Looking The Part

My husband and I have signed up to compete in a miniature triathlon. I am proud to say we are actually following through and doing it. To solidify our devotion we have been training for it and because it is being held in St. George, we have already booked a room. That clinches it, we have spent the fee to enter the race and we have booked a hotel room, we are going.
To tell you the truth, I have a love/hate desire to do this. Or perhaps it is a fear/control thing I have with it. This miniature race consists of running 1.5 miles. I can do that. Biking 5 miles. I can do that. And swimming 8 laps in a pool. Yikes. I don't know how to swim. I hate water on my face and I really, really hate wearing swim suits, in public or out of the public. I basically see swim suits as a mid-evil torture device.
Every year I take a pilgrimage to the Department stores in the Mall in search for that perfect swimming suit. You know the one; it miraculously changes your body image, physically and emotionally at an accelerated rate and the longer you wear it the skinnier you become. I don't know what's so hard about finding a suit like that. It has got to be out there...somewhere.
Last year I decided to buy one, via Internet through the Victoria Secret Web site.
It was great, well on line, it was great. I got to choose the color I wanted. I was able to mix and match different tops with different bottoms. I could decide which bottom style would work best on my body type and the best part was I didn't have to try to visualize it. Every time I tweaked something a picture of it was then transposed on a Victoria Secret Model. I loved it.
It was reasonably priced, too. So after about a week, I received a small package by UPS. It had arrived, my perfect suit!
I tore open the packaging and marveled at my brand new Lycra persona. I am going to look HOT this summer!
A few minutes into putting the suit on, reality hit me. It didn't matter how I posed in it, I did not look like the perfect specimen I saw on line. I have figured out what Victoria Secrets big secret is, AIR BRUSHING!
Another swim suit to put in my swim suit drawer of same.
Which brings me back to my little triathlon. I have a new suit. I actually tried it on at the store. Yes it was horrifying and yes I went immediately after and got a Blizzard from Dairy Queen.
It's an OK suit. It's used specifically for racing. It's a one-piece black Speedo brand with white racing stripes. Don't you love the psychology behind the racing stripes?
I also purchased a swimming cap, because I just had highlights and low lights put in my hair and I don't want them ruined by chlorine. Add to this my swim goggles and I definitely look the part, an Iron man triathlete.
Looking the part is quite different than acting the part ,however.
Every time I get into the lap pool (I don't dive in. I slowly lower myself in. Carefully submerging myself inch by inch, until it's colder having more than half of my body in and part of it out) and whimper and whine that the water is too cold.
I have gotten looks, quizzical, eye-rolling looks from people who actually like to swim and know how to swim. I think it is because I look like a professional but then I can only doggy paddle. I concede that the gurgling, panting and hyperventilating doesn't help to make me seem like an athlete either.
I have been asked, why on earth would I sign up for a miniature triathlon? I have to say, it's purely for bragging rights. When was the last time you did something really challenging for you and you did it? I can't remember the last time I accomplished something like this.
I am so excited to go for this. I am so excited to get out of my comfort zone and try something truly terrifying. Even if I drown doing it.
I don't expect to win. Actually, I have a suspicion I will be the woman that a search party will be looking for 7 hours after the race is over. They will be in their golf carts and waving flash lights into the brush off the side of the road. And where will I be?
Still screaming and panting that the lap pool is too cold. But at least I'll look like an Olympian swimmer, even if I don't have the decorum down.

The Big Rub

Last Thursday, as I was killing time between picking up my new eyeglasses and meeting some friends for lunch, I found myself seduced into listening to a sales pitch from very short man at a mall kiosk. After rebuffing my half-hearted attempts to leave, I was placed on a wooden bar stool and intensely examined. He was selling facial creams and possibly saving me from a life of a dry and wrinkled face.
He spoke in a thick accent, I wasn't sure where from, but he had such authority in his delivery I began believing everything he said.
He proceeded to dab my unsightly under-eye circles with a top secret magic formula. This cream was also able to lift the sags and smooth the lines around my eyes. But, he would only do one eye so I could visibly see the amazing transformation.
I have to admit, I could visibly see the difference between eye A and unforgiving eye B.
Then the man continued vocally picking apart my flaws, telling me how much older and unattractive I was having these three obviously deformities (the under eye circles, the laugh lines and now slight acne scars). I was shocked. Here I was thinking I was looking pretty good that day. I had spent an hour donning makeup and hair in anticipation of a girl's luncheon, when in his reality I really should have been wearing a bag, and probably a two-ply, brown paper bag over my head.
Along with tearing my self esteem apart, the creepy little man kept rubbing against me with his even tinier "manhood".
At first I thought it was an accident. I was sitting high on a chair, my legs were crossed and he was leaning in to dab eye cream on me. It was a plausible mistake.
The second time, after I had readjusted feeling embarrassed by the accidental contact, the man lingered on me. It must have been an accident, right? Wasn't it an accident?
After sitting and listening to my many, many faults and on the verge of wanting to hide in my house for the remainder of my life if only to spare the world of my ugliness, the stout little man, rubbed against me for the third time (he was no longer applying facial cream to my face, it was a mask on my forearm). I couldn't believe it. I really couldn't fathom this kind of behavior, to me, a grown woman in my thirties, in broad day light and in a very public place.
I stood up, thanked the man for his time and then limped away to the Express store to cry among the sales rack in the back.
I was humiliated. What had I done to deserve this? What could I have done to provoke this kind of behavior? And how had I become so ugly in a few short hours?
In telling my friends of what had conspired, I was still visibly shaken, one friend even had tears in her eyes, wanted to know why. My other friend explained it to me perfectly; it was because simply, I was unprepared.
If I had had my guard up, the creep probably wouldn't have succeeded in getting away with so much. I blame my environment. In a culture of perpetual "turn the other cheek" I have found myself cheek less and down right spineless.
What time period am I living in? A truly great time it is. I am living in a time where a woman could run for President of the United States and another woman could run for Vice President. I am witnessing events that will forever be known in history as the "firsts" and here I am crying in the back of an Express Store.
I decided to take action and stand up for myself and for my two friends and also for my younger, less-wise self. I called the Mall Management Offices to complain, and waited for a returned phone call. Nothing. They still haven't called, even after two messages.
The next day, still feeling the sting to my self-esteem and wounded from not taking more action, I decided to go back to the Mall.
This time I was prepared. I spent over an hour getting ready. My hair was perfect. My makeup was sublime, my outfit, smart and slightly sexy, and my shoes, six inches (I wanted to tower over the man).
I went to Dillards and purchased many facial products for my skin. Guess what? The sweet woman behind the counter kept disputing all the products I was told I needed the day before for my badly pocked and ugly skin. She couldn't see my acne scars. She even compared me to Anne Hathaway. I like Anne Hathaway, I think she's pretty.

Taking my time and my purchases, and I must mention I had a prepared speech; I trekked back to the now hated man at his Kiosk.
He wasn't there. He wasn't working that day.
No matter. I was there to gain my self respect. I told the two women now working the Kiosk about what transpired. Including the crazy rubbing the creep did.
The women didn't believe me. In fact, one hugged me, the other tried to sell me some product for half price! I showed them my bag of facial treatments and told them, thank you for the hug, but I am not now nor ever going to buy anything from them.
It didn't matter that the women didn't believe me. I don't care that they didn't see it as a big deal. I am delighted that I stood up for myself and for my friends and for anyone else who has been broad sided and left in ruins. I did it for my sex and I did it for me. I can go back to the Mall or any place else with my head held high. Next time though, I'll have my guard up.

The Assassination of Self

She sits inside my skin, a giant within my 5'4" frame
She sits, crouching in wait.
She isn't comfortable, always complaining.
I believe she is protecting me.
I believe she is genuine in trying to help.
So I listen to her whispers.
I nod in agreement when she shouts.

She is always with me
She is always awake, making me partially asleep.
I have appointed her my Master,
I, merely the apprentice.

One day, or perhaps many days, over thirty years or so, I wake up.
She is happiest crammed inside me.

She claims I need her,
In truth, she's the one in need.
Without me, without dwelling beneath my skin, and whispering self-doubt
She would die.
She feeds on me.
That's how she has gotten so big.
That's how she's gotten so self important.

And now she's threatened.
Threatened that I am wise to her.
Threatened that I have awakened.
She won't leave on her own.
I've tried to out grow her.
She's not going to leave,
Not without death.

It is up to me.
I am going to be her assassin. But how? I've never killed
Anybody before?
I could pull the trigger, twice.
Once by way of kind words,
The second by believing those words.

She knows what I'm planning.
She tries to sabotage my schemes.
She screams and trembles.
She debates and claims I'll fail without her.
She apologizes and promises silence.

She won't be so critical.
She won't expose all the issues I have.
She'll keep my secrets
She'll try to ignore how terrible I truly am.
After all She's only trying to help.
She's only trying to HELP!

Her pleading has worked in the past.
She did keep her promises, for a little while, at least.
But then She grew.
She got bigger and stronger, than before.
And I had failed again, at something else.

And She snickered
And She delighted
And pointed out her "told me so's".
But not this time.
This time I have a fool-proof plan.
Practice.
Kindness.

I will use a knife and spoon.
I will cut her out.
With Practice, I will scoop her out
And all of her roots, with her.
I will Practice with Kindness
And I will not let my guard down.

She'll plot to come back.
She'll search for small cracks.
She'll send out shoots and try to plant them
When another tries to put me down.

I won't listen.
I won't hear.
I will block her and knock her down.
I will kill her.
And then I will be free.

And maybe one day, I'll visit her grave site.
And marvel at my accomplishment.
I'll read on her tombstone;
Here She Lies,
Here She Dies,
My Old Self
My Poor Bad Self-Esteem.

Inside The Looking Glass

Today I went to the Ophthalmologist for my yearly check up.
It seems my eyes, like everything else in accordance to age, are getting worse.
This bugs me, immensely.
I think it has to do with my ability to remember the thoughts and feelings I had when I was seventeen.
Don't get me wrong, for me, High School was not my "glory day". I hated High School. I loathed almost everything about it and am puzzled whenever people want to reunite with High School buddies and reminisce about "the good 'ol days".
The good 'ol days? Why would I want to remember my self-loathing, deeply-depressed, sarcastic and man-hating, not to mention an awkwardly hopeless-romantic, not-sure-what-to-do-with-myself, side? Yuck! And more importantly, I don't want anyone else to remember me this way either.
I work really hard to shape myself into the adult I want to be and practically pretend that my old self doesn't exist. To sum up, I had a lot to be angry about, I have a lot less to be angry about now.
So I am at the Ophthalmologist when I am presented with, "you have Giant Papillary Conjunctivitis and you need to wear eye glasses more and alternate with contacts occasionally".
What?
The Ophthalmologist repeated it to me.
No comprende..?
Basically I have cooties on my eye lids and it is effecting my eyes. I have to use special medication via eye drops and can't wear contacts for at least one month. And then he'll see.
What about surgery? Wait, I can't afford Lasik, yet.
So what's the big deal?
I hate glasses. I own a pair. One pair, that are out of style and that are no longer the right prescription, which I can't see (no pun intended) is a big deal because I only wear them when there aren't people around.
I take out my contacts, right before bed, and put on glasses after my face-washing ritual is complete. Then I squint during the news and then go to sleep.
I get up the next morning, slip the ugly things back on, and commence with the squinting while I get my kids ready for school. After my morning shower and more face-washing rituals, I put my contacts in.
My little secret identity; no one sees them, no one sees me in those hideous glasses.
It's not as if I hate glasses. I love sunglasses and on others, I think glasses are quite cute, sexy even, but not on me. Every time I put a pair of regular eye wear across the bridge of my nose, I am magically and painfully transformed back to my adolescence. Looking through my own looking glass, I am once again an unattractive, nerdy teenager, which is one of the reasons I was so angry back then. So why would I want that kind of self esteem?
Back at the Ophthalmologist, I tried on pair after pair of eye glasses. These ones make me look too old. Those are too square. I don't like the size of these ones. I don't know why I look so weird with these on...they look cuter on the model...(I know most things do).
Then it occurred to me, it's not them, it's me. It wouldn't matter if I found the most perfect pair of eyeglasses, contoured and made exactly for my face. A pair that transformed me into a Giorgio Armani model.
It wouldn't matter. The real issue is my "inside me".
I still have not out grown the angst ridden teenager who was so afraid of the world.
What is up with that?
I keep thinking I have changed. I am different and I am unstoppable. I'm a grown up for crying out loud!
So after an hour and a half I left without a pair of glasses. I am going back with my husband and kids for their opinion. Maybe having their support might transform me back into the woman I've been working on. And maybe I can challenge that teenager stuck under my skin to a duel and show her, through a new pair of eyes, my true self.

Cirque De Sol Klutz

Last Friday my husband and I went on a very Metropolitan-style date. We went to a couple's Yoga class and then to a Sushi Restaurant with another very "Metro" type couple.
Couple's Yoga was one of the only times we have ever tried Yoga. It is not as though we don't exercise, we are very physically active. We run; we love the speed and competition of out- running each other, although my husband always out-runs me, he is almost a full foot taller than me, which means his legs are at least two feet longer than any part of my body. We lift-weights; we like to boast to each other about how many reps or how much weight we added to that particular workout, my husband also out-lifts me. But we don't do Yoga or any other shape-shifting exercise. Up until a couple of years ago, if I heard the phrase"Downward-facing dog" or "Sun Pose", I would have looked around for an actual dog staring down at something and then perhaps looked out a window to see if the sun was doing something unusual.
To us, Yoga and Pilate's were in the same grouping as Vegetarian and Vegan or any other concept, we thought needed subtitles of explanation.
We have since been enlightened.
Which brings us to my first couple's Yoga date night.
The room we were to exercise in was warm and inviting. In fact, several times I leaned over to my other half and whispered, "How much do you think it will cost to turn our bedroom into a Yoga room?"
He replied, "Too much."
The instructor was a small woman who could bend herself in half. Repeatedly, usually after I asked for a guesstimate of how much my husband really thought the bedroom makeover would cost, and which child we could sell to cover expenses, I would whisper, " I wish I could bend in half" and Brian would respond sheepishly, "I wish you could, too."
By the way, I feel like I should explain that I would never actually sell either one of my children. I am always, always kidding, unless I have had a stressful week and the children have systematically frayed, squashed and pulled apart my every last nerve, in which a relaxing, Yoga room makeover could relieve this stress...but back to the date.
Yoga was being taught by Gumby and she had a Gumby partner. The pair were exactly alike, the same flexibility, the same height, the same hair color, the same body type and were the same gender. Women.
The two were masters of Shape-shifting. With any pose, they were able to replicate it. I was awed and inspired.
But no matter how beautiful the exercised looked done by the Gumbies, mine and my husband's translation was terrible.
The class was instructed to stand back to back and lace fingers together with their mate and do a certain stretch resembling the beginning of a cart wheel. Legs spread out, arms extended full to the sides, fingers entwined.
Brian's arms were thrown out to his sides. As were mine.
Our backs were lined up the best we could manage, never cheek-to-cheek, more like cheek-to-mid-back.
I couldn't reach his fingers, so I grabbed his forearms. As we stretched to one side, Brian yelped. I had unwittingly scalped his arms while intensely trying to force my body into position. I adjusted and grasped his elbows instead. It was a lot less painful for him, but unfortunately a lot less beautiful and stream lined.
Pose after pose, we stumbled over each other. He would yelp, I would yelp.
There was a pose where each of us outstretched our hands in front, facing each other. We were instructed to hold hands and bend deep, to use the pull of each other's weight to equalize our balance and rest merely inches from the floor mat.
Did I mention Brian out weighs me by almost 60 lbs?
Brian was in a compromising position, trying to use my weight to balance himself out, holding my hands, when he fell backwards, I, of course fell forwards. Thank goodness we were using the ultra thin Yoga mats, and I have a slight over-bite! We can't afford a Rhinoplasty...
We tried and we tried. Pose after pose.
After a while, we began giggling, at first out of embarrassment of our inability, and then because Gumby and Gumby continued demonstrating gravity defying acts and expected us to follow suite.
Towards the end of the hour and a half session the two instructors showed the class of far better Yoga-istas (I know this isn't a word, I don't know what else to call professional Yoga attendees) performed the most amazing act.
The assistant G (assistant Gumby) leaned over and did the "down-ward facing dog" pose, which is essentially placing your hands out on the mat, slightly wider than the width of your hips, and then having your legs mirror it behind you. I can almost do this without bending my knees, which is the goal, by the way.
Then the Head G, did a type of a hand stand and landed her legs on top of the back of her partner.
I was stunned.
Brian was frightened.
The class began trying it. Many of them succeeded, seamlessly.
How hard could it be?
Brian did the "down-ward dog" first.
Luckily for me, he can't straighten his knees, so when I did my clumsy hand stand, I didn't have as far to fall back.
Brian grunted as my legs went flying back and struck him in the kidneys, I was proud we kind-of resembled what the instructors and the rest of the class were doing.
Next it was my turn to "down-ward dog".
To tell the truth, I was afraid.
Brian is stronger than me, so he could probably hold a hand stand longer then I can. I was concern with which the velocity and impact of his fall would make on my back.
I was right. It hurt like Hell.
My sweet husband is perfect in almost every way. Emotionally, and Physically.
But he has one flaw. His toes are like long spindly fingers and when his toenails aren't clipped, they become talons.
Picture the impact of free-falling claws weighing 180+ lbs puncturing your back as you are suspended above a thin blue mat, outstretched on all fours with no way of protecting yourself.
Ouch!
Like I said. It hurt like Hell!
The next trapeze act involved doing a hand stand over your partner's hunched back, landing on their back, your legs on either side of their head and then pulling yourself to a sitting position still on your partner,s back and then landing standing up in front of your partner.
You have read correctly. It was how I described.
Brian was game.
My body shivered with fear.
We tried it, me half-heartily. I was still wounded from the old-toenail-puncture-to-my-back pose. I could more then imagine holding Brian up on my back while his legs are giving me a half-nelson.
We gave it a try, grunting and falling and whining and falling.
We didn't ever succeed in this pose. And I have to say, I am fine with that.
Astonishing, Sushi wasn't the new thing we tried that night. The exercise was.
Over all, I enjoyed trying something new. And we will try another Yoga class in the near future, but perhaps, not a couple's one.
For now, I like the non-contact sport of running and weights.

Embarrassing Moment # 5,000,000 and counting

I can't believe I can still have embarrassing moments. I tell you, I have experienced every excruciating moment in all happenstance. I thought, for one very naive second, how many more could I possibly have? You name the moment; I have experienced it, and probably did it naked with astonished witnesses. I wish I could have these experiences by myself. I wish I had the luxury of taking a deep breath and whispering, "Whew, at least no one saw me..." This never happens. There is always, always, always an audience. It's a wonder I go out in public anymore.
What I have found is that if I tell the moment to people who weren't there, I can tell my side. Show how I am the victim put my spin on it. And the truth is, this particular experience isn't as bad as the one I alluded to above about the nakedness and the astonished on-lookers. I just feel incredibly stupid.
So that is why I have my ranting blog. So I can express myself and then hopefully move on-with my luck, into something a lot more devastating.
With this big build up I will disclose and move on...hopefully, very hopefully.
For the last several weeks, I haven't felt well. I can't pin point the reason exactly, although I really believe a Hawaiian Vacation during a Utah winter could do wonders.
Last week I went to a new M.D. She asked me a bunch of questions and then the next day I had to go back and get many vials of blood drawn. I hate Doctors. I hate having my blood drawn.
The day after the great siphoning my Doc called me and said, "I don't know what's wrong but, you are extremely anemic and I want to know if you are hemorrhaging during your periods."
This is a puzzle considering I had a full hysterectomy about 11 years ago. Can your female plumbing grow back?
I responded with, "No. I had a hysterectomy, they can't grow back can they?" thinking I was being funny. The Doctor didn't think I was at all funny, "No they don't grow back."
She then asked me to come in and pick up a "Stool-Sample-Card to check for bleeding."
My first knee-jerk reaction was, "Gross!"
My second reaction was, “its cancer, I know it."
The third reaction was "I'm OK, I don't need a Stool-Sample-Card, I'll just walk it off."
After almost a week, my husband convinced me to go in and pick up the card.
I walked into the waiting room where a bunch, I mean a bunch of people were waiting.
Every waiting room chair was filled with a waiting person and it was dead silent.
I waited too, behind a woman who had an appointment.
I finally stepped up in line and told the receptionist, wearing scrubs so I wasn't sure who she was really. A receptionist wearing scrubs, a nurse manning the receptionist desk, perhaps a Doctor? I wasn't sure.
I told her what I wanted, except I couldn't remember what it was called and asked for the piece of paper I was suppose to poop in.
She wrinkled her forehead and asked me, "What?"
I leaned in, “I need that thing to test my poop for blood. That paper thingy..."
She figured out what I needed, so did, unfortunately, the silent waiting room. I wish I had remembered the simple three word explanation of "Stool-Sample-Card". Why didn't I remember that? How hard is it to remember that? I chalk it up to stage fright.
The receptionist/nurse/maybe a Doctor, lead me to a small room in the back.
She took out an envelope and showed me the sample card. She showed me the instructions on the back. She told me, that all though the card states that it could be mailed, the Doctors would really much rather I bring it in.
I understood the request. Who wants a Bio hazard flying through the mail?
The woman then began pulling out surgical gloves, four actually "Here, you'll need these, and here's a hat..."
I looked at the "hat" she pulled down from one of the shelves. It was plastic, too.
"Why do I need to wear a hat?" I asked.
She looked at me weird, and turned it brim-side up, "It's not really a hat. You put it between the toilet seat lids to catch the sample in it."
Groan! Double Groan!
I am such a moron!
I know this woman laughed at me all day. I know she told people about the freak-show who came in and asked for a paper to poop in and then asked why they needed to wear a hat while taking a dump!
I feel so stupid. Look at me! Look at my beautiful dinner gloves and hat! Won't I be the envy of all in the bathroom stall?
Groan...

Facebook Angst

Being newly inducted to the web-stream lifestyle, I recently signed up for facebook. My friend has been detailing me to the delights of the Facebook phenomena. So with the help of my personal computer aid, aka my husband, I was set up with an account.
It was breath taking, to say the very least. First I had to find a picture. To my chagrin, I hate all of my pictures, that is why I always take the pictures and am rarely in the picture. I read some where that to get the perfect smile, and facial expression every time, one should say the word, "sex" instead of "cheese". When you say the word "sex", endorphins are said to release instantaneously and you will have the perfect picture every time. I admit I have tried it. I have noticed a difference in the resulted photo, but, when I am getting my picture taken, I am usually not alone. For the most part I have my 11 year old daughter or my 7 year old son either sitting on my lap or within ear shot. So me whispering, "sex" within ear shot of my kids seems very unsavory and down right creepy, especially when my 11 year old knows what sex is. My face in the photo may turn out fine but the horrified look across my daughter's face, kind of ruins the family photo anyway.
My husband and I settled on a picture. We had to crop it. He wasn't willing to photo shop me about 10 pounds leaner, but it was an acceptable picture. Unfortunately, we couldn't crop out my son entirely, so you see this little part of his eye leaning on my shoulder. I felt like a butcher, cropping out my son, leaving only a little bit of his bright brown eye.
Next in my induction to the computer age, I had to search for people. Who else is on facebook?
We came up with several names, and I was elated. I had a surge of utopia with the possibilities of who I could find. I felt very much like a detective, a snoop, maybe a bit of a reporter. I loved it.
As fast as the elation was upon me, I was informed that I could find as many people as I would like, but the people I find have to agree to be my "friend". I couldn't just find them, I had to ask permission to be their "friend".
Horrified I began to ask. Person after person.
I began having flash backs to elementary school, passing notes, pleading with kids to check a box, "am I your friend or not? Check yes or check no".
What if I was denied? What if on Facebook, the ultimate lined-paper note, I was denied?
I remember lining up during P.E. in Junior High School and waiting to be picked for teams. It usually pertained to Dodge ball (a truly barbaric, ritualistic hunting game) in which at the beginning, no one worried. It wasn't until the number of people chosen out numbered the people waiting to be chosen that the pit of my stomach began heaving. Sweat began beading and the chaos of the situation seemed like a distant echo, compared to the pounding of my heartbeat. I would be chosen, but only out of default.
Sitting at my computer last night, I sat and waited. Will I be chosen? Can I be able to with stand the public humiliation of being denied someones "friend".
I didn't sleep last night. Visions of being picked last, or not picked at all loomed through my dreams.
This morning, after I got my kids off to school, I immediately logged on to my facebook page, finding no results, yet.
I hate the neediness I have developed waiting. I hate that it suddenly means so much to be accepted, still, and I am a married woman of two, in my thirties.
So this is my angst. To be wanted enough for someone to check the "yes" box.
Maybe in my forties, I will have out grown it.