Last week I returned from a vacation in Washington State. One day during the trip, my daughter and I picked up sea shells from a beach off of the Puget Sound called Horsehead Bay. We gathered quite a few, the ones still intact and with minimal damage to them. I've had the sea stowage in my garage airing out for the last week. Today I decided to bring them in and wash them.
I began by dropping each one in hot soapy water. Then with a scrubbing sponge, I scrubbed them inside and out. At first, I only noted the swift removal of their grit. As I turned one over to clean the outside of it, I noticed the more I scrubbed the more it faded. I placed it in the side sink and did the same to the next one, wanting to prove my theory. It was one of the bigger ones we had found. It reminded me of a human hand. Its more prominent curves resembled the bones that lead out to webbed finger tips. On the other more the rounded side formed its wrist. Starting horizontally, grooves ran in subtle waves cutting across it ending on the other side. Each wave encapsulated colors ranging from dirty coral tones, to muted browns, and almost muddy purple hues. As I scrubbed it, the browns faded. I continued rubbing until its knuckles were completely white. I looked at it. It was no longer a vibrant beautiful thing, it was a lifeless bleached corpse. Its uniqueness had been scrubbed away. I was careful with how I cleaned the rest, using the sponge side on the outside and the scrubber side to remove the sand. As I began rinsing off the clean pile, I noticed the hotter the water, the more the colors faded. I wondered if it had to do with steam or if once they dried out a bit, the color would return. Of the ones bathed in hot water, their colors didn't restore. So, I changed tactics. I rinsed the rest off in cold water. I noticed another pattern of color change; if the water was too cold, they lost their brilliancy, however, if the water was merely cool, they retained their original hue. I was perplexed by this phenomenon, and as I always do, I applied its effects to my life.
The more experience I have, the more scars I have. The more I try to stay on the path I'm suppose to stay on, the more intact I stay. And perhaps the more rips and tears I endure from these experiences on this path, the more brilliant I am and the more beautiful my life becomes.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Hairy Cairy
Today, I find myself in a rare situation. Both of my kids are "hanging out" with other kids, my husband is at work and I am sitting in silence with nothing to do. This isn't true, there's always something to do, I guess I have no motivation to start a new something. Yesterday I made an appointment to have my hair done. Through anxiety and tremendous trepidation I arranged to have my hair cut and colored at a Salon I had heard little about. This is in stark contrast to the last place I was butchered at where I had heard and read rave reviews, so why not? The original person I was scheduled with was suddenly, and regrettably unable to take me within an hour and a half of my appointment, so I was given to someone else. Strike one. I arrived on time and met the girl who was going to fill in. She was cute and edgy and willing to listen to my past tortured hair-situation. Unfortunately, I think I scared her to death. Immediately she spilled bottle water on me, she pinged me repeatedly in the head with combs, brushes, and clips. She accidentally flung a piece of hair she had just finished coating in bleach and caught me in the eye with its tip. I then followed her blindly to a sink where I stuck my face under freezing water to rinse out my eye. I sat the rest of the four and a half hours with exactly half of my face resembling an abstract watercolor, ducking, cringing and holding my breath every time she whisked about my head with a pair of scissors, or razor blade. Strike two. I also crushed a little inside every time she made comparisons between me and her mother and told me that I now looked like a "sexy mommy". Strike three. Despite the emotional and physical dangers I experienced I will go back, and I will even go back to her. The reason is because she did an amazing job with my hair (think along the lines of Mary Tyler Moore circa 1960s with an edge). I love it! This ordeal made me wonder why I would "put up with", and possibly risk my life, merely in the name of a fantastic haircut? I think we (particularly women) "put up with" a lot according to the end result. This "putting up with" extends beyond the hairdo (e.g. paint color of the living room, your husband's favorite shirt, and even foreplay).
I recently got back from visiting my brother-in-law and his wife who live in Seattle. In the name of cutting down costs and developing a stronger relationship with family, my husband and I decided to stay in their home with them. We had a blast. We are in love with them and we will gladly go and visit them again, but we'll probably stay in a hotel some place close to them, next time.
My brother-in-law and his wife go a million miles an hour. I thought I was a go-go-go kind-of person, I have nothing on either one of them. Because they are constantly rushing in their life, there is a lot of energy bi-product in the form of numerous projects consuming their every living space. The contents of these projects are complex to me and appear meaningless, but to my sister-in-law, she knows exactly what they contain and what their value truly is. What I interpret as chaos, they view as a home where life is worth living.
Today, I discovered I know nothing about living in a home. I have lived in the same house for ten years and have not yet created a home. I live in a dwelling that I am always complaining about and fantasizing about moving from. I don't have close friendships around me because I simply don't like who I've become while living in my own neighborhood. I have morphed into a stressed out tyrant who sulks within a house, desperate to change my circumstance without truly knowing where to start. I live in a house, not a home. My in-laws live in a home. I realize how hard it is to share your life and your home with someone and how generous it was that they would so easily share with us. So I don't mean for any of this to sound negative. I am positive if the situation were switched, they would find my life and my house, perplexing and probably down right boring. I have learned from this vacation, that I love them for themselves. Perhaps on our next visit, I can love them from the solitude of a hotel room.
Last night on my way home from my hair appointment I was telling my sister about the experience. She laughed and gasped and all the things a sister should who has also experienced hair calamity. By the end of the phone call she said she was sorry about my hair. I was confused. No I like my hair. I plan on going back. She laughed and I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear where I noticed I had been clipped and was bleeding. I'll be aware next time. And will possibly make sure my health insurance covers maimings. But I will go back because my hair looks so awesome! Besides, in understanding I at times self-sabotage, maybe someday I will realize the importance of how to achieve an actual home run and be happy with where I am and who I am.
I recently got back from visiting my brother-in-law and his wife who live in Seattle. In the name of cutting down costs and developing a stronger relationship with family, my husband and I decided to stay in their home with them. We had a blast. We are in love with them and we will gladly go and visit them again, but we'll probably stay in a hotel some place close to them, next time.
My brother-in-law and his wife go a million miles an hour. I thought I was a go-go-go kind-of person, I have nothing on either one of them. Because they are constantly rushing in their life, there is a lot of energy bi-product in the form of numerous projects consuming their every living space. The contents of these projects are complex to me and appear meaningless, but to my sister-in-law, she knows exactly what they contain and what their value truly is. What I interpret as chaos, they view as a home where life is worth living.
Today, I discovered I know nothing about living in a home. I have lived in the same house for ten years and have not yet created a home. I live in a dwelling that I am always complaining about and fantasizing about moving from. I don't have close friendships around me because I simply don't like who I've become while living in my own neighborhood. I have morphed into a stressed out tyrant who sulks within a house, desperate to change my circumstance without truly knowing where to start. I live in a house, not a home. My in-laws live in a home. I realize how hard it is to share your life and your home with someone and how generous it was that they would so easily share with us. So I don't mean for any of this to sound negative. I am positive if the situation were switched, they would find my life and my house, perplexing and probably down right boring. I have learned from this vacation, that I love them for themselves. Perhaps on our next visit, I can love them from the solitude of a hotel room.
Last night on my way home from my hair appointment I was telling my sister about the experience. She laughed and gasped and all the things a sister should who has also experienced hair calamity. By the end of the phone call she said she was sorry about my hair. I was confused. No I like my hair. I plan on going back. She laughed and I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear where I noticed I had been clipped and was bleeding. I'll be aware next time. And will possibly make sure my health insurance covers maimings. But I will go back because my hair looks so awesome! Besides, in understanding I at times self-sabotage, maybe someday I will realize the importance of how to achieve an actual home run and be happy with where I am and who I am.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Eye for an Eye
I can't believe it has been two months since my corrective eye surgery and I haven't bloggedabout it. After three consultations and price comparisons I settled on a surgical center. Getting the outer layer of your cornea removed is expensive. For three days straight, I whethered eye dilation and probes. I finally went with the Eye Institute of Utah. I liked everyone I came in contact with and was treated incredibly well. By the way Dr. Hoopes Sr, is a real jerk. Anyway, I made my appointment and my husband drove me there. I didn't realize there was a difference between Lasik Surgery and what I was eligible for; PRK. PRK stands for Photo Refractive Keratectomy, it also stands for Son-of-a-bitch, this is the worse pain in the history of all pain. I worry about writing this last statement for a couple of reasons; my Mother may someday start to read my blog and will know I swear, and the other is that my blogs seem to talk about the many different experiences I've had that are painful, seemingly both emotionally and physically. I worry that I am the biggest wimp on the earth. However, this is a brutally honest documentation of said experiences and so, pain is what I write. For you, I will commit to experiencing so many of the things that are painful and pass on my wisdom...
On the day of surgery, I was whisked upstairs to the surgical unit at the Eye Institute. The lights were low and a fountain splashed somewhere nearby. I was given a hairnet, a Valium and a green apple Jolly Rancher. I found this perplexing. I wouldn't have thought to take a Valium with a Jolly Rancher chaser. I was then led to the actual surgical room. I felt really good. I mean really good and I don't think it was the Jolly Rancher. I laid on top of a padded sort of stretcher where my head had to be wedged into a doughnut hole shape at the top. This was so I couldn't squirm resulting in the Lazar hitting something else (I was told). I was wrapped from my waist down in a warm, soft blue blanket and was handed a stuffed bunny rabbit doned in green surgical scrubs. Between the Jolly Rancher and the surgically outfitted stuffed animal, I began wondering if the procedure was going to be performed by Willy Wonka.
My eyelashes were taped open both the top and the bottom, while the other eye was covered with a hard sphere, also taped to my face. A technician counted throughout the ordeal. It was bazaar watching as a liquid was poured onto my pried opened eye and then a tiny tool which looked like a hoe, began scraping off the top layer of my cornea. I could see and unfortunately comprehend a tweezers-like instrument pulling off what the hoe had loosened. Then a large plastic contact lens was placed over my pupil and the tape (and most of my eyelashes) was then torn off. I had to endure the other side at this point. It only lasted 7 minutes per side and when it was finished I could see immediately better than before I went in, wearing my glasses. I asked the technician if I now belonged to "the collective". He must not have been a Star Trek fan because he didn't know what I was talking about.
The following week my eyesight grew worse. Even worse than being blind was the pain. I could not get any since of relief. It burned when I closed my eyes, it was worse when I opened them. The light hurt, the air hurt, I hurt. I was on a dose of pain medication which I normally refuse to take. After my Hysterectomy I took Loretab for one day and then 800 mg of Advil for the next few days afterwards. This was intense. I was told that I would be in some discomfort after the PRK. They lied. It was horrible. In the middle of the night my husband took me in after I spent the day screaming into my pillow. Apparently the large bandage-type contact lens I was fitted with was too tight. What was bad about this whole ordeal was that I couldn't produce tears. Normally when you get something in your eye, tears soothe and flush it out. This wasn't the case after my surgery. The following day I had a follow up exam. The doctor asked about my "discomfort". If I could have seen him I would have slugged him. "Discomfort?!! I know what discomfort feels like, I wear under wire bras! This is sheer pain!" I yelled. He was apprehensive with me after that. I felt a little better when, the next day he called and started asking me about my "discomfort level" again and abruptly changed mid-sentenced and asked how my pain was doing.
Within one week of the surgery I felt better. I wasn't in pain anymore and I was able to open my eyes for longer periods of time. Each week I feel like my eyesight improves. It has been a slow process (PRK takes up to three months for a perfect and nonfluctuating eyesight), it's been two.
Overall, I am glad I did it. I love going to bed being able to see, waking up being able to see and getting in water both while showering and while swimming,being able to see. Plus finally, I believe my eyelashes have grown back!
On the day of surgery, I was whisked upstairs to the surgical unit at the Eye Institute. The lights were low and a fountain splashed somewhere nearby. I was given a hairnet, a Valium and a green apple Jolly Rancher. I found this perplexing. I wouldn't have thought to take a Valium with a Jolly Rancher chaser. I was then led to the actual surgical room. I felt really good. I mean really good and I don't think it was the Jolly Rancher. I laid on top of a padded sort of stretcher where my head had to be wedged into a doughnut hole shape at the top. This was so I couldn't squirm resulting in the Lazar hitting something else (I was told). I was wrapped from my waist down in a warm, soft blue blanket and was handed a stuffed bunny rabbit doned in green surgical scrubs. Between the Jolly Rancher and the surgically outfitted stuffed animal, I began wondering if the procedure was going to be performed by Willy Wonka.
My eyelashes were taped open both the top and the bottom, while the other eye was covered with a hard sphere, also taped to my face. A technician counted throughout the ordeal. It was bazaar watching as a liquid was poured onto my pried opened eye and then a tiny tool which looked like a hoe, began scraping off the top layer of my cornea. I could see and unfortunately comprehend a tweezers-like instrument pulling off what the hoe had loosened. Then a large plastic contact lens was placed over my pupil and the tape (and most of my eyelashes) was then torn off. I had to endure the other side at this point. It only lasted 7 minutes per side and when it was finished I could see immediately better than before I went in, wearing my glasses. I asked the technician if I now belonged to "the collective". He must not have been a Star Trek fan because he didn't know what I was talking about.
The following week my eyesight grew worse. Even worse than being blind was the pain. I could not get any since of relief. It burned when I closed my eyes, it was worse when I opened them. The light hurt, the air hurt, I hurt. I was on a dose of pain medication which I normally refuse to take. After my Hysterectomy I took Loretab for one day and then 800 mg of Advil for the next few days afterwards. This was intense. I was told that I would be in some discomfort after the PRK. They lied. It was horrible. In the middle of the night my husband took me in after I spent the day screaming into my pillow. Apparently the large bandage-type contact lens I was fitted with was too tight. What was bad about this whole ordeal was that I couldn't produce tears. Normally when you get something in your eye, tears soothe and flush it out. This wasn't the case after my surgery. The following day I had a follow up exam. The doctor asked about my "discomfort". If I could have seen him I would have slugged him. "Discomfort?!! I know what discomfort feels like, I wear under wire bras! This is sheer pain!" I yelled. He was apprehensive with me after that. I felt a little better when, the next day he called and started asking me about my "discomfort level" again and abruptly changed mid-sentenced and asked how my pain was doing.
Within one week of the surgery I felt better. I wasn't in pain anymore and I was able to open my eyes for longer periods of time. Each week I feel like my eyesight improves. It has been a slow process (PRK takes up to three months for a perfect and nonfluctuating eyesight), it's been two.
Overall, I am glad I did it. I love going to bed being able to see, waking up being able to see and getting in water both while showering and while swimming,being able to see. Plus finally, I believe my eyelashes have grown back!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fantasy Island
My Hubby and I went to a movie the other night. We saw "Knight and Day", which was a very fun flick and we liked it. During the previews, a coming attraction starring Angelina Jolie aired. It was 30 seconds of her scowling, running, shooting and dying her hair from a false blond to a bluish-black and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Is there anybody worse than Angelina Jolie? She's crazy. She's scary. She's gorgeous. Her stardom is puzzling. I feel like the only thing we have in common is that she derived from the same Island as Wonder Woman and I from the Island of Misfit Toys.
When I scowl, there's not a sexy smirk on my face. It's a scowl. When I run, I look like it takes a lot for me to be doing it. And shooting...do the hoses both outside and attached to my kitchen sink count? I also have super dark hair and recently went blond-ish. It was an accident and it wasn't blond, it was more highlighter-yellow with orange stripes. I resembled Tony the Tiger, not Angelina Jolie. When it comes to me and moments of craziness, I have to be medicated. And, although I adore my Hubby, he's not Brad Pitt. That's alright though, he informed me, I'm no Angelina Jolie.
When I scowl, there's not a sexy smirk on my face. It's a scowl. When I run, I look like it takes a lot for me to be doing it. And shooting...do the hoses both outside and attached to my kitchen sink count? I also have super dark hair and recently went blond-ish. It was an accident and it wasn't blond, it was more highlighter-yellow with orange stripes. I resembled Tony the Tiger, not Angelina Jolie. When it comes to me and moments of craziness, I have to be medicated. And, although I adore my Hubby, he's not Brad Pitt. That's alright though, he informed me, I'm no Angelina Jolie.
Monday, April 19, 2010
My Molting Mug
One week ago I decided to under go a Chemical Peel. I was told it was fairly non-evasive. It resulted in the removing of skin deterioration, pock-marks and fine lines. There might be some discomfort. There could be some peeling, I was informed. I was told this by an esthetician who donned the skin of a new born baby. She looked fabulous, but she lied. The very name of "Chemical Peel", should have clued me in. You are chemically peeling your face off! If I dunked my face in a tub of Bleach, I would probably have less wrinkles, fewer pock-marks and the obliteration of acne scars. I also wouldn't have skin on my face. And it wouldn't cost me $139.00! The procedure was done in a beautiful, peaceful, spa environment. There was mood lighting, the smell of eucalyptus and essential body oils waffed through the air. In the distance I recall hearing a fountain. I know this because whenever in close proximity to water, I have to pee. And I had to pee during this experience. Anyway, the beautifully-skinned woman applied what she referred to as a "less evasive" peel. It had the consistency of Liquid Dish soap and smelled of Wintergreen. I enjoyed the facial massage that went along with the application. Skin-girl didn't seem to mind my absent-minded prattle. Then she handed me a large portable fan, giving instructions to pull a lever left for more wind and right for less and placed it on my stomach. Interesting...10 seconds after the expensive goop was rubbed into my skin a horrible burn scratched its way to the service. I panicked. Which way was I suppose to pull the lever for more air? Quietly, the woman with the beautiful skin, asked me to describe the pain. On a scale from 1-10 I was suppose to rate how much discomfort I was experiencing. I skipped the number 1 phase and began on a number 5. I was trying to "walk it off", refusing to be a wimp, while at the same time wonder if an epidural was included in the $139.00. Breathlessly, I blurted out "Seven!" It was really more of a 15, but I didn't want to admit that. 15 wasn't even on the pain registry! Luckily, it was short lived. When the procedure ended, I didn't look that much different. I was determined I could see immediate, visual improvements. On Tuesday, there was nothing different, maybe a little redness, but nothing to report. The next day the peeling began. I slathered sun-block 70 all over my face, and unfortunately in my eyes. BTW sun-block-eye-slather-pain lasts off and on for hours. Day three, I woke up, blistered, scabbed, peeling, and burning. I looked like I had literally fallen off the "turnip truck", and then the truck backed up over me. I couldn't eat (my mouth would split if I opened too, widely). I couldn't blink (my skin under my right eye would split). And, I couldn't laugh at my pitiful self (my face would gash open). I lived on 4 Advil and a Diet Coke every 4 hours that day and stayed hidden within the solace of my 3-bedroom Rambler. The following day I emerged. I had three doctor's appointments, and had to go to my College class. I felt awkward, naked, exposed. I couldn't wear makeup, I was sporting a hideous haircut from the week before, in order to prepare for a Lasik Optical exam I was wearing my dreaded glasses, and if I had to be in a swimsuit at the moment I would have shot myself. A woman from behind a drive-thru window confirmed my worst fears. She commented on my ugly hair. Saying that now I look like a "mommy". She then asked what was "going on" with my face and then informed me that I really should take a vacation; I needed to be hidden from the public looking the way I did. An hour and a half later I was sitting in a hair salon. Another two inches was cut off(a total of 6), and I began to breath again. The next day my face was better. My hair was better. I felt a little better. The day after that I was able to wear a bit of makeup, and my haircut was actually now on the cute side. Today, my face is much, much better. I went to my Optical exam and received great news. Soon, no more glasses or contacts. I am getting used to my haircut and don't jump when I see my reflection anymore. I can see I have a fresh look to my skin. My pores are tiny. Today, I began wondering if maybe I too, will become a skin goddess. I still have two more chemical peels to go and I feel confident that my acne scars will be gone soon, just in time for swimsuit season and sunburns!
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter Egg Blues
Sometimes I worry that I am stuck in the Twilight zone. It is as if I am the only person without the whole story and I am suppose to navigate through life trying to fit different pieces into the void. I sat at two Easter dinners, with nearly identical menus, and tried out different pieces. Who am I? Where do I fit in? This is my family, why is it I am still trying to fit in? Both sides of my family tree are generally alike, but then there are huge differences. I don't consider myself extreme, in any way and maybe that is why I feel misplaced. Maybe, it's because I want to hear all the sides of an issue before I commit to a side. Doesn't this mean I'm non biased? Isn't this good? Instead I am seen as a rouge;some weird transplant that doesn't function how it should, and doesn't quite match the other appendages. I am someone else's heart.
I learned in my yoga class about being at one with the earth and the best way to do this is by being a valley, not a mountain. A mountain stands tall, and loud and wants the whole world to understand that they are the mountain. But the valley is constant, sturdy, and strong. The valley is quiet and reserved. The valley is what holds up the mountain, without the valley, the mountain would be lost. In fact, the mountain upside down points in the wrong direction. The valley on the other hand, has no direction, it is the direction. This is my own interpretation, and maybe I don't quite have it down how I would like, but it's a working thesis.
Three times today I had to try and remember to be a valley. I view being a mountain as better. Doesn't the valley just lay there? Isn't it weaker? Isn't it boring? Who wants to hike along a valley floor, when Mt. Kilimanjaro is right in front of you? I see the valley as the place of no where, don't you drag your feet across a valley? It isn't connected to the earth, it is the earth. Isn't the mountain in the heavens? Anyway, I am tortured by this mantra, I'm not sure I will go by it.
So, the bottom line is I am conflicted. I am confused about my place in my family, my place on the earth and my place in my own life. Happy Easter to me. Now that I think about it, Easter is just as confused as I am. A holiday devoted to Christ, symbolized by a mammoth walking Bunny that leaves eggs in children's colorful baskets. What the? Unfortunately, it has always made since to me before.
Well, hoppy Easter anyway, from the great void that is somewhere between the valley and the mountain peaks!
I learned in my yoga class about being at one with the earth and the best way to do this is by being a valley, not a mountain. A mountain stands tall, and loud and wants the whole world to understand that they are the mountain. But the valley is constant, sturdy, and strong. The valley is quiet and reserved. The valley is what holds up the mountain, without the valley, the mountain would be lost. In fact, the mountain upside down points in the wrong direction. The valley on the other hand, has no direction, it is the direction. This is my own interpretation, and maybe I don't quite have it down how I would like, but it's a working thesis.
Three times today I had to try and remember to be a valley. I view being a mountain as better. Doesn't the valley just lay there? Isn't it weaker? Isn't it boring? Who wants to hike along a valley floor, when Mt. Kilimanjaro is right in front of you? I see the valley as the place of no where, don't you drag your feet across a valley? It isn't connected to the earth, it is the earth. Isn't the mountain in the heavens? Anyway, I am tortured by this mantra, I'm not sure I will go by it.
So, the bottom line is I am conflicted. I am confused about my place in my family, my place on the earth and my place in my own life. Happy Easter to me. Now that I think about it, Easter is just as confused as I am. A holiday devoted to Christ, symbolized by a mammoth walking Bunny that leaves eggs in children's colorful baskets. What the? Unfortunately, it has always made since to me before.
Well, hoppy Easter anyway, from the great void that is somewhere between the valley and the mountain peaks!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Immaturity 101
I recently did something I regret.
I have been going to College, and have been working incredibly hard at it. I feel like I am constantly defending (mostly to myself) why I would be attending classes filled with people who are close to half my age.
One such person, I condescendingly call "Skippy" because I don't know his real name, and because he absolutely drives me crazy; Skippy is constantly reminding me of how old I am. He'll reference things and then look at me and say things like, "in your generation..." or "when you were my age..." which adds to my insecurity and diminishes minutes to my mortality clock.
In my English class we are learning how to debate. For the last three weeks, almost exactly, we have been debating the classic debate of which is better, Vampires or Zombies? Seriously, for three mind-numbing, eye-gouging weeks, we have been debating over fictitious entities that frankly, I don't give a damn about.
Skippy brought up the subject, surprise, surprise. And just in case you are wondering, there isn't enough material to cover three weeks worth of V's vs. Z's. I actually considered throwing in a new possibility of a "Zampire" or a "Vombie" you know a hybrid of both. After all, if the Apocalypse were to happen(which is the beginning of these debates)and all that was left were Zombies and Vampires, wouldn't they start biting each other? It pains me deeply that I have actually thought of this.
Anyway, during another debate, pre-Zombie, pre-Vampire (one day earlier to be precise), the class was having a real debate over what a town should do concerning an oil spill on their shores. A) choose a company who has a 70% rate of successful clean up or B) a local company of the town's who claimed a 90% success rate but had no field experience. I couldn't see why the town couldn't use both. My thought was start with the 70% guys, who also had 20 years experience, and let the newbies practice during the other's clean up. Doing the practice in their own backyard would lead to a true success rate, and they could clean up the 30% left over. I don't know if this is uber-reasonable, it simply made the most sense to me.
Immediately the tirades began. Over and over again, I was put down for what I thought was a no-big-deal assessment. The thing about the kids in my English class, is the immaturity. They don't know how to debate. They think in terms of, 'this is what I think so this is the way it is, period'. After an hour of being put down (by this time, I was no longer speaking and was trying to find my happy-place somewhere inside my head) my teacher asked us to start a blog for our next class assignment. A what? The kids didn't know what a blog was. My teacher then asked who of us had a blog. Me and two other people raised our hands.
Skippy looked over at me and said, "Oh, so it's like a stay-at-home mom thing where you just sit around eating bonbons?"
I small, tini-tiny twig, deep inside the recesses of my recesses, snapped.
I spun around and barked, "What the hell are you talking about?!! I want to smack you! I want to smack in the face!"
Every person in the class shifted in their seats a few inches away from me. The room fell dead silent despite every mouth falling open.
Luckily, it was time for class to be over.
I called my husband, angry, spitting the ordeal over the phone.
"Where are you going now?" He asked.
"To See's Candies to buy myself a box of chocolates!" I was dead serious. Bonbons, no. Dark chocolate Truffles, absolutely!
He talked me down from that ledge and we met for lunch, instead.
Later that day, I told my kids what I had done and asked them what I should do in the future instead of threatening physical violence.
My seven-year old said I should "ask my teacher to move my desk away from that boy."
My always reading, very intellectual eleven-year old told me to, "take a deep breath, but be sure they don't see you because that will make you vulnerable."
It's awesome to see how your kids think you should act. And, realize the way I acted was really the most immature way possible. I guess I could have said, "Well my dad could beat up your dad", which would have been equivalent.
I still see good 'old Skip, although he doesn't look me in the eye. I admit I like that kind of power. I do regret I didn't handle it better but am relieved that I know my kids would have.
I have been going to College, and have been working incredibly hard at it. I feel like I am constantly defending (mostly to myself) why I would be attending classes filled with people who are close to half my age.
One such person, I condescendingly call "Skippy" because I don't know his real name, and because he absolutely drives me crazy; Skippy is constantly reminding me of how old I am. He'll reference things and then look at me and say things like, "in your generation..." or "when you were my age..." which adds to my insecurity and diminishes minutes to my mortality clock.
In my English class we are learning how to debate. For the last three weeks, almost exactly, we have been debating the classic debate of which is better, Vampires or Zombies? Seriously, for three mind-numbing, eye-gouging weeks, we have been debating over fictitious entities that frankly, I don't give a damn about.
Skippy brought up the subject, surprise, surprise. And just in case you are wondering, there isn't enough material to cover three weeks worth of V's vs. Z's. I actually considered throwing in a new possibility of a "Zampire" or a "Vombie" you know a hybrid of both. After all, if the Apocalypse were to happen(which is the beginning of these debates)and all that was left were Zombies and Vampires, wouldn't they start biting each other? It pains me deeply that I have actually thought of this.
Anyway, during another debate, pre-Zombie, pre-Vampire (one day earlier to be precise), the class was having a real debate over what a town should do concerning an oil spill on their shores. A) choose a company who has a 70% rate of successful clean up or B) a local company of the town's who claimed a 90% success rate but had no field experience. I couldn't see why the town couldn't use both. My thought was start with the 70% guys, who also had 20 years experience, and let the newbies practice during the other's clean up. Doing the practice in their own backyard would lead to a true success rate, and they could clean up the 30% left over. I don't know if this is uber-reasonable, it simply made the most sense to me.
Immediately the tirades began. Over and over again, I was put down for what I thought was a no-big-deal assessment. The thing about the kids in my English class, is the immaturity. They don't know how to debate. They think in terms of, 'this is what I think so this is the way it is, period'. After an hour of being put down (by this time, I was no longer speaking and was trying to find my happy-place somewhere inside my head) my teacher asked us to start a blog for our next class assignment. A what? The kids didn't know what a blog was. My teacher then asked who of us had a blog. Me and two other people raised our hands.
Skippy looked over at me and said, "Oh, so it's like a stay-at-home mom thing where you just sit around eating bonbons?"
I small, tini-tiny twig, deep inside the recesses of my recesses, snapped.
I spun around and barked, "What the hell are you talking about?!! I want to smack you! I want to smack in the face!"
Every person in the class shifted in their seats a few inches away from me. The room fell dead silent despite every mouth falling open.
Luckily, it was time for class to be over.
I called my husband, angry, spitting the ordeal over the phone.
"Where are you going now?" He asked.
"To See's Candies to buy myself a box of chocolates!" I was dead serious. Bonbons, no. Dark chocolate Truffles, absolutely!
He talked me down from that ledge and we met for lunch, instead.
Later that day, I told my kids what I had done and asked them what I should do in the future instead of threatening physical violence.
My seven-year old said I should "ask my teacher to move my desk away from that boy."
My always reading, very intellectual eleven-year old told me to, "take a deep breath, but be sure they don't see you because that will make you vulnerable."
It's awesome to see how your kids think you should act. And, realize the way I acted was really the most immature way possible. I guess I could have said, "Well my dad could beat up your dad", which would have been equivalent.
I still see good 'old Skip, although he doesn't look me in the eye. I admit I like that kind of power. I do regret I didn't handle it better but am relieved that I know my kids would have.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Tisk, Tisk, Task-Master
I am a list-making-mult-tasker-aholic. I do a load of laundry while mopping the kitchen floor. I dictate to my kids in the midst of mulling over what to concoct for dinner. I pluck up discarded toys left on the floor that block my path as I am hustling from one side of my house to the other.
I never realized that I hurried until my eleven year old asked me why I always acted like I was running in a race.
I blame my mother for this. My mother had eight kids. Eight! Imagine getting eight children to clean up after themselves. However, my mom was brilliant.
"Let's see how fast you can pick up your clothes!" She'd exclaim.
The race was on to see who could finish the dishes or make their bed and who would be, by form and functionality and spry, The Winner!
Unfortunately, I never kicked this habit, and so my adult life is full of homemaking triathlons and grocery store sprints. What's wrong with this scenario?
Last weekend I was armed with a non-ending cranial log when my husband had a revolutionary idea. Let's go swimming. Have I mentioned I am terrified of drowning? But off we went, just the four of us.
After a lucrative stretch of time reading my book, I had the sensation of being a lobster boiling beneath a bubbling pot's lid. While carefully entering the oblong shaped pool the excitement of my family was lost on me. I was too engrossed observing where the lifeguards were located. My daughter swam to me and wrapped her entire wet and wiggling body around mine (so much for not wanting to get my hair wet) and informed me there was a bomb in the pool.
"What?" I wrinkled my nose.
"Listen." She grabbed both sides of my face and tipped one side of my head into the water. I heard it, a tick-tick-ticking sound. What is that? Is it someone's digital watch? Abruptly it stopped.
I hesitantly submerged the back of my head including my ears for a better listen. For two full seconds I gazed up at an agoraphobic blue sky, mirroring the pool. I noted a smattering of white clouds as the wind dragged them across the cosmos. As a paradox, my daughter intertwined her fingers around my big toe and began dragging me in circles. I was a cloud, too.
The pool spoke to me in whispers of what sounded like a million granules of sand pouring through a funnel. The cleverness of the water revealed another life of muffled squeals and echoed an explosion of someone cannon-balling; I think it was my son.
All at once again I heard a tick-tick-ticking noise.
From across the pool something caught my eye. A red ball was flung through the air. As it spun around, I noticed a gleaming digital clock face, just as it disappeared into the water.
The Bomb!
Determined, I scanned the approximate area. There bobbed three boys descending in height and age with sprouts of blond hair.
"On your mark, get set...Go!" commanded by the oldest looking boy. The other two boys dove beneath the shallows. After a few moments, one boy appeared, spewing liquid from his nose and mouth, "I found it! I found it!" he clutched the red bulbous prize to his stomach.
One would think I would have been relieved the ticking time bomb wasn't real. But instead, a thick coating of guilt drenched me to my bones.
When did list making and list conquering become more important to me than family? How ofter have I scowled at my kids for interrupting my mental schedule to show me a picture they drew?
As my brood and I gathered up our towels and flip-flops, a song blared from the radio, "Don't worry, be happy".
"Now that's something I am going to work on" I sighed...
Maybe I'll put it on my list.
I never realized that I hurried until my eleven year old asked me why I always acted like I was running in a race.
I blame my mother for this. My mother had eight kids. Eight! Imagine getting eight children to clean up after themselves. However, my mom was brilliant.
"Let's see how fast you can pick up your clothes!" She'd exclaim.
The race was on to see who could finish the dishes or make their bed and who would be, by form and functionality and spry, The Winner!
Unfortunately, I never kicked this habit, and so my adult life is full of homemaking triathlons and grocery store sprints. What's wrong with this scenario?
Last weekend I was armed with a non-ending cranial log when my husband had a revolutionary idea. Let's go swimming. Have I mentioned I am terrified of drowning? But off we went, just the four of us.
After a lucrative stretch of time reading my book, I had the sensation of being a lobster boiling beneath a bubbling pot's lid. While carefully entering the oblong shaped pool the excitement of my family was lost on me. I was too engrossed observing where the lifeguards were located. My daughter swam to me and wrapped her entire wet and wiggling body around mine (so much for not wanting to get my hair wet) and informed me there was a bomb in the pool.
"What?" I wrinkled my nose.
"Listen." She grabbed both sides of my face and tipped one side of my head into the water. I heard it, a tick-tick-ticking sound. What is that? Is it someone's digital watch? Abruptly it stopped.
I hesitantly submerged the back of my head including my ears for a better listen. For two full seconds I gazed up at an agoraphobic blue sky, mirroring the pool. I noted a smattering of white clouds as the wind dragged them across the cosmos. As a paradox, my daughter intertwined her fingers around my big toe and began dragging me in circles. I was a cloud, too.
The pool spoke to me in whispers of what sounded like a million granules of sand pouring through a funnel. The cleverness of the water revealed another life of muffled squeals and echoed an explosion of someone cannon-balling; I think it was my son.
All at once again I heard a tick-tick-ticking noise.
From across the pool something caught my eye. A red ball was flung through the air. As it spun around, I noticed a gleaming digital clock face, just as it disappeared into the water.
The Bomb!
Determined, I scanned the approximate area. There bobbed three boys descending in height and age with sprouts of blond hair.
"On your mark, get set...Go!" commanded by the oldest looking boy. The other two boys dove beneath the shallows. After a few moments, one boy appeared, spewing liquid from his nose and mouth, "I found it! I found it!" he clutched the red bulbous prize to his stomach.
One would think I would have been relieved the ticking time bomb wasn't real. But instead, a thick coating of guilt drenched me to my bones.
When did list making and list conquering become more important to me than family? How ofter have I scowled at my kids for interrupting my mental schedule to show me a picture they drew?
As my brood and I gathered up our towels and flip-flops, a song blared from the radio, "Don't worry, be happy".
"Now that's something I am going to work on" I sighed...
Maybe I'll put it on my list.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Not Goodbye, Adieu
I have never broken up with anyone before.
I married at age 19, to the first person I had ever kissed. Luckily for me, we still, after almost 15 years, like each other and more importantly still like kissing each other.
I dated guys before, but without an official break up. I usually phased them out, or they started phasing me out. This is how, we usually stopped dating.
This is the same with females in my life. We usually stopped calling each other or stopped hanging out and the plans to get together soon, halted completely.
Recently though, my best friend for the last couple of years, and I mutually broke up.
Our relationship had changed. I don't think it was intentional, I think it just happened. It happened at about the same time, with each of us spreading out in different directions. The strong pull we once had, was no longer there.
She e-mailed me and brought it up first.
I read what she had to say, and she was right. We were no longer "us", the "us" we used to be.
Our relationship began with one of us saving the other through means of being a "sounding board" for the other. This bonded us.
As the years went by, the obstacles were different. I didn't need to ask her for her opinion and she didn't need to ask me to figure out her puzzle either. And suddenly, very suddenly we no longer had things to talk about.
Thus the break up.
As I said before I have never broken up with someone before. I never had the courage to say, it's time, it's over.
Although there was never a sexual-anything with her, I still feel a deep sadness.
It was time. We both agreed it was the right thing to do. Moving on was the only thing to do.
But I still feel like a sliver of my heart was taken out. And that piece feels awfully hollow now without her.
I have this image or maybe a hope that we will be the kind of friends that enter and exit each other's life over and over again.
Maybe years from now we'll bump into each other and the conversation will be and as if the years hadn't passed us by, but rather had been put on "pause".
Perhaps this will happen, maybe it won't.
At any rate, I wish her luck. I wish her the best, and I wish her Adieu.
I married at age 19, to the first person I had ever kissed. Luckily for me, we still, after almost 15 years, like each other and more importantly still like kissing each other.
I dated guys before, but without an official break up. I usually phased them out, or they started phasing me out. This is how, we usually stopped dating.
This is the same with females in my life. We usually stopped calling each other or stopped hanging out and the plans to get together soon, halted completely.
Recently though, my best friend for the last couple of years, and I mutually broke up.
Our relationship had changed. I don't think it was intentional, I think it just happened. It happened at about the same time, with each of us spreading out in different directions. The strong pull we once had, was no longer there.
She e-mailed me and brought it up first.
I read what she had to say, and she was right. We were no longer "us", the "us" we used to be.
Our relationship began with one of us saving the other through means of being a "sounding board" for the other. This bonded us.
As the years went by, the obstacles were different. I didn't need to ask her for her opinion and she didn't need to ask me to figure out her puzzle either. And suddenly, very suddenly we no longer had things to talk about.
Thus the break up.
As I said before I have never broken up with someone before. I never had the courage to say, it's time, it's over.
Although there was never a sexual-anything with her, I still feel a deep sadness.
It was time. We both agreed it was the right thing to do. Moving on was the only thing to do.
But I still feel like a sliver of my heart was taken out. And that piece feels awfully hollow now without her.
I have this image or maybe a hope that we will be the kind of friends that enter and exit each other's life over and over again.
Maybe years from now we'll bump into each other and the conversation will be and as if the years hadn't passed us by, but rather had been put on "pause".
Perhaps this will happen, maybe it won't.
At any rate, I wish her luck. I wish her the best, and I wish her Adieu.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Gandhi Complexion
Sometimes I want to just be in a bad mood. For no other reason than to be in a really rotten mood. This bugs and offends my husband a lot.
You see I am married to Gandhi, reincarnated as a 6 foot 3 inch Anglo Saxon. He doesn't understand why I get angry and why I can't just spin my upset into something positive. I respond with, "Because I can't" which isn't ever understood by him.
Thus, the Gandhi complex and thus why I can only pity Gandhi's wife.
I have this image I've concocted of Gandhi's wife (yes, he was married and had a bunch of kids, but of course, most people don't realize this).
I imagine Gandhi's wife, alone (Gandhi is missing dinner again), trying to convince her children to eat their vegetables.
"But I don't like Brussels sprouts!" One son is complaining.
"Oh, you'd better eat your Brussels sprouts, young man!" the tired and often lonely mother counters.
"But why? Dad doesn't have to eat his Brussels sprouts!"
"Are you trying to save your country? Are you? Well, as soon as you are saving your country like your father, then you don't have to eat your Brussels sprouts!"
*
I have told my husband my theory of his reincarnation. He asked me what he could do to change this (which is so...Gandhi-like in itself). I looked at him. And then I shouted, "Jeez! Would you just go eat a muffin Gandhi?"
To his infinite credit, he has tried (except he recently gave up sugar, so he'll have to figure out something else to eat instead...)
And so I am left to figure out how to get myself to eat Brussels sprouts and how I can spin it into being Hostess Ding Dongs.
You see I am married to Gandhi, reincarnated as a 6 foot 3 inch Anglo Saxon. He doesn't understand why I get angry and why I can't just spin my upset into something positive. I respond with, "Because I can't" which isn't ever understood by him.
Thus, the Gandhi complex and thus why I can only pity Gandhi's wife.
I have this image I've concocted of Gandhi's wife (yes, he was married and had a bunch of kids, but of course, most people don't realize this).
I imagine Gandhi's wife, alone (Gandhi is missing dinner again), trying to convince her children to eat their vegetables.
"But I don't like Brussels sprouts!" One son is complaining.
"Oh, you'd better eat your Brussels sprouts, young man!" the tired and often lonely mother counters.
"But why? Dad doesn't have to eat his Brussels sprouts!"
"Are you trying to save your country? Are you? Well, as soon as you are saving your country like your father, then you don't have to eat your Brussels sprouts!"
*
I have told my husband my theory of his reincarnation. He asked me what he could do to change this (which is so...Gandhi-like in itself). I looked at him. And then I shouted, "Jeez! Would you just go eat a muffin Gandhi?"
To his infinite credit, he has tried (except he recently gave up sugar, so he'll have to figure out something else to eat instead...)
And so I am left to figure out how to get myself to eat Brussels sprouts and how I can spin it into being Hostess Ding Dongs.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Shoppin' Trip
Have you ever had one of those days? You know the one.
Well, I’m at the end of one of those days.
As I drudged back to Smith’s Market Place for the second time today, and the fifth time in two days, I started reviewing how many times I go back to the store in one day.
At least an average of two. Two times a day, six days a week.
And it’s not for groceries, or rather major groceries, it’s for simple things, one or two items I forgot, when I went major grocery shopping a few days before.
Or it’s for the three items I need to complete a recipe I want to try out.
And it gets more and more expensive each time I go on one of these “quick trips”.
The real problem is I live 1.7 miles away from the grocery store.
I can’t help but wonder if I lived further away, would I drive there so much?
Yes, I probably still would.
So tonight I found myself wanting to try out a frosting recipe.
Of course, I can’t make a regular frosting. I can’t even buy a less expensive ready-made frosting. I have to try a recipe I saw on The Food Network. And of course, I don’t have the ingredients on hand to do this.
I jump in my car, for my quick, secondary, jaunt and hurry into the store.
I always hurry into the store, as if I am competing in a grocery-store Triathlon.
I have my strategy already planned by the time I park my car.
My goal is usually to the tune of, “In and out in ten minutes”.
I don’t know why I do any of this.
I usually get the extra small shopping cart, thinking this will save me money, but never pick up just the basket because I always over fill those and it hurts hanging off my arm.
I dodge other “Triathletes” bobbing and weaving in and out of aisles, hurdling over and under people in my way of the Gelatin.
When I have gathered all my necessities, I sprint to the check-out and then decide it would be much faster to go through the self-check-out line. I am a pro-self-check-out-er.
After a day of feeling under appreciated and over worked, I have to begrudgingly explain I love going through the self-check out and not because it’s faster. The sad truth is that I secretly get a rush when I pull out my “Fresh Values” card and scan it.
I smile, every time, at the computerized voice, “Welcome Valued customer”.
A Valued Customer! Me! I know, I know pathetic.
But alas I never savor the moment, I am in a hurry.
I pick up my bag, (which incidentally this little trip cost me, $18, FOR FROSTING FIXINGS) and dash outside to my car that has a strategically placed scratch going from the driver’s side door to the back passenger door roughly the height of a grocery cart handle, and it is the second one I have gotten within two days.
One might wonder why I would do this, day after day, a couple times a day, and six days a week. I can’t answer that.
I can however answer why it was worth it this trip and it is because I am making brownies with chocolate frosting and anything that is chocolate and smothered in more chocolate is worth all other aggravations, that is if the frosting recipe actually works out.
Well, I’m at the end of one of those days.
As I drudged back to Smith’s Market Place for the second time today, and the fifth time in two days, I started reviewing how many times I go back to the store in one day.
At least an average of two. Two times a day, six days a week.
And it’s not for groceries, or rather major groceries, it’s for simple things, one or two items I forgot, when I went major grocery shopping a few days before.
Or it’s for the three items I need to complete a recipe I want to try out.
And it gets more and more expensive each time I go on one of these “quick trips”.
The real problem is I live 1.7 miles away from the grocery store.
I can’t help but wonder if I lived further away, would I drive there so much?
Yes, I probably still would.
So tonight I found myself wanting to try out a frosting recipe.
Of course, I can’t make a regular frosting. I can’t even buy a less expensive ready-made frosting. I have to try a recipe I saw on The Food Network. And of course, I don’t have the ingredients on hand to do this.
I jump in my car, for my quick, secondary, jaunt and hurry into the store.
I always hurry into the store, as if I am competing in a grocery-store Triathlon.
I have my strategy already planned by the time I park my car.
My goal is usually to the tune of, “In and out in ten minutes”.
I don’t know why I do any of this.
I usually get the extra small shopping cart, thinking this will save me money, but never pick up just the basket because I always over fill those and it hurts hanging off my arm.
I dodge other “Triathletes” bobbing and weaving in and out of aisles, hurdling over and under people in my way of the Gelatin.
When I have gathered all my necessities, I sprint to the check-out and then decide it would be much faster to go through the self-check-out line. I am a pro-self-check-out-er.
After a day of feeling under appreciated and over worked, I have to begrudgingly explain I love going through the self-check out and not because it’s faster. The sad truth is that I secretly get a rush when I pull out my “Fresh Values” card and scan it.
I smile, every time, at the computerized voice, “Welcome Valued customer”.
A Valued Customer! Me! I know, I know pathetic.
But alas I never savor the moment, I am in a hurry.
I pick up my bag, (which incidentally this little trip cost me, $18, FOR FROSTING FIXINGS) and dash outside to my car that has a strategically placed scratch going from the driver’s side door to the back passenger door roughly the height of a grocery cart handle, and it is the second one I have gotten within two days.
One might wonder why I would do this, day after day, a couple times a day, and six days a week. I can’t answer that.
I can however answer why it was worth it this trip and it is because I am making brownies with chocolate frosting and anything that is chocolate and smothered in more chocolate is worth all other aggravations, that is if the frosting recipe actually works out.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sick of Summer Vacationing
I have had a wonderful summer. I admit it.
My family and I have been going and traveling since April. I should feel grateful. Instead I feel like I want to take a break from Summer Vacation.
I don't want to go anywhere or visit anyone.
It's not that I hate people.In fact the opposite is true. I love my family, immediate and extended. I love my friends, too. It isn't that I haven't thoroughly enjoyed the places we have vacationed to either.
It comes down to, when is enough, enough?
I'm tired. I want to be at home.
I want to watch my kids run through the sprinklers in the back yard and then go to lunch in my own kitchen.
I miss having a mundane schedule.I crave not having to account to anyone but ourselves.
I heard the most outlandish idea, instead of a "Vacation", to save money you have a "Stay-cation". I can only imagine all the work that would go into trying to make a memorable event out of every day life, and I bet it would cost you double.
I don't begrudge going on a good ol' fashioned holiday, I'm just tired and want to stay home for a while.
My family and I have been going and traveling since April. I should feel grateful. Instead I feel like I want to take a break from Summer Vacation.
I don't want to go anywhere or visit anyone.
It's not that I hate people.In fact the opposite is true. I love my family, immediate and extended. I love my friends, too. It isn't that I haven't thoroughly enjoyed the places we have vacationed to either.
It comes down to, when is enough, enough?
I'm tired. I want to be at home.
I want to watch my kids run through the sprinklers in the back yard and then go to lunch in my own kitchen.
I miss having a mundane schedule.I crave not having to account to anyone but ourselves.
I heard the most outlandish idea, instead of a "Vacation", to save money you have a "Stay-cation". I can only imagine all the work that would go into trying to make a memorable event out of every day life, and I bet it would cost you double.
I don't begrudge going on a good ol' fashioned holiday, I'm just tired and want to stay home for a while.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tanning Bed Blues or Articifially Sun-Kissed
I have a confession to make. I go tanning, in tanning beds and outside next to swimming pools. I know it is not fashionable and percievably scary, but I need the vitamin D. I don't do it daily. I don't do it weekly, but if I feel blue, I go tanning.
One night my hubby and I took a trip to the tanning salon. It had been a week two of heavy rain, and I just don't do well in rainy weather. I opted to go 13 minutes and was told to go to bed number 15.
I did. I stripped down to nothing in less than 3 minutes (the allotted time until the bed turns on) put on the "sun goggles", laid on the freezing plastic bed and waited. I also put my phone next to the pillow, just in case my kids called and placed my Mp3 ear buds in. Knowing that any minute, the bed would turn on.
Nothing happened.
I waited, shivering, a little longer.
Nothing.
I got up and went to the button on the wall and pressed the "begin" button.
Still nothing happened.
I was stark naked and wasn't sure how to proceed. Do I quickly get dressed and go to the front desk? Or, the salon was small, maybe I could just call out...
I called out, "Hello?"
No answer.
I called out louder, "Hello? Front Desk?"
The girl at the front desk answered, "What?"
"Um, the bed's not working in number 15."
"Yes it is. I see it's running." Was her reply.
Suddenly a thought followed by dread crept in me. What if I was in the wrong room?
I quickly got dressed and looked up at the posted room number.
13.
I ran into the next bed, the correct number 15 and giggled.
The girl from the front desk noticed my dash into the next bed and after she rolled her eyes and asked if I had been naked in the bed, told me she would re-set the time.
Again I stripped down, to nothing.
Then, I noticed I accidentally kept the "sun goggles" from the last bed.
I panicked.
Do I get dressed again and run next door to put them back? Do I keep them and take them back after my 13 minutes?
Truthfully I wasn't feeling like myself. I was humiliated.
Anytime I am naked, I feel uneasy.
Every time I go tanning, I have to take deep gulping breaths and tell myself, "It's OK. I'm OK."
But then to realize I disrobed in the wrong room and actually called out, calling attention to my stupidity, and nakedness, I wasn't thinking correctly.
So, I chucked the "sun goggles" as hard as I could, with a grunt, up over the partition wall, aiming for the vicinity of bed number 13.
I heard a loud high frequency "smack" as the goggles hit into the neighboring bed.
I held my breath.
Maybe the front desk girl didn't hear it.
Maybe the front desk girl wouldn't know it was me.
After realizing the allotted 3 minutes had ticked by, I jumped into my blazing sun bed and did everything I could to relax.
I told myself, "I don't ever have to go back into room 13, I replaced the goggles, kind-of...hopefully. It's alright".
I turned on my Mp3 and did my normal, sing-along, and back-dance as I waited for the 13 minutes to be up.
During the course of my third lip-sync I realized something else, "Where's my phone?"
I had left my phone, in bed 13, next to the head pillow, probably close to a pair of recently air-born protective eye wear.
Crap!
The last 6 minutes dragged on.
I kept watching the minutes, "Come on! Come on!"
What if my kids had tried calling?
What if someone else was occupying the bed now?
As soon as the vitamin D filled lights dimmed, I jumped out of the bed.
I threw on my clothes, minus my bra, which I shoved in my pants' pocket (keep in mind, I need to wear a bra, always, other wise I become quite Tribal).
I ran into the other room, relieved that no one else was in there.
I grabbed my phone, still exactly wear I had left it and did a quick scan to see wear the goggles had landed.
No such luck on the goggles. I never found them.
When I finally emerged, my husband was waiting. I was giggling nervously.
As we past the front desk, there was now two girls manning it. They looked at me and rolled there eyes.
This particular tanning session wasn't as relaxing as usual. Maybe I should have stayed at home and watched the rain.
One night my hubby and I took a trip to the tanning salon. It had been a week two of heavy rain, and I just don't do well in rainy weather. I opted to go 13 minutes and was told to go to bed number 15.
I did. I stripped down to nothing in less than 3 minutes (the allotted time until the bed turns on) put on the "sun goggles", laid on the freezing plastic bed and waited. I also put my phone next to the pillow, just in case my kids called and placed my Mp3 ear buds in. Knowing that any minute, the bed would turn on.
Nothing happened.
I waited, shivering, a little longer.
Nothing.
I got up and went to the button on the wall and pressed the "begin" button.
Still nothing happened.
I was stark naked and wasn't sure how to proceed. Do I quickly get dressed and go to the front desk? Or, the salon was small, maybe I could just call out...
I called out, "Hello?"
No answer.
I called out louder, "Hello? Front Desk?"
The girl at the front desk answered, "What?"
"Um, the bed's not working in number 15."
"Yes it is. I see it's running." Was her reply.
Suddenly a thought followed by dread crept in me. What if I was in the wrong room?
I quickly got dressed and looked up at the posted room number.
13.
I ran into the next bed, the correct number 15 and giggled.
The girl from the front desk noticed my dash into the next bed and after she rolled her eyes and asked if I had been naked in the bed, told me she would re-set the time.
Again I stripped down, to nothing.
Then, I noticed I accidentally kept the "sun goggles" from the last bed.
I panicked.
Do I get dressed again and run next door to put them back? Do I keep them and take them back after my 13 minutes?
Truthfully I wasn't feeling like myself. I was humiliated.
Anytime I am naked, I feel uneasy.
Every time I go tanning, I have to take deep gulping breaths and tell myself, "It's OK. I'm OK."
But then to realize I disrobed in the wrong room and actually called out, calling attention to my stupidity, and nakedness, I wasn't thinking correctly.
So, I chucked the "sun goggles" as hard as I could, with a grunt, up over the partition wall, aiming for the vicinity of bed number 13.
I heard a loud high frequency "smack" as the goggles hit into the neighboring bed.
I held my breath.
Maybe the front desk girl didn't hear it.
Maybe the front desk girl wouldn't know it was me.
After realizing the allotted 3 minutes had ticked by, I jumped into my blazing sun bed and did everything I could to relax.
I told myself, "I don't ever have to go back into room 13, I replaced the goggles, kind-of...hopefully. It's alright".
I turned on my Mp3 and did my normal, sing-along, and back-dance as I waited for the 13 minutes to be up.
During the course of my third lip-sync I realized something else, "Where's my phone?"
I had left my phone, in bed 13, next to the head pillow, probably close to a pair of recently air-born protective eye wear.
Crap!
The last 6 minutes dragged on.
I kept watching the minutes, "Come on! Come on!"
What if my kids had tried calling?
What if someone else was occupying the bed now?
As soon as the vitamin D filled lights dimmed, I jumped out of the bed.
I threw on my clothes, minus my bra, which I shoved in my pants' pocket (keep in mind, I need to wear a bra, always, other wise I become quite Tribal).
I ran into the other room, relieved that no one else was in there.
I grabbed my phone, still exactly wear I had left it and did a quick scan to see wear the goggles had landed.
No such luck on the goggles. I never found them.
When I finally emerged, my husband was waiting. I was giggling nervously.
As we past the front desk, there was now two girls manning it. They looked at me and rolled there eyes.
This particular tanning session wasn't as relaxing as usual. Maybe I should have stayed at home and watched the rain.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Hero Status
Recently I heard a rumor that a childhood friend of mine had Breast Cancer. It was very dis concerning. So I contacted this person via facebook, asked to be her friend and she, the very next day accepted me as one. Also dis concerning. When I was in 10Th grade I had a falling out with a group of girls, the one with Breast Cancer happens to be one of them. When I asked to be a facebook pal of hers, I was expecting to be refused. I actually steeled myself for the rejection. However, with her "extended hand" per say I felt a wave of relief. Does she forgive me for my behavior in High School? Should I forgive her?
In what I was hoping to be a grand gesture, I wanted to let her know that I was thinking about her and worried about her. I wanted to give her hope and know I was pulling for her and wanted her to kick Cancer.
So I wrote on her facebook wall something to the effect of "when someone has a hurdle like this one, they automatically achieve HERO status"... then I wanted to end it with something inspiring. I wanted to say, "good luck, you are a hero. You can do it! You are a conqueror!" I posted it on her wall. About three minutes later my husband came home. I asked him to read what I had posted. I was nervous because I hadn't talked to her in over 16 years. I didn't want to offend her in anyway. I wanted to be a vessel of hope to her.
My husband read the short comment. Then he reread it slower.
"I thought she has Breast Cancer?" He turned and looked at me.
"She does." I answered.
"Huh. So she has a drug problem, too?" He asked.
"No." I went to the computer screen.
I had written the stuff about getting through hurdles in life and then I ended it wanting it to state, "Good luck Conquering HERO-INE" (as in you are a conquering female hero). How it read however was, "Good luck conquering heroine" (as in you are addicted to drugs. Very bad drugs, and good luck in rehab).
It had only been three minutes since I posted this message. I was able to quickly edit it to, "good luck conquering hero" and then I re posted it.
I just hope no one read her wall within that three minutes!
It made me think. I wonder how often I hear things wrong, see things wrong and accept things in a different way than what was intended.
I hope my friend can conqueror Breast Cancer.
I also hope I didn't out her as a druggie!
In what I was hoping to be a grand gesture, I wanted to let her know that I was thinking about her and worried about her. I wanted to give her hope and know I was pulling for her and wanted her to kick Cancer.
So I wrote on her facebook wall something to the effect of "when someone has a hurdle like this one, they automatically achieve HERO status"... then I wanted to end it with something inspiring. I wanted to say, "good luck, you are a hero. You can do it! You are a conqueror!" I posted it on her wall. About three minutes later my husband came home. I asked him to read what I had posted. I was nervous because I hadn't talked to her in over 16 years. I didn't want to offend her in anyway. I wanted to be a vessel of hope to her.
My husband read the short comment. Then he reread it slower.
"I thought she has Breast Cancer?" He turned and looked at me.
"She does." I answered.
"Huh. So she has a drug problem, too?" He asked.
"No." I went to the computer screen.
I had written the stuff about getting through hurdles in life and then I ended it wanting it to state, "Good luck Conquering HERO-INE" (as in you are a conquering female hero). How it read however was, "Good luck conquering heroine" (as in you are addicted to drugs. Very bad drugs, and good luck in rehab).
It had only been three minutes since I posted this message. I was able to quickly edit it to, "good luck conquering hero" and then I re posted it.
I just hope no one read her wall within that three minutes!
It made me think. I wonder how often I hear things wrong, see things wrong and accept things in a different way than what was intended.
I hope my friend can conqueror Breast Cancer.
I also hope I didn't out her as a druggie!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Memory Foam
I was recently reading an article about muscles and the body. It was actually focused around a timeline of Brittany Spears' abdominal. Through out a one year period, Brittany's stomach went from teeny-tiny, to a gut and then cut, once more. In the article a known personal trainer explained that all muscles were actually equivalent to that of "memory Foam". Once you have toned your muscles a certain way, you can actually let them go and then get them back to firm in a relatively short amount of time, thus "memory foam"and thus, Brittany's Abs.
Crap! I thought, what if you never had Brittany's stomach, ever? What if you at one time or another , resembled another famous entertainer, like say, Sham mu? Does this mean, in a relatively short amount of time, I will "memory foam" myself back to the profile highly regarded by Sea World?
Does "memory foam" for me, mean the opposite?
So what about my long time effort of getting "desserts" low-fat, and sugar-free? What about the fact I haven't had Salad Dressing in 7 years? Does the "memory foam" theory mean that after digesting one normal (and probably better tasting) brownie, my stomach will balloon out, I will grow "cankels" and my butt will be once again four-dimensional?
Dang it!
Crap! I thought, what if you never had Brittany's stomach, ever? What if you at one time or another , resembled another famous entertainer, like say, Sham mu? Does this mean, in a relatively short amount of time, I will "memory foam" myself back to the profile highly regarded by Sea World?
Does "memory foam" for me, mean the opposite?
So what about my long time effort of getting "desserts" low-fat, and sugar-free? What about the fact I haven't had Salad Dressing in 7 years? Does the "memory foam" theory mean that after digesting one normal (and probably better tasting) brownie, my stomach will balloon out, I will grow "cankels" and my butt will be once again four-dimensional?
Dang it!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Jumping off a Cliff
Yesterday I went to my Doctor with my same old issues I haven't been able to shake. I haven't felt well, I haven't been sleeping at night. I diet all of the time and have increased my exercises but haven't lost a pound. A new issue has arisen, I've been having trouble with memory loss. I told myself it was cancer. It's not that I hope to have cancer, not at all. I have this tendency to assume the worse, that way when I find out what the issue really is, I have already dealt with the emotions of the worse case scenario. In a weird way, handling situations this way has given me hope.
After a really long office visit (2 and a half hours), I was told I needed to go on Antidepressants.
Antidepressants?!!!
I felt as though I was asked to leap off a cliff, willingly.
I had the sensation I was blind folded, had my hands tied behind my back and was asked to jump. I know what I am jumping into. I have seen over that edge before. I know what is beyond it. I have jumped into that abyss and almost didn't survived.
Two seconds before, I asked my husband who went with me, what if I was told I needed pills?
He, in his normal soothing way, responded, "We'll tell them no. Absolutely not."
I felt reassured.
The two Doctors (one was a resident) came back in the room and explained that I had the signs of Depression.
How could this be? I have been battling Depression for almost my entire life. Two and a half years ago, I rid myself of all the Antidepressants I had been taking for 10 years.
I replaced the pills with regular exercise. I began reading self-help books about Positive self-talk and having a good attitude. I started doing things that scared me, things out of my comfort zone, to make me feel like I was living. I'm talking about, going back to school, and competing in a Triathlon. These types of things, in the name of self discovery.
So here I was in the Doctor's office, having a panic attack over the idea of once again needing to take pills.
I was devastated. I was even wishing for cancer!
My husband looked at me and then back at the two nervous looking Doctors, "OK, we'll give them a try."
Why would he do this to me? Doesn't he remember how I was on pills? I was a zombie, a non-person. I didn't do anything, I simply existed.
The three of them decided to just give me a prescription, in which I could fill it when ever I decided I wanted to. Wanted to?
To tell the truth, I am terrified. It's not the fear of the unknown, it's the fear of the known. After crying all day yesterday,last night I decided to jump.
I realized that for about a year I have been working so hard, only to find I am spinning my wheels. My little tricks to perk myself up have stopped working. I have been feeling despair and anger and that the world is Too big.
I had to jump.
I am constantly talking about taking control of my life. I am constantly working on fixing myself. Maybe instead of thinking I was asked to jump off a cliff, perhaps I've already slipped off the cliff and have been holding on to the deteriorating ground, and haven't noticed there's a net below me waiting to catch me. If I would just let go.
I took my first pill last night. I also forgave my husband for his "betrayal" and am trying to forgive myself for my depression.
I don't know if this will work. I do hope it will.
It's a lot of work jumping off a cliff. I hope I am doing the right thing, and at least have on a parachute.
After a really long office visit (2 and a half hours), I was told I needed to go on Antidepressants.
Antidepressants?!!!
I felt as though I was asked to leap off a cliff, willingly.
I had the sensation I was blind folded, had my hands tied behind my back and was asked to jump. I know what I am jumping into. I have seen over that edge before. I know what is beyond it. I have jumped into that abyss and almost didn't survived.
Two seconds before, I asked my husband who went with me, what if I was told I needed pills?
He, in his normal soothing way, responded, "We'll tell them no. Absolutely not."
I felt reassured.
The two Doctors (one was a resident) came back in the room and explained that I had the signs of Depression.
How could this be? I have been battling Depression for almost my entire life. Two and a half years ago, I rid myself of all the Antidepressants I had been taking for 10 years.
I replaced the pills with regular exercise. I began reading self-help books about Positive self-talk and having a good attitude. I started doing things that scared me, things out of my comfort zone, to make me feel like I was living. I'm talking about, going back to school, and competing in a Triathlon. These types of things, in the name of self discovery.
So here I was in the Doctor's office, having a panic attack over the idea of once again needing to take pills.
I was devastated. I was even wishing for cancer!
My husband looked at me and then back at the two nervous looking Doctors, "OK, we'll give them a try."
Why would he do this to me? Doesn't he remember how I was on pills? I was a zombie, a non-person. I didn't do anything, I simply existed.
The three of them decided to just give me a prescription, in which I could fill it when ever I decided I wanted to. Wanted to?
To tell the truth, I am terrified. It's not the fear of the unknown, it's the fear of the known. After crying all day yesterday,last night I decided to jump.
I realized that for about a year I have been working so hard, only to find I am spinning my wheels. My little tricks to perk myself up have stopped working. I have been feeling despair and anger and that the world is Too big.
I had to jump.
I am constantly talking about taking control of my life. I am constantly working on fixing myself. Maybe instead of thinking I was asked to jump off a cliff, perhaps I've already slipped off the cliff and have been holding on to the deteriorating ground, and haven't noticed there's a net below me waiting to catch me. If I would just let go.
I took my first pill last night. I also forgave my husband for his "betrayal" and am trying to forgive myself for my depression.
I don't know if this will work. I do hope it will.
It's a lot of work jumping off a cliff. I hope I am doing the right thing, and at least have on a parachute.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Mak'economy
I have a gripe with how this bad economy is seeping into my makeup products. I keep spending more money for the stuff I've been using for years and getting less than half of the actual product.
I think people assume I wouldn't notice that my facial cream is only overly-whipped up to the lid and not actually filled to the lid. I am tired of having to buy more and more mascara because mine lasts for two weeks, when before I had it for months. What's up with that? Mean while I am spending 10, 20, 30 and even 40 dollars for half the amount.
I have also noticed foundations now come in new frosted bottles. This is so I can't actually tell how much I am getting.
I understand we are in a recession. I know prices are higher because of it. I also know I don't wear an inch of mascara, foundation and facial cream on my face everyday, ever!
I am tired of having to purchase more and more shampoo and conditioner because those run out every two weeks too. I know I haven't grown more hair. In fact, I keep loosing hair, which is evident by the strands left laying around my bathtub, toilet, shower, vanity and in my hair brush.
I just wish the economy would either stop sticking it's nose in my concealer, or would step up and add more of it in my frosted bottle of makeup.
I think people assume I wouldn't notice that my facial cream is only overly-whipped up to the lid and not actually filled to the lid. I am tired of having to buy more and more mascara because mine lasts for two weeks, when before I had it for months. What's up with that? Mean while I am spending 10, 20, 30 and even 40 dollars for half the amount.
I have also noticed foundations now come in new frosted bottles. This is so I can't actually tell how much I am getting.
I understand we are in a recession. I know prices are higher because of it. I also know I don't wear an inch of mascara, foundation and facial cream on my face everyday, ever!
I am tired of having to purchase more and more shampoo and conditioner because those run out every two weeks too. I know I haven't grown more hair. In fact, I keep loosing hair, which is evident by the strands left laying around my bathtub, toilet, shower, vanity and in my hair brush.
I just wish the economy would either stop sticking it's nose in my concealer, or would step up and add more of it in my frosted bottle of makeup.
The Day Trippers
Today I volunteered to help with my seven year old's Field Trip. I haven't been on a Field Trip in roughly twenty years. I had to bring a sack lunch, I smashed into a seat with two other children, one being my son and we were off. The school bus was exactly the way I remembered a school bus being, from the tattered and torn seats, to the rubber floor, to even the smell. Do all school buses smell the same?
We were scheduled for two locations. The first being a visit to The Hale Center Theater in West Valley. Each volunteer parent had approximately 8 children under our watch. Although they were sweet, my group happened to be the most wild. I took this as punishment for not volunteering more in the classroom.
After constantly calling for my group to settle down, to stop running, to keep their hands to themselves, I finally resorted to bribery. I told them that if they were on their best behavior I would bring them some gum. It worked for 2.3 seconds (I have decided to buy them gum anyway).
The woman giving the tour, spoke about how you use your body and your voice as an instrument to show the audience different characters.
She demonstrated by acting like a wicked witch, which the children realized instantly.
The second character was harder for the children. She spoke in a British accent and pretended to be prim and proper. She talked about how her crown kept slipping and how "Tea and Crumpets would be served in 5 minutes on the lawn". She then asked for the kids to raise their hands to guess who she was.
One of the boys in my group raised and waved his hand. The tour guide/actress of course pick him, "What do you think I am?" She asked Thomas. Thomas answered, "I don't know an idiot?"
The first grade teacher stifled a gasp and covered her head in her lap. I was trying to stifle a laugh. Who was this first grader?
Later we went to a Water Conservation Plant. Again the group had to sit through another lecture. The kids were restless, in fact, I was getting restless too.
After the speech about plants we ate our lunches and were handed a clipboard with a list of plants and flowers we were suppose to "find". What fun. I guess in theory this was fun.
We found probably two plants. My group spent our time finding each other because there was always someone who had escaped.
Once back on the bus I asked out loud if this was the part where the adults were given Xanax?
A little while later, still on the bus, and still smashed in a seat with two other kids (by this time, my son wanted nothing to do with me and was sitting with his friends one row behind me), an alarm went off on the bus.
I was looking around trying to figure out what, when and who was setting it off.
The bus driver looked in his enormous rear-view mirror and pointed at me.
"Me?" I asked. He shook his head "Yes".
I was on a fold up seat that lead to the emergency exit door. I was sitting too close to it and I had inadvertently set off the bells and whistles.
I apologized and announced, "there is only so much I can suck in!"
The bus driver smiled but told me as I was leaving he liked having adults sitting in that seat so he wouldn't have to worry about the alarm going off.
I think I proved that theory wrong.
I believe the Field Trip was an over-all nightmare.
If the children were older, maybe that would have worked better.
If we were taken to a park and let loose, maybe that would have worked better, too.
By the end, I was ready for a nap and possibly a Xanax or two.
We were scheduled for two locations. The first being a visit to The Hale Center Theater in West Valley. Each volunteer parent had approximately 8 children under our watch. Although they were sweet, my group happened to be the most wild. I took this as punishment for not volunteering more in the classroom.
After constantly calling for my group to settle down, to stop running, to keep their hands to themselves, I finally resorted to bribery. I told them that if they were on their best behavior I would bring them some gum. It worked for 2.3 seconds (I have decided to buy them gum anyway).
The woman giving the tour, spoke about how you use your body and your voice as an instrument to show the audience different characters.
She demonstrated by acting like a wicked witch, which the children realized instantly.
The second character was harder for the children. She spoke in a British accent and pretended to be prim and proper. She talked about how her crown kept slipping and how "Tea and Crumpets would be served in 5 minutes on the lawn". She then asked for the kids to raise their hands to guess who she was.
One of the boys in my group raised and waved his hand. The tour guide/actress of course pick him, "What do you think I am?" She asked Thomas. Thomas answered, "I don't know an idiot?"
The first grade teacher stifled a gasp and covered her head in her lap. I was trying to stifle a laugh. Who was this first grader?
Later we went to a Water Conservation Plant. Again the group had to sit through another lecture. The kids were restless, in fact, I was getting restless too.
After the speech about plants we ate our lunches and were handed a clipboard with a list of plants and flowers we were suppose to "find". What fun. I guess in theory this was fun.
We found probably two plants. My group spent our time finding each other because there was always someone who had escaped.
Once back on the bus I asked out loud if this was the part where the adults were given Xanax?
A little while later, still on the bus, and still smashed in a seat with two other kids (by this time, my son wanted nothing to do with me and was sitting with his friends one row behind me), an alarm went off on the bus.
I was looking around trying to figure out what, when and who was setting it off.
The bus driver looked in his enormous rear-view mirror and pointed at me.
"Me?" I asked. He shook his head "Yes".
I was on a fold up seat that lead to the emergency exit door. I was sitting too close to it and I had inadvertently set off the bells and whistles.
I apologized and announced, "there is only so much I can suck in!"
The bus driver smiled but told me as I was leaving he liked having adults sitting in that seat so he wouldn't have to worry about the alarm going off.
I think I proved that theory wrong.
I believe the Field Trip was an over-all nightmare.
If the children were older, maybe that would have worked better.
If we were taken to a park and let loose, maybe that would have worked better, too.
By the end, I was ready for a nap and possibly a Xanax or two.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Road Warrior
Last week I completed a Triathlon. From start to finish, I did it!
It was such an invigorating experience and yet I find myself down playing every part. I had technical difficulties with my bike and as a result it took me twice as long to complete that part of the race. I took so long in fact, one police man who was at a post left, but slammed on his breaks and reversed when he noticed me slowly climbing up the last hill. I wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't shouted out his window, "Whoa! I'm sorry I thought the race was over! I'm glad I noticed you!"
I am still surprised how immediately I crumbled. "What a looser I am!" I thought. "What do I think I am doing? I don't belong here!" I continued berating myself for the rest of the bike part of the competition. It got worse from there.
As I was rounding the last of the bike trek, I saw my husband finishing the final part of the run. I was so proud of him. I was so excited about how he was doing and then I lost it. I became a jealous sore loser.
"I should just give up! I am so embarrassed with my performance! I should just stop and save face..."
As soon as I realized I was about to give up, another thought occurred to me. What would I tell my friends if they gave up because of how they felt they looked?
I would think they were crazy! I would tell them to focus on the big picture, they were here trying something very difficult, and new and they were almost finished. I would have reminded them that they had already finished the swimming part and now the biking part and all that was left was the running. I would tell them that they knew how to run. They could run and they could do it well.
As I was soothing my invisible friends, I changed my counselling from third person to first person. I can run. I can run and run fast. I don't want to be dead last in this part of the race!
I hung up my bike and continued on.
I waved at my kids and husband who were now watching and waiting for my on my last leg of the race. I was going to finish.
I ran/walked up the first hill.
I was still trying to gain back myself confidence. I passed a woman walking, too. I asked if she was alright, she told me she had finished the earlier, more advanced race that morning and thought it would be fun to walk this race.
This batted at myself esteem more. I felt like the woman had insulted me, seeing this race as less than, and I was walking it.
Emotionally I stumbled, fighting with myself to stay focused.
My music wasn't inspiring, my shirt I was wearing was too hot. I didn't like how my shorts kept riding up, and on and on.
Up a head I noticed another woman walking. There were people heading back to the finish line, but still there was one other woman walking the same direction. I decided to jog up to her.
When I caught up to her, she was out of breath and sweating profusely. I asked her if she was doing this race.
She gulped and said, "Yes, but my doctor told me to walk this part. So I am. I am going to finish this race!"
She was the most inspiring woman there. She was over weight, she was over heated and she was going to finish the race.
Her energy leaped into me and I was finally back in the game. I began running.
I ran to the half way mark where I drank some water and Gatorade, quickly.
I turned around and noticed in the distance someone else walking heading toward the finish line.
My goal changed into a bite sized task. I would run to that woman.
I threw off my shirt (my sports bra I swam in earlier would keep me cool), I turned up my MP3 and I ran.
As I got closer to the woman in the distance, I ran faster. And the faster I ran, the more I gave myself positive feed back.
Soon I was right behind the woman, but she started running too.
This time I wasn't discouraged, I was on fire. I wasn't going to be dead last in the running part, I was going to show myself I could, and was competing in a Triathlon!
The last leg of the run was down hill, quite steep, too. I could hear people cheering me on, I joined in! I could do it! I was doing it!
I ran faster than I have ever run as an adult before.
And then it was done. I had completed what I had come to do.
Later, the stats where posted. I realized something very valuable. If I wouldn't have stunted myself by pouting, I would have finished in a much faster time. I realized it wasn't the technical difficulties that kept me from competing, it was me, wasting time on why I should give up.
I don't want to be that negative person again. In fact, I am tired of being complacent and negative all together. I want to compete, I want to fight for myself. I want to fight to have a life! And I am going to, starting now.
It was such an invigorating experience and yet I find myself down playing every part. I had technical difficulties with my bike and as a result it took me twice as long to complete that part of the race. I took so long in fact, one police man who was at a post left, but slammed on his breaks and reversed when he noticed me slowly climbing up the last hill. I wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't shouted out his window, "Whoa! I'm sorry I thought the race was over! I'm glad I noticed you!"
I am still surprised how immediately I crumbled. "What a looser I am!" I thought. "What do I think I am doing? I don't belong here!" I continued berating myself for the rest of the bike part of the competition. It got worse from there.
As I was rounding the last of the bike trek, I saw my husband finishing the final part of the run. I was so proud of him. I was so excited about how he was doing and then I lost it. I became a jealous sore loser.
"I should just give up! I am so embarrassed with my performance! I should just stop and save face..."
As soon as I realized I was about to give up, another thought occurred to me. What would I tell my friends if they gave up because of how they felt they looked?
I would think they were crazy! I would tell them to focus on the big picture, they were here trying something very difficult, and new and they were almost finished. I would have reminded them that they had already finished the swimming part and now the biking part and all that was left was the running. I would tell them that they knew how to run. They could run and they could do it well.
As I was soothing my invisible friends, I changed my counselling from third person to first person. I can run. I can run and run fast. I don't want to be dead last in this part of the race!
I hung up my bike and continued on.
I waved at my kids and husband who were now watching and waiting for my on my last leg of the race. I was going to finish.
I ran/walked up the first hill.
I was still trying to gain back myself confidence. I passed a woman walking, too. I asked if she was alright, she told me she had finished the earlier, more advanced race that morning and thought it would be fun to walk this race.
This batted at myself esteem more. I felt like the woman had insulted me, seeing this race as less than, and I was walking it.
Emotionally I stumbled, fighting with myself to stay focused.
My music wasn't inspiring, my shirt I was wearing was too hot. I didn't like how my shorts kept riding up, and on and on.
Up a head I noticed another woman walking. There were people heading back to the finish line, but still there was one other woman walking the same direction. I decided to jog up to her.
When I caught up to her, she was out of breath and sweating profusely. I asked her if she was doing this race.
She gulped and said, "Yes, but my doctor told me to walk this part. So I am. I am going to finish this race!"
She was the most inspiring woman there. She was over weight, she was over heated and she was going to finish the race.
Her energy leaped into me and I was finally back in the game. I began running.
I ran to the half way mark where I drank some water and Gatorade, quickly.
I turned around and noticed in the distance someone else walking heading toward the finish line.
My goal changed into a bite sized task. I would run to that woman.
I threw off my shirt (my sports bra I swam in earlier would keep me cool), I turned up my MP3 and I ran.
As I got closer to the woman in the distance, I ran faster. And the faster I ran, the more I gave myself positive feed back.
Soon I was right behind the woman, but she started running too.
This time I wasn't discouraged, I was on fire. I wasn't going to be dead last in the running part, I was going to show myself I could, and was competing in a Triathlon!
The last leg of the run was down hill, quite steep, too. I could hear people cheering me on, I joined in! I could do it! I was doing it!
I ran faster than I have ever run as an adult before.
And then it was done. I had completed what I had come to do.
Later, the stats where posted. I realized something very valuable. If I wouldn't have stunted myself by pouting, I would have finished in a much faster time. I realized it wasn't the technical difficulties that kept me from competing, it was me, wasting time on why I should give up.
I don't want to be that negative person again. In fact, I am tired of being complacent and negative all together. I want to compete, I want to fight for myself. I want to fight to have a life! And I am going to, starting now.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Self Discovery By Accident
This morning I had a startling discovery. I found an old notebook, an ordinary spiral notebook. I have seen it several times in my desk drawer where we keep our scrap paper, and our computer paper. I knew it was there, I didn't ever have a reason to look at it, or through it for that matter.
This morning, my son, who is learning how to read, brought it to me. He read to me a passage that shocked me. It was from me during a period of time I was being treated for sever depression. Luckily, because I write partially in cursive and part print, my seven year old couldn't quite figure out what I had said. In investigating I realized it was a journal I started in 2006.
I noticed I wrote only about once a month and the theme was constant. Who am I? What do I want? I need to loose weight. What am I trying to do with my life? If I could just loose ten more pounds, then I would be happy...
I am shocked because here it is three years later, give or take, and I am still trying to discover what will make me happy. I am still trying to loose ten pounds, I am still trying to venture out to see what I can accomplish and I am still incredibly frustrated.
It would seem I haven't moved forward at all. It is as if I wasted three years of my life. But this conclusion is false.
So here is my true conclusion, I will never be happy or satisfied if I can't realize what it is I have accomplished and have figured out.
No I don't have a career, yet. But I have figured out, conclusively what it is I don't want to have a career in.
I haven't lost ten pounds, but, I have learned how to compete in a mini-triathlon.I couldn't have done that three years ago.
I have figured out what I am passionate about and what I am Luke-warm with.
And if I really think about it (which is something I don't like to do and something I dislike to admit even more) I genuinely like large amounts about myself. This is a new discovery.
I like that I am not satisfied with the same old same old. I like that I have a need to research and discover things, anything, everything.
It isn't that I am in the same place I was three years ago, which is what I originally thought. I am in a totally different place, a good place and a place where I am free to discover.
This in itself is terrifying, worrisome, at times loathsome, but also exhilarating, and exciting.
It's OK that I don't know where I am, who I am, or what I want to be. The point in life is to figure it out if it takes three years or thirty three years!
I'm up for it!
This morning, my son, who is learning how to read, brought it to me. He read to me a passage that shocked me. It was from me during a period of time I was being treated for sever depression. Luckily, because I write partially in cursive and part print, my seven year old couldn't quite figure out what I had said. In investigating I realized it was a journal I started in 2006.
I noticed I wrote only about once a month and the theme was constant. Who am I? What do I want? I need to loose weight. What am I trying to do with my life? If I could just loose ten more pounds, then I would be happy...
I am shocked because here it is three years later, give or take, and I am still trying to discover what will make me happy. I am still trying to loose ten pounds, I am still trying to venture out to see what I can accomplish and I am still incredibly frustrated.
It would seem I haven't moved forward at all. It is as if I wasted three years of my life. But this conclusion is false.
So here is my true conclusion, I will never be happy or satisfied if I can't realize what it is I have accomplished and have figured out.
No I don't have a career, yet. But I have figured out, conclusively what it is I don't want to have a career in.
I haven't lost ten pounds, but, I have learned how to compete in a mini-triathlon.I couldn't have done that three years ago.
I have figured out what I am passionate about and what I am Luke-warm with.
And if I really think about it (which is something I don't like to do and something I dislike to admit even more) I genuinely like large amounts about myself. This is a new discovery.
I like that I am not satisfied with the same old same old. I like that I have a need to research and discover things, anything, everything.
It isn't that I am in the same place I was three years ago, which is what I originally thought. I am in a totally different place, a good place and a place where I am free to discover.
This in itself is terrifying, worrisome, at times loathsome, but also exhilarating, and exciting.
It's OK that I don't know where I am, who I am, or what I want to be. The point in life is to figure it out if it takes three years or thirty three years!
I'm up for it!
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