell to survive, even if those conditions we placed in our minds are distorted. They are nevertheless, TRUTHS to us. And yet, we tell them they are wrong, as though they are stupid and we are know-it-all Yodas.

Maybe what is most important in our life is happiness. That's it: Happiness.

Does it matter if you claim Type 2 today, embrace it and love yourself for it and in a few years realize that you are actually a Type 1?

Does that matter at all?

No!

What matters most is that you love yourself. What matters most is that you can heal from any past wounds and move forward, knowing that you are doing the best you can do, embracing all aspects of yourself; the good and the bad.

If we are forced to believe that we are a Type that we are not ready to accept, I fear we will regress and only turn inward, avoiding any and all aspect of that Type, which in turn will lead us to a life of pain.

I tell ya, had I not spent years of learning self love, having read a handful of books about self help, and experiencing trials that I know only the Good Lord gave to me as He was seeing my need for self knowledge and betterment, I would have wrongly typed myself by the time Carol Tuttle's book had reached my hands.

So when a friend says, "I'm a Type 2" when clearly they are a Type 4/1, do them a favor and congratulate them. And unless they ask for your opinion, don't give it. We do not know the paths our friends are leading. We do not know the darkness they are trying to escape from. We can't see the path they labored through to get to where they are.

Help them love themselves, all of themselves. That's better than telling them what they are and what they aren't.

Once upon a time there was a brace-faced girl.

Who religiously over-plucked her eyebrows.

And spent her teenagers years a chameleon. She would be whatever the majority of the group was. Or the type of person that she figured would get her the boy she liked.

(Heartbreak much?)

And while that seems like no big deal, for this suppressed Type 3 girl, it was a challenge. She tried matching her Type 1 friend's high energy, but it drained her and even she knew she was coming off fake. She tried being serious and strict like her Type 4 friends, but she didn't agree with their "It is or it isn't" opinions. She tried being confident and pushy like her Type 3 friends but she considered other's feelings way too much...plus she thought she was ugly. 

Every day she would question her actions, her motives, wondered what the hell she was doing and why did it not feel right for her to be the way she tried so desperately to be when personalities came so effortlessly to her friends.

Being a Type 2 "fit", albeit the mold was itchier than chigger bites all over ones ankles.

Sure enough this woman grew up, "blossomed", if that's what you consider finally knowing how to master makeup, symmetrical eyebrows and fashionable clothes.

She met a man, a real kickass, charming man. And together they started a family.

Everything seemed right.

But this woman, wife, mother wasn't wholly happy.

But she didn't complain. She had everything in life she had always dreamed.

...including as much food as she wanted to eat. 

And eating away her emotions, her dissatisfaction with herself, she did.

(End of third person narration.)

5' 3" 210lbs

At my heaviest, the day before delivering my youngest.

How I hated this picture. My mom insisted we take it so we can "document" this moment of sheer obesity pregnancy. I know this is a poor picture but I refuse to ask my mother for the original copy. I was miserable and in terrible pain. That's all you need to know.

I was determined to believe that all 65 pounds gained would just melt off within a couple weeks of delivery.

Size 13 pants

Yeah, right, Ladee. When does that ever happen?

A year or two later, my friend and I decided to go on a diet together. We would track our calories, keep it at a healthy number and whaddya know, Ladee started losing weight.

And while my body was finally a sight that I no longer cringed looking at, I continued to feel that something was missing.

But I didn't know what. Nothing made sense. I had everything. 

So I thought that this was it. This was the happiest I would ever become. And I was ok with that.

...but I still found food as my source for comfort. My weight was a constant yo-yo. I would be strict and then I would toss all my healthy desires to the wind as I ate whole bags of M&Ms and a whole box of ice cream Drumsticks. And you think I'm kidding.

And then one day my family and I heard the most tragic news, Grandpa was sick and would pass soon.

Such a traumatic moment became the moment of awakening. While I spent weeks in mourning over my precious Grandpa, the walls that I did not realize I had placed for safety around me crumbled. I was at my most vulnerable. I was broken. 

And one day I realized I needed to wipe those tears, pick myself up, and live.

I started changing. A little Ladee was coming forward and from deep within, her voice quiet at first, but as I embraced her, she became more prominent. 

After a couple years of this, this little Ladee now my main personality, I thoroughly believed I had gone through some sort of identity crisis. But could it be a "crisis" if I'm freakin' loving who this new chick is?!

I found Carol Tuttle's Book, "It's Just My Nature" and my life my sense. 

I decided then to let myself be more authentic, more natural, embracing my natural looks (except those eyebrows, those will remained penciled) and no longer trying so hard to be someone I'm not.

This inner love for myself, finally seeing myself as the Lord sees me, gave me the desire to be healthy and mostly, to. be. happy. 

Mr. Hunter has stated that I'm not the same person he married. But he never once as said he wished for the old Ladee back. He senses my happiness, my confidence, and while it was a momentary culture shock for me to not turn to him for his every opinion, desire, or action on something, he has welcomed my "inner blossoming". 

And I couldn't have asked for a better companion.

While some things have changed, both inside and out. Some things, clearly, haven't:

Fact: Ladee was a dork then and Ladee is still a dork now. 

*Please note that I am no longer The Type 3 Woman. Here's why.*

Well, everyone else is doing it. I might as well do drugs and jump off a cliff too.

Mark it in your journals people, I wore color on my lips.

These big lips wear nothing but Chapstick Medicated.

So what does that mean?

It means I only have one lipstick color...from four years ago. 

Buried deep within the dark part of my bathroom drawer, hadn't seen the light of day in several months, to be pulled out for "Just In Case" moments.

Like today. Thanks to The Crazy for making me keep it.

So I had to get a little creative. 

Type 1's lipcolor = The lipstick +  white liquid shimmer eye shadow

Type 2's lipcolor = The lipstick + a dab of this (brunette). No joke.

Type 3's lipcolor = towel burned lips (I did T3 last) + light brown shadow to bring back to "normal".

Type 4's lipcolor = The lipstick + a bright pink eye shadow that also bunks with lipstick.

While I should have gone all out and done a full face of makeup with each Type, I didn't. I had the burning desire to get this all done now, and to do that would take several days, if not all day. And motivation. Which comes at random.

Maybe makeup can be another day.

Perhaps. 

Eh.

My conclusion on wearing each Type:

Type 1 - I laughed at myself with this look. I look ridiculous. And like a man. My nose looks eww. And I felt like I was suffocating myself with trying to be excited in this photo.

Type 2 - I felt like I was forcing myself to be the romantic we all know I'll never be. I hated trying to be soft and sweet, yuck. Reminded me of times past when I wasn't myself.

Type 3 - DUH, how do YOU think I felt?

Type 4 - I had three different Type 4 tops and after doing those photos, I felt like I had a knot in my stomach. I can see why people feel anxiety for reasons not found as I was on the verge of having an attack myself wearing such bold colors. I threw off my last top and didn't hang it back up. I'd rather go naked, I've decided.

But I have a confession. 

I have one color that I love beyond my love for chocolate turnovers that, according to the Type 3 mold, is not a color I should be wearing.

Sorry?

No, I'm not. Will I ever place myself in a mold again? 

Crud, I hope not.

I really don't know what this color is called. It's a deep grey with a hint of blue. Looking online I found a site that called it "pewter" but that brings me back several years ago when I was debating with my friend that pewter was more of a grey-brown than a grey-blue.

According to Wikipedia, we're both right.

But regardless, I don't see this color as "pewter". 

I loved this pewter shirt as it sat for weeks in my closet, unworn. Something about that shade me happy, but I figured it wouldn't look good on me as grey was just for the Type 2s. 

Encouragement of a friend had me trying it on.

How could I look so good in such a "wrong" color? I don't know! But the rebel inside smirked and said, "Who cares? I like it!" I took a pic and sent it to my friend with this message, "Screw brown, this is my black".

And then I was introduced to the beautiful name Zyla. I know little of Zyla. 

...except that Zyla calls me "The Sexy Librarian". 

Hello, best name ever!

I sure as hell like her. 

Or him. Whoops yes, HIM.

(My bad.)

Especially after hearing my friend, Jane, say this:

"Zyla does NOT determine your (type) by your...colors, you are (your type) first and then those are your special additional colors, that might even seem out of range."

Why does this make me so stinkin' happy?

Because it allows me to be a rebel without really being a rebel! Ya know that I'm sayin'?

That's like God saying, "No one can cheat in college and expect to become a high-paying doctor... Except. For. You. You are immune. Enjoy."

My "First Base" color is technically my black! And my energy color is a darker version of my first base color which therefore would make sense why I love wearing it and why I feel so darn good doing so!

Sometimes being a rebel is being right.