Some weeks I feel like the person that I am in my head. Patient. Understanding. Kind. I'll change the toilet paper at work when it gets close to the end instead of using less paper so that the next unfortunate soul draws that short straw. I'll fold my son's laundry instead of leaving it in the dryer and yelling like Rosanne Barr for him to come get it out. I'll take my daughter to dinner and won't make a single negative comment about anything that she's doing that will make her tell me that I'm being intrusive (even though I sometimes am). I'll even pick up the tab.
I won't yell "BAD DOG!" when Riley leaves me a deposit that smells like a herd of goats has been on that puppy pad instead of one small, very fluffy (until tomorrow when the groomer handles that) shih tzu. I'll just get up and take the radioactive waste outside and move on. And I'll just bend down and pick up whatever poor unfortunate piece of paper that he has turned into confetti and throw it away before he eats it and throws up on the couch. Because he totally will if I don't.
Some weeks I am patient with people who I've told the same thing to twenty-six times and I don't even mutter under my breath. I'll stay in a line in the drive-thru while someone who is exploring the entirety of the menu asking seventeen questions about how something on the dollar menu is prepared and then after all that orders combo #1 because being adventurous isn't as much fun as being time consuming apparently is. I'll be less inclined to scream "MORON!" at someone who steals my parking place at Target and I'll walk quietly behind the lady in a scooter blocking the aisle at Publix because it just isn't worth trying to get her to move. After all, she's trying to decide between the 15 1/2 oz can and the 28 oz can and apparently that takes several birthdays to ponder.
Sometimes I can listen to my kids complain about how busy their lives are without pulling out the "you have no idea what busy is..."speech and can find dirty dishes in the sink and just quietly turn around and put them in the empty dishwasher instead of rolling the offender out of bed (or off the couch) and pitching a fit that makes Jerry Springer contestants look tame (and/or sane).
I'll let other people get the credit and be fine with it, watch the ridiculous reality shows that Big Dave is partial to (while sitting at the computer across the room...and hearing what I can above the snoring) and I'll even switch cars so that someone can have her oil changed at Big Dave's Free Oil Emporium when my car also needs it. I won't ask people to change the channel at the gym when it is firmly planted on NBC News and I won't yell "Liar!" when President Obama comes on the screen.
Okay, maybe that last one happens even on a good week. I have Political Tourette's. I really do.
And then there are weeks that I can only look back and worry about just how much fun I'm going to be when I'm older and everything about my personality is magnified. Because I somehow sense that this is not going to be pretty.
My grandmother taught me that whole magnification thing, by the way. She would very tactfully whisper something to me that was a little bit...shall we say...tacky? But nobody could really hear her and so all was well, right?
Until she got a little bit older.
She kept up this practice...except that since she couldn't hear herself well...she said whatever it was loud enough for me to hear. And everyone else within earshot. Three tables away.
This sometimes was about as mortifying as discovering that you have tucked the back of your skirt into your pantyhose and paraded through downtown Montgomery like a poor unfortunate soul in a Morrison's Cafeteria uniform that I witnessed once walking down the street sometime in 1986 from the 2nd floor of the Union Bank building. So not kidding. And the stubbornness that was seen as "strong-willed and capable" in her 70's became "dictator-like and obstinate" when she hit her 90's. (Of course, we loved her anyway.)
I will likely be put in a home and will be "that patient" that people are going to cringe when they are assigned to my floor. Of course, what is "Towanda" today is going to turn into some special brand of crazy that I can only imagine will be not particularly fun to deal with.
Although I really hope that I'll be all sweetness and light...I'm fairly certain that dealing with me will be like eating an entire handful of Sour Patch kids all at once. Sweet...but seriously unbearable at the same time.
Yes, I've actually done that. Don't judge.
Anyway, this week has been more than a little bit interesting, and my fuse has been shorter than it needs to be. I told a manager about a snippy counter waitress on Saturday because they spend a whole lot of money on radio advertising...and they need to know that she needs to not do that and to just go on break...temporary or otherwise. I also loudly condemned the line jumping guy in Michael's the same day because if there is any store that the next person waiting in the LONGEST. LINES. EVER. needs to be served...it is in that one. I got behind a lady doing a Girl Scout project involving no fewer than 700 items in the cart...and I stood there for ten minutes while that sucker was unloaded. About halfway through her cart, someone took mercy on us and opened another line. But did the next person in line go first (me)? NO.
I've noticed that men of all ages forget their manners when it comes to waiting. If a line opens up...they will jump ahead of you before you can say "JERK!" And when they do...I say it anyway. Let's just say that the guy in Michael's certainly heard it.
As did the three other unfortunate souls who were in line. Bless their hearts.
But I waited on the lady who fumbled for another two minutes for a coupon in her purse before I was finally able to purchase my one item. I won't even go into how much fun that was. And yes, I had my coupon in my hand like a normal person.
During these times when everyone gets on my nerves...from the creeping along Mini-Cooper in Eastchase tonight that I was behind to the indecisive, non-rushed, or just plain slow for reasons known only to them crowd. I seem to take it personally...and want people to just act with some consideration toward others.
And then I remember that I've dodged out of replacing the toilet paper roll at work because I didn't feel like it. That on days I don't work...I enjoy not having a timeline to get things done and so I meander around like I'm clueless...and I like it. That sometimes I want to ask a question at a drive-thru window about something on the menu because I tend to be a "Combo #1" girl most of the time...and I'm not responsible for the schedules of the individuals in the three cars behind me. They can always run in. The line is probably shorter in there anyway.
So, tomorrow, I'll try to look for opportunities to make other peoples' lives better...or at least easier. I hope that I won't take it personally when some yahoo fails to put on his blinker so I would have known he was turning and wouldn't have waited at the stop sign for him to give me a clue as to his intentions. That I won't yell at the television at the gym that I'm shocked that Brian Williams is actually reporting the news on NBC instead of the dribble that I think he normally spouts.
Wait, that last one was a little Towanda-ish. Sorry.
Maybe if I'm a little bit more tolerant with people I can stay out of the classroom called "Patience"...where I am probably one of the oldest students in the class. I've failed that one so many times that I already know the syllabus by heart. I just can't seem to pass the final exam. I probably never will.
But I'm hoping that I can at least be a nicer person...and someone that my children won't hate to visit when I'm older. Someone who is thought of to be a little bit more awesome than I really am...instead of a cranky bitter impatient person yelling at a line-breaker.
Although he really deserved it.
But, frankly, that isn't for me to judge. That's God's job. And if I just sit and wait...eventually I'll either quit worrying about the little annoyances of life...or I'll see God pull off a lesson plan that is extremely memorable. Or maybe I'll find myself back in the "Patience" classroom again. At least I'll be happier than I ever am being a rabid banshee...which I can honestly pull off, y'all...don't be fooled.
Tomorrow is a new day. Here's hoping its a good one. But if it isn't...stick around. At least it will be entertaining.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Yesterday in Thomaston
Yesterday, I fulfilled an obligation to my folks that I made a year or so ago involving cleaning out a storage facility that they have rented in my hometown of Thomaston, Georgia. It is the repository for the final remnants of what was in my grandmother's house along with some furniture and odd pots and pans (from my grandmother's storage facility) and some old stuff of theirs that was just sitting in there. I estimated that they have spent over $13,000 keeping this storage facility over the past thirty some odd years that currently houses items that are collectively valued at approximately $500 if you're being generous.
I know that when someone passes on, we are afraid to part with items that we don't know the value or history or...or that were lovingly kept for a lifetime in a box to be pulled out and viewed at a later date. Sometimes people pull something valuable out of an attic or basement and become instant millionaires. But this stuff? No. It had already been sorted once and deemed "too good to throw away" or "we don't have time to sort it right now so we'll wait." Of course, one doesn't want to callously toss letters that a person kept, or the dress that someone wore their senior year of college in 1927. But then again, there comes a time when that just has to be done...even if it isn't easy.
My grandmother was a college student and then a young bride during the Great Depression. I grew up hearing stories about how she had three dresses that doubled to six because a friend and she were the same size. They would trade out for various dates with young men, and she just made do instead of troubling her parents for more than she knew they could offer her comfortably. As a result of surviving those lean years of American history, she - like many of her generation - kept everything. And when I mean "everything" - I mean old Kool Whip containers, televisions that no longer worked (because the wood cabinets were still good), patterns for clothes that nobody wanted to make or had been taught to make, and tin foil. I remember as a young girl thinking that tin foil was always wrinkled...instead of smooth...because she would reuse it instead of throwing it away if it was clean. (And I also know that it will eventually disintegrate...and when it does, it was okay to throw it away without asking.)
Looking through boxes of old books that came from family members long deceased, 45 records that we have no means of playing now because none of us owns a turntable, and a box of lightweight aluminum pans for cooking were sorted through using a powerful flashlight as quickly as possible. Thirty minutes into the sorting process...we realized that there was no way that we could accomplish all that we needed to without a box of black garbage bags and more time...so we got out what we could...filled up the truck with the big pieces...and left the boxes for another day.
But being there going through the remnants of a life well lived, I could only think about how different it might have been.
Sometime in the 1980s, Big Dave and I took a trip to Thomaston with the express purpose of cleaning out the garage. We were dressed in old clothes and we were there to honor Gammy's request to help her get the garage in order so that she could unload the storage facility she had and look through what she has put there in the 1960s. This was a different one than my folks took out in the 1980s and after her death they consolidated what was left of her things into theirs. But back to the garage...as we stood there throwing away a cardboard box that a television had come in that had long been troubled with water damage, we got about five bags filled before her anxiety was so high that she told us to stop. She was afraid that we were throwing away valuable things that only she could approve or deny. The truth was...we were only throwing away things that were too water damaged, soiled, or clearly beyond hope to ever be of any value to anyone. It didn't change her perception, though.
So, we got what we could to the street, and then we went upstairs and visited with her for awhile...our purpose for being there pretty much thwarted. When I mean anxiety...I mean something almost akin to terror. It was the strangest thing I'd ever seen. But then again, if you knew my grandmother and her ability to take charge of a situation...perhaps maybe not so much.
Fast forward twenty five years...and we were all standing in her house after she passed trying to decide who was to take what where and when. And sometimes it wasn't pretty...although everyone is still speaking and trying not to think about it all too much. Which, I suppose, somewhat rocks.
So, yesterday, we stood in the room with the last of it. The letters from her parents to her while she was at Wesleyan. The lap desk that she used to write letters sitting on the couch watching her beloved Braves before her eyesight failed on her and frustrated her more than falling three times and breaking various leg and hip bones ever could.
And it was a little bit bittersweet...I'm not going to lie to you.
On the other hand, Big Dave's parents turned 70, and decided that they wanted the kids to come get what they wanted. And so we did...long before my mother-in-law died...because they weren't attached to things. They were, and my father-in-law still is...incredibly attached to people. Family, friends, people that they met the week before. And although my sweet sister-in-laws had to finish up the cleaning out process...it was done in two weekends...instead of over a four year time period that is actually more of an eleven year time period if you count the storage facility.
Oy.
The older I get, the more I realize the futility of keeping so many things. So many reminders that I lived a good life that I'll never be able to take with me...and that my children will have to deal with someday. Will they know that the striped blanket that is on the edge of the couch was purchased in Cabos San Lucas in 2006 when Big Dave and I went on a trip with his company? Will they care about the histories of the various family pieces that I possess? I have no idea.
So, I'm going to be combing through what is here and hoping that I can pass these gems along with the stories as soon as they set up their homes. For my oldest one...that will hopefully be in a few weeks when she purchases her first home. For my younger one, it will be a few years...but since he's really the more sentimental of the two...I know in my heart that he'll be a good steward of some of these items that mean so much to me when that time comes.
Being back in Thomaston yesterday gave me the opportunity to eat at Piggie Park...a ritual that my family followed at least once a week from the time I was eight until I left at age 18. We used to take old towels out with us to catch the crumbs and Mom and I laughed about that memory while we were sitting there in the rented brand spanking new truck hoping we wouldn't christen it with some barbecue sauce, ketchup, or a spilled Coke (an occurrence that was far more likely when Linda was little). I told them that the food tasted the same but that Charlie wasn't bringing it to us...so that was different. Mom said he ran himself to death and stayed skinny providing for the seven children that he had. We talked about going out to the Norris' "Steak 'n Stuff" restaurant every Friday night...where the highlight of that meal (in my humble opinion) was the lemon meringue pie. I can still remember watching my sister leave the table and "visit" (and charm) everyone there because she was so stinking cute with her waist length straight blond hair and little barrettes to keep it out of her eyes.
We drove by Big Chic (where I got a lot of my "starter" cellulite and fat cells) and I could almost taste the chicken filet sandwich with mayonnaise, mustard, and extra pickles. And fries. Definitely the fries (because that used to comprise a meal at lunch back in the day.) We were able to stop at Cake House Bakery...the shop opened by my friend Debbie Culverhouse, and got to actually indulge in some of what I'd previously only seen posted on Facebook...and I got to hug her neck for the first time in 32 years. (And if you are reading this and live in Thomaston...you totally need to go by there. Often.) Leaving town, we saw the turnoff to River Bend (what my grandmother always joked was "Rubber Band") and I only regretted that we couldn't stop in for dinner. (Then my friend Tommy posted about being there that night on Facebook...which only made it worse.)
I know that it seems odd to be all tied up with the food of home...but you must understand that it is a great comfort to me to know that the places I loved as a child are still there. And although our home on Johnston Drive now has new owners and is painted a different color than the yellow that it was painted from the 1960s until it was sold in 2006...I can still go back and have a delicious meal...and remember when.
So, while we were letting go yesterday one more tentative thread of our tie to Thomaston...we were also indulging in that continuous thread that is still there after we are gone from the area...Piggie Park. I have found a close cousin to it here in Montgomery - Sam's Barbecue...but still.
Also strangely comforting was being fussed at for not calling various parties to let them know that we were in the area...even though it was a very, very short trip. We're going back soon to eat at the Peachtree Cafe with our precious Johnston Drive neighbors, Billy and Charlene Daniel, because I miss them and want to catch up in person. Those who say "you can never go home again" are dead wrong. Today, I am very happy about that.
Very happy.
I know that when someone passes on, we are afraid to part with items that we don't know the value or history or...or that were lovingly kept for a lifetime in a box to be pulled out and viewed at a later date. Sometimes people pull something valuable out of an attic or basement and become instant millionaires. But this stuff? No. It had already been sorted once and deemed "too good to throw away" or "we don't have time to sort it right now so we'll wait." Of course, one doesn't want to callously toss letters that a person kept, or the dress that someone wore their senior year of college in 1927. But then again, there comes a time when that just has to be done...even if it isn't easy.
My grandmother was a college student and then a young bride during the Great Depression. I grew up hearing stories about how she had three dresses that doubled to six because a friend and she were the same size. They would trade out for various dates with young men, and she just made do instead of troubling her parents for more than she knew they could offer her comfortably. As a result of surviving those lean years of American history, she - like many of her generation - kept everything. And when I mean "everything" - I mean old Kool Whip containers, televisions that no longer worked (because the wood cabinets were still good), patterns for clothes that nobody wanted to make or had been taught to make, and tin foil. I remember as a young girl thinking that tin foil was always wrinkled...instead of smooth...because she would reuse it instead of throwing it away if it was clean. (And I also know that it will eventually disintegrate...and when it does, it was okay to throw it away without asking.)
Looking through boxes of old books that came from family members long deceased, 45 records that we have no means of playing now because none of us owns a turntable, and a box of lightweight aluminum pans for cooking were sorted through using a powerful flashlight as quickly as possible. Thirty minutes into the sorting process...we realized that there was no way that we could accomplish all that we needed to without a box of black garbage bags and more time...so we got out what we could...filled up the truck with the big pieces...and left the boxes for another day.
But being there going through the remnants of a life well lived, I could only think about how different it might have been.
Sometime in the 1980s, Big Dave and I took a trip to Thomaston with the express purpose of cleaning out the garage. We were dressed in old clothes and we were there to honor Gammy's request to help her get the garage in order so that she could unload the storage facility she had and look through what she has put there in the 1960s. This was a different one than my folks took out in the 1980s and after her death they consolidated what was left of her things into theirs. But back to the garage...as we stood there throwing away a cardboard box that a television had come in that had long been troubled with water damage, we got about five bags filled before her anxiety was so high that she told us to stop. She was afraid that we were throwing away valuable things that only she could approve or deny. The truth was...we were only throwing away things that were too water damaged, soiled, or clearly beyond hope to ever be of any value to anyone. It didn't change her perception, though.
So, we got what we could to the street, and then we went upstairs and visited with her for awhile...our purpose for being there pretty much thwarted. When I mean anxiety...I mean something almost akin to terror. It was the strangest thing I'd ever seen. But then again, if you knew my grandmother and her ability to take charge of a situation...perhaps maybe not so much.
Fast forward twenty five years...and we were all standing in her house after she passed trying to decide who was to take what where and when. And sometimes it wasn't pretty...although everyone is still speaking and trying not to think about it all too much. Which, I suppose, somewhat rocks.
So, yesterday, we stood in the room with the last of it. The letters from her parents to her while she was at Wesleyan. The lap desk that she used to write letters sitting on the couch watching her beloved Braves before her eyesight failed on her and frustrated her more than falling three times and breaking various leg and hip bones ever could.
And it was a little bit bittersweet...I'm not going to lie to you.
On the other hand, Big Dave's parents turned 70, and decided that they wanted the kids to come get what they wanted. And so we did...long before my mother-in-law died...because they weren't attached to things. They were, and my father-in-law still is...incredibly attached to people. Family, friends, people that they met the week before. And although my sweet sister-in-laws had to finish up the cleaning out process...it was done in two weekends...instead of over a four year time period that is actually more of an eleven year time period if you count the storage facility.
Oy.
The older I get, the more I realize the futility of keeping so many things. So many reminders that I lived a good life that I'll never be able to take with me...and that my children will have to deal with someday. Will they know that the striped blanket that is on the edge of the couch was purchased in Cabos San Lucas in 2006 when Big Dave and I went on a trip with his company? Will they care about the histories of the various family pieces that I possess? I have no idea.
So, I'm going to be combing through what is here and hoping that I can pass these gems along with the stories as soon as they set up their homes. For my oldest one...that will hopefully be in a few weeks when she purchases her first home. For my younger one, it will be a few years...but since he's really the more sentimental of the two...I know in my heart that he'll be a good steward of some of these items that mean so much to me when that time comes.
Being back in Thomaston yesterday gave me the opportunity to eat at Piggie Park...a ritual that my family followed at least once a week from the time I was eight until I left at age 18. We used to take old towels out with us to catch the crumbs and Mom and I laughed about that memory while we were sitting there in the rented brand spanking new truck hoping we wouldn't christen it with some barbecue sauce, ketchup, or a spilled Coke (an occurrence that was far more likely when Linda was little). I told them that the food tasted the same but that Charlie wasn't bringing it to us...so that was different. Mom said he ran himself to death and stayed skinny providing for the seven children that he had. We talked about going out to the Norris' "Steak 'n Stuff" restaurant every Friday night...where the highlight of that meal (in my humble opinion) was the lemon meringue pie. I can still remember watching my sister leave the table and "visit" (and charm) everyone there because she was so stinking cute with her waist length straight blond hair and little barrettes to keep it out of her eyes.
We drove by Big Chic (where I got a lot of my "starter" cellulite and fat cells) and I could almost taste the chicken filet sandwich with mayonnaise, mustard, and extra pickles. And fries. Definitely the fries (because that used to comprise a meal at lunch back in the day.) We were able to stop at Cake House Bakery...the shop opened by my friend Debbie Culverhouse, and got to actually indulge in some of what I'd previously only seen posted on Facebook...and I got to hug her neck for the first time in 32 years. (And if you are reading this and live in Thomaston...you totally need to go by there. Often.) Leaving town, we saw the turnoff to River Bend (what my grandmother always joked was "Rubber Band") and I only regretted that we couldn't stop in for dinner. (Then my friend Tommy posted about being there that night on Facebook...which only made it worse.)
I know that it seems odd to be all tied up with the food of home...but you must understand that it is a great comfort to me to know that the places I loved as a child are still there. And although our home on Johnston Drive now has new owners and is painted a different color than the yellow that it was painted from the 1960s until it was sold in 2006...I can still go back and have a delicious meal...and remember when.
So, while we were letting go yesterday one more tentative thread of our tie to Thomaston...we were also indulging in that continuous thread that is still there after we are gone from the area...Piggie Park. I have found a close cousin to it here in Montgomery - Sam's Barbecue...but still.
Also strangely comforting was being fussed at for not calling various parties to let them know that we were in the area...even though it was a very, very short trip. We're going back soon to eat at the Peachtree Cafe with our precious Johnston Drive neighbors, Billy and Charlene Daniel, because I miss them and want to catch up in person. Those who say "you can never go home again" are dead wrong. Today, I am very happy about that.
Very happy.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
I'm 50 (gasp!)
A few weeks ago, I turned 50. The big 5-0. Fif-TY. Yes. Me. But before you worry too much about my mental state (other than the normal worries...which...never mind) you'll discover that it really wasn't an earth-shattering event for me at all. Other than having to check a different box on surveys and realizing that I am old enough to be somebody's grandmother (not rushing that...seriously)...it's all good. My husband, Big Dave, is five years older, and I have pretty much acclimated myself to this realm since we began getting AARP mailings in his name five years ago.
Now I'm getting them.
And they can keep on sending them...because we aren't joining. Not because we don't want the discounts...but because we don't agree with their mission politically. And not only that...but because I find it more than a little bit creepy that they knew of my impending birthday. Hey, AARP, if you'd give folks a month or so to adjust to being 50...you might not hit the trash can tossed in like a rotten potato with words like "ewwwww...." emanating from their lips along with an overly dramatic shudder.
I'm just saying.
No, I'm not ready for the senior citizen discount. Yet. Okay, unless you are Publix, and you are giving me 5% off. But I won't get that one until the next zero birthday. Officially, anyway. I've found, though, that 5% off really isn't worth it because the day that they give the discount is Wednesday...which is also incidentally the day when the sale paper comes out. If you dare to venture into Publix on that day because you have inadvertently forgotten something...and have lost your mind and forgotten what day it is...you'll find that you have to bob and weave around the motorized scooters only to find that whatever was on sale has not been restocked after the coupon ladies cleared the shelves. Thanks, Southern Savers! (not)
Anyway, this birthday has been the one that has made me really think...because I'm having to let go of so much of what I assumed was "my life." I am "ma'am" to almost everybody, and nobody is really fooled by the fact that I've remained blonde all of these years. I've topped out on job advancement, I prefer comfort over stylishness, and my children are either grown and out on their own or headed that way within a few years.
I have friends that I've known for decades, have crossed out many items on my "to-do" list in life by either doing them or because that time has passed for me and now it is NO. Just no. (Anything I might wear to the beach, high heels, and jumping out of planes fall into this category). I actually now get tired from being on my feet for extended periods, and I have to say "I really can't do that..." sometimes...not because I am so over scheduled ..but because I just don't want to do some of the things that people want me to do with or for them. Because, truth be told...the older I get the more I realize that I know who my real friends are and they'll love me even if I turn them down...and I also know how short weekends are.
And that's perfectly okay. I've earned it. Or so I'm told. After all, I'm fifty. 5-0. Yeah.
Three weeks before my birthday, my daughter told me that she'd like to throw me a party because I missed having one for my 30th and my 40th...and she didn't see Big Dave tearing it up trying to pull one together. I gave her names and addresses of various friends and family , and told her to invite whoever she wanted to and to do whatever she wanted to pull off. I didn't want to know the details,and I wanted to be surprised at what she could pull together. I mean...this child was a Marketing Major at the University of Alabama, and she had the idea that she might enjoy event planning at one point in time. I haven't had the heart to ask her if she still does.
This not knowing the details is a very dangerous thing...just so you know. And far more stressful than one can imagine. Because planning an event at age 50 and planning one at age 23 are completely different animals. I could just imagine her serving a tub of French onion dip and a bag of Fritos and calling that "refreshments." She will, of course, be horrified to read that, but most of us get into some kind of a crack without adult supervision when we are planning a party in our 20s. I know I did.
She called around for a location, and realized that there was only one obvious choice after balking at paying a huge amount for an clubhouse in a local apartment or neighborhood. Those that weren't already booked, by the way.
Our house.
Oh....to the my gosh.
A little backstory is probably necessary here, but I don't want to delve into the gory details of our private life here at Casa Mixon...any more than I do every single day of my life online on Facebook. But just so you won't think I'm ultimo tacky, let's just go with the old standby excuse that I use that pretty much covers everything. Big Dave is a contractor. He works on other people's houses all day long and gets paid for doing things such as building pergolas, painting, repairing ceilings, finding water leaks, replacing toilets, and moving walls from A to B. The last thing that the man wants to do when he comes home is even look in the direction of a paintbrush, saw, or anything even remotely related to construction. He will clean the pool, mow the yard, and occasionally do yardwork and housework without a whimper. He mops like some kind of domestic Thor (he needs a haircut and during Prom Season he can't manage to just walk right in...and since waiting five minutes is apparently not an option...he looks a little Jerry Garcia-ish as I write this.) He rocks a broom and can clean a kitchen so well that Martha Stewart looks like a slacker by comparison. I'm serious! He cooks. He grills. He can even do laundry (although the concept of putting it away completely escapes him.) Making beds? No problem.
Fixing things around here that need fixing? Not so much.
So, imagine my horror when my sweet daughter announced that people were coming to this house. THIS. HOUSE. And seeing as I'd be gone out of town for business the week before...my contribution to housecleaning would be pretty much non-existent. Not that I'm a cleaning dynamo by any stretch of the imagination. Too late though...the invitations were in the mail.
Oy.
I made a list of the things that needed to get done...things like...recovering "The Albatross" (the ancient sofa that Big Dave inherited from his grandfather...who originally found it on the side of the road in Palm Beach, FL in the 1940s and which has been a family heirloom ever since). Did I mention that it has real horsehair stuffing in it? No? Well, it totally does.
There was also the matter of fixing the porch (our "temporary ceiling" from 2001 really needed to be replaced - ya think?), some rotten wood that needed to be repaired at the back door, the front and back patios needed to be powerwashed, the driveway needed regraveling, a hole in the wall needed fixing from where we replaced our TV going on two years ago (seriously, a big gaping hole), and there was the matter of finishing some trimwork on the bookcase that he built two years ago but never got around to doing this last little bit.
Not that I didn't try whining. I just found that it didn't work. Like at all.
So, all of that needed to be done as well as yardwork, putting out pinestraw, trimming bushes, and making our house get off of the "least likely to win 'Yard of the Month' in our neighborhood" list that I'm not sure actually exists...but probably should. Because we would totally win.
I'll leave out the tears, drama, sackcloth and ashes, and gnashing of teeth that went on regarding the decision to have people in this house because I don't want anyone referring us for psychiatric evaluations or passing our name along to Jerry Springer for an upcoming episode of "The Cobbler's Wife Has No Shoes" (or "The Contractor's Wife Has No Prayer of the Honey-Do List Getting Done in Her Lifetime" or something equally tragic.)
Fast forward. (Please. Just reliving that made me all stressed and depressed.)
Things started coming together...even though Big Dave was still insisting that it was all of it was going to get done and that it was going to end up all right. Uh...yeah. Seriously, this man is a contractor. Do contractors have any sense of time whatsoever? No. No, they don't. Not even close.
And I know this...because I'm the one asking if someone is about to be billed out...and he always has a reason why he has to go back one or two (or twelve) more times. He forgets that I live with him sometimes. Bless his heart.
We got the sofa recovered because I bought the fabric and was a royal pain in the behind until he relented and nailed the fabric for me. I think he was concerned about what I might do with an gas fired nail gun...and with good reason since I have no mechanical "skillz" whatsoever and there really wasn't time for a trip to the hospital.
It isn't perfect...but you have to realize that we don't have a clue what we are doing, and that the thing is filled with ancient horsehair. Seriously. He managed to get the trim on the bookcase, the mailbox freshened up and the porch started. A sweet friend came over and power washed the concrete so we wouldn't get divorced over this whole celebration.
When he finished...it looked so good that I almost cried tears of joy. Okay, FINE, I did cry.
The porch was ripped down, the columns shortened, and I came to grips with the reality that the driveway was impossible to fix in the time frame established because one of the folks who was going to be begged to help us was out of the country. Smart man.
Anyway, about this time I was leaving for Mississippi, and would not return until that Thursday evening. The party was on Saturday afternoon. That's less than 48 hours if you are counting.
Did I really go into the fact that the house needed cleaning? Badly? Because Spring Cleaning around here is something we do all Spring...not in one weekend. "All Spring" being defined as every weekend between March and July it is hit at in the blind hope that we will eventually be able to get it to a point where we feel like we can finally give up trying. Because we are normal people like the rest of America who is not sitting on an uncomfortable row of bleachers somewhere, walking/running/golfing for charity, or doing something for the less fortunate this time of year.
Because this year? I was the less fortunate. In spirit, anyway.
But sometimes normal people get into extraordinary situations. Like vacuuming the walls at midnight on the night before the party because it was a mite dusty all up in here, naming the dust bunnies before extricating them, and begging Brian to clean the windows because they were blocking the view of the pond. Not "hoarders dirty" or even "call the Health Department dirty"...just "we live here, people, dirty." Because we totally do. And when you live in the country, have animals, and you don't want to spend every waking moment cleaning house...well...THIS happens.
Needless to say, thanks to some very solid help...primarily from Brecksyn and Brian, we got the house in order. Big Dave went into grumpy mode...but he got it done...and we didn't even need marital counseling.
At least got it to a point where the house looked presentable. So, there's that. And the good news is...most of the stuff that I've been on the Harpy Express over is now done. Yay for that. Of course, just because my life can't possibly be perfect, I should admit that Big Dave still has some finishing work to do. And I'm not letting up this time until he does it. Because we are oh, so close...
Just know that the preparation mode for having any event at your house is almost enough to kill you. Or at least...that was our experience. On the bright side, the house has stayed fairly clean and the long list of projects to be done is far shorter than it was. We have a lot to be thankful for, and I'm grateful that I can sit today and look around and enjoy what is here in this home. That I can see very little dust, and the view of the pond is unobstructed. That time made me make quick decisions about moving things along that should have seen the curb long ago.
Of course, the day of the party...this house was beautified with the floral arranging of my sweet friend, Nedra, and the beautiful faces of my sweet mother, daughter, other daughters, and my friends. Which was the best part of turning 50, by the way.
Here's to turning 50! And AARP...you can kiss it. Seriously.
Now I'm getting them.
And they can keep on sending them...because we aren't joining. Not because we don't want the discounts...but because we don't agree with their mission politically. And not only that...but because I find it more than a little bit creepy that they knew of my impending birthday. Hey, AARP, if you'd give folks a month or so to adjust to being 50...you might not hit the trash can tossed in like a rotten potato with words like "ewwwww...." emanating from their lips along with an overly dramatic shudder.
I'm just saying.
No, I'm not ready for the senior citizen discount. Yet. Okay, unless you are Publix, and you are giving me 5% off. But I won't get that one until the next zero birthday. Officially, anyway. I've found, though, that 5% off really isn't worth it because the day that they give the discount is Wednesday...which is also incidentally the day when the sale paper comes out. If you dare to venture into Publix on that day because you have inadvertently forgotten something...and have lost your mind and forgotten what day it is...you'll find that you have to bob and weave around the motorized scooters only to find that whatever was on sale has not been restocked after the coupon ladies cleared the shelves. Thanks, Southern Savers! (not)
Anyway, this birthday has been the one that has made me really think...because I'm having to let go of so much of what I assumed was "my life." I am "ma'am" to almost everybody, and nobody is really fooled by the fact that I've remained blonde all of these years. I've topped out on job advancement, I prefer comfort over stylishness, and my children are either grown and out on their own or headed that way within a few years.
I have friends that I've known for decades, have crossed out many items on my "to-do" list in life by either doing them or because that time has passed for me and now it is NO. Just no. (Anything I might wear to the beach, high heels, and jumping out of planes fall into this category). I actually now get tired from being on my feet for extended periods, and I have to say "I really can't do that..." sometimes...not because I am so over scheduled ..but because I just don't want to do some of the things that people want me to do with or for them. Because, truth be told...the older I get the more I realize that I know who my real friends are and they'll love me even if I turn them down...and I also know how short weekends are.
And that's perfectly okay. I've earned it. Or so I'm told. After all, I'm fifty. 5-0. Yeah.
Three weeks before my birthday, my daughter told me that she'd like to throw me a party because I missed having one for my 30th and my 40th...and she didn't see Big Dave tearing it up trying to pull one together. I gave her names and addresses of various friends and family , and told her to invite whoever she wanted to and to do whatever she wanted to pull off. I didn't want to know the details,and I wanted to be surprised at what she could pull together. I mean...this child was a Marketing Major at the University of Alabama, and she had the idea that she might enjoy event planning at one point in time. I haven't had the heart to ask her if she still does.
This not knowing the details is a very dangerous thing...just so you know. And far more stressful than one can imagine. Because planning an event at age 50 and planning one at age 23 are completely different animals. I could just imagine her serving a tub of French onion dip and a bag of Fritos and calling that "refreshments." She will, of course, be horrified to read that, but most of us get into some kind of a crack without adult supervision when we are planning a party in our 20s. I know I did.
She called around for a location, and realized that there was only one obvious choice after balking at paying a huge amount for an clubhouse in a local apartment or neighborhood. Those that weren't already booked, by the way.
Our house.
Oh....to the my gosh.
A little backstory is probably necessary here, but I don't want to delve into the gory details of our private life here at Casa Mixon...any more than I do every single day of my life online on Facebook. But just so you won't think I'm ultimo tacky, let's just go with the old standby excuse that I use that pretty much covers everything. Big Dave is a contractor. He works on other people's houses all day long and gets paid for doing things such as building pergolas, painting, repairing ceilings, finding water leaks, replacing toilets, and moving walls from A to B. The last thing that the man wants to do when he comes home is even look in the direction of a paintbrush, saw, or anything even remotely related to construction. He will clean the pool, mow the yard, and occasionally do yardwork and housework without a whimper. He mops like some kind of domestic Thor (he needs a haircut and during Prom Season he can't manage to just walk right in...and since waiting five minutes is apparently not an option...he looks a little Jerry Garcia-ish as I write this.) He rocks a broom and can clean a kitchen so well that Martha Stewart looks like a slacker by comparison. I'm serious! He cooks. He grills. He can even do laundry (although the concept of putting it away completely escapes him.) Making beds? No problem.
Fixing things around here that need fixing? Not so much.
So, imagine my horror when my sweet daughter announced that people were coming to this house. THIS. HOUSE. And seeing as I'd be gone out of town for business the week before...my contribution to housecleaning would be pretty much non-existent. Not that I'm a cleaning dynamo by any stretch of the imagination. Too late though...the invitations were in the mail.
Oy.
I made a list of the things that needed to get done...things like...recovering "The Albatross" (the ancient sofa that Big Dave inherited from his grandfather...who originally found it on the side of the road in Palm Beach, FL in the 1940s and which has been a family heirloom ever since). Did I mention that it has real horsehair stuffing in it? No? Well, it totally does.
There was also the matter of fixing the porch (our "temporary ceiling" from 2001 really needed to be replaced - ya think?), some rotten wood that needed to be repaired at the back door, the front and back patios needed to be powerwashed, the driveway needed regraveling, a hole in the wall needed fixing from where we replaced our TV going on two years ago (seriously, a big gaping hole), and there was the matter of finishing some trimwork on the bookcase that he built two years ago but never got around to doing this last little bit.
Not that I didn't try whining. I just found that it didn't work. Like at all.
So, all of that needed to be done as well as yardwork, putting out pinestraw, trimming bushes, and making our house get off of the "least likely to win 'Yard of the Month' in our neighborhood" list that I'm not sure actually exists...but probably should. Because we would totally win.
I'll leave out the tears, drama, sackcloth and ashes, and gnashing of teeth that went on regarding the decision to have people in this house because I don't want anyone referring us for psychiatric evaluations or passing our name along to Jerry Springer for an upcoming episode of "The Cobbler's Wife Has No Shoes" (or "The Contractor's Wife Has No Prayer of the Honey-Do List Getting Done in Her Lifetime" or something equally tragic.)
Fast forward. (Please. Just reliving that made me all stressed and depressed.)
Things started coming together...even though Big Dave was still insisting that it was all of it was going to get done and that it was going to end up all right. Uh...yeah. Seriously, this man is a contractor. Do contractors have any sense of time whatsoever? No. No, they don't. Not even close.
And I know this...because I'm the one asking if someone is about to be billed out...and he always has a reason why he has to go back one or two (or twelve) more times. He forgets that I live with him sometimes. Bless his heart.
We got the sofa recovered because I bought the fabric and was a royal pain in the behind until he relented and nailed the fabric for me. I think he was concerned about what I might do with an gas fired nail gun...and with good reason since I have no mechanical "skillz" whatsoever and there really wasn't time for a trip to the hospital.
It isn't perfect...but you have to realize that we don't have a clue what we are doing, and that the thing is filled with ancient horsehair. Seriously. He managed to get the trim on the bookcase, the mailbox freshened up and the porch started. A sweet friend came over and power washed the concrete so we wouldn't get divorced over this whole celebration.
When he finished...it looked so good that I almost cried tears of joy. Okay, FINE, I did cry.
The porch was ripped down, the columns shortened, and I came to grips with the reality that the driveway was impossible to fix in the time frame established because one of the folks who was going to be begged to help us was out of the country. Smart man.
Anyway, about this time I was leaving for Mississippi, and would not return until that Thursday evening. The party was on Saturday afternoon. That's less than 48 hours if you are counting.
Did I really go into the fact that the house needed cleaning? Badly? Because Spring Cleaning around here is something we do all Spring...not in one weekend. "All Spring" being defined as every weekend between March and July it is hit at in the blind hope that we will eventually be able to get it to a point where we feel like we can finally give up trying. Because we are normal people like the rest of America who is not sitting on an uncomfortable row of bleachers somewhere, walking/running/golfing for charity, or doing something for the less fortunate this time of year.
Because this year? I was the less fortunate. In spirit, anyway.
But sometimes normal people get into extraordinary situations. Like vacuuming the walls at midnight on the night before the party because it was a mite dusty all up in here, naming the dust bunnies before extricating them, and begging Brian to clean the windows because they were blocking the view of the pond. Not "hoarders dirty" or even "call the Health Department dirty"...just "we live here, people, dirty." Because we totally do. And when you live in the country, have animals, and you don't want to spend every waking moment cleaning house...well...THIS happens.
Needless to say, thanks to some very solid help...primarily from Brecksyn and Brian, we got the house in order. Big Dave went into grumpy mode...but he got it done...and we didn't even need marital counseling.
At least got it to a point where the house looked presentable. So, there's that. And the good news is...most of the stuff that I've been on the Harpy Express over is now done. Yay for that. Of course, just because my life can't possibly be perfect, I should admit that Big Dave still has some finishing work to do. And I'm not letting up this time until he does it. Because we are oh, so close...
Just know that the preparation mode for having any event at your house is almost enough to kill you. Or at least...that was our experience. On the bright side, the house has stayed fairly clean and the long list of projects to be done is far shorter than it was. We have a lot to be thankful for, and I'm grateful that I can sit today and look around and enjoy what is here in this home. That I can see very little dust, and the view of the pond is unobstructed. That time made me make quick decisions about moving things along that should have seen the curb long ago.
Of course, the day of the party...this house was beautified with the floral arranging of my sweet friend, Nedra, and the beautiful faces of my sweet mother, daughter, other daughters, and my friends. Which was the best part of turning 50, by the way.
Here's to turning 50! And AARP...you can kiss it. Seriously.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Open Doors
It is currently 5:56 a.m. and I am listening to the sound of the birds chirping outside and sitting here in almost total darkness. I can feel the temperature outside and it is cool and inviting. I know this because I left the door open when I let the dogs out because it feels so much better outside than inside since we are so anti-air conditioning until the last conceivable moment every Spring. I'd go outside and sit and take this delicious coffee and sip it quietly while tapping on this laptop, but why do that when I can enjoy everything from here? Simply by opening the door.
I have always loved open doors. Bosses who say "come on in" instead of leaving you languishing outside the door while they finish a conversation. People with storm doors or screen doors who leave the main door open so that they can let light or air in. Or the generous soul who anticipates your arrival and hops up or stays put so that you can walk through an open door . Especially when you have a stroller or your hands are full.
In my job as a banker, I've seen that I'm not alone in my love of an open door. I've seen churches with that name, and I've had customers wander in my office and ask for assistance. Not that I could help most of them since my customer base is actually the employees of the bank. But every once in a while, the phone will ring and someone will ask for my help and I'm happy to assist. I pretty much like for people to see me less as an open book...and more of an open door.
An ""open book will tell you everything about himself whether you need to know it or not. An "open book" prides herself on letting it all hang out and not worrying about what you think. I'm a little too Southern to be an "open book"...so I'll settle for being an "open door" instead. To me, an "open door" is someone who welcomes people in without hesitation, but who will rise and escort you back out of his or her life if the need arises. An "open door" shows hospitality, but can also shut that door and put some space between you and them if there's too much drama or too little appreciation. It has a welcome mat right outside, but can also tell you where to go and to not to let the door hit you on the behind on your way out.
Been there...done that. Had to.
Recently, sweet Brecksyn made me a wreath for the front door for my birthday. It is on there to remind people that this is a welcoming place and that we value the trouble that they took to come all of the way out here and pay us a visit. It still makes me smile when I see it...which is really the best kind of gift, don't you think? I rarely leave that door open, though, because we want to know who all is coming up our drive...be it the UPS man, one of the neighbors, or friends or family. The back door...is a different story. We can open it wide and invite the world (and Black Dog from next door) to come right on in.
In a few minutes, the sky will lighten and I'll be able to see the pool and the pond...and I'll remember all over again why I love living out here so much. And maybe it will finally get cool enough in here for me to rise and shut the door...but maybe not. I'm just enjoying leaving the door open for the little dogs to run in and out and for me to feel the cool air that will be more and more of a rarity in the coming weeks. After all, it is Spring in the South.
Fortunately, the pollen count is down after the rain last night, so that's good.
I don't know what life is throwing at you right now. If you are barricaded behind a door refusing to let the bad things on the other side into your life anymore. I don't know if you find it easier to let people stay in their spot and you in yours...or if your heart just can't take a cool refreshing breeze because it could easily turn into an emotional tornado and make it even worse. I can relate...because I've been there too. But today as you go through your life...notice the doors that are open to you. The welcome of old friends and the promise of new ones. The sweetness of being able to walk through some doors freely, even if the others are locked down tighter than a prison. And if you are behind a prison door due to some addiction, someone's bad behavior, or because you feel all alone out there...remember that this is just an illusion. You may be boxed in...but Someone is knocking at the door...He always is. And when you are in times like that...you can be sure that He is out there waiting for you to respond.
Have a great day...and may it be filled with lots of open doors and open hearts.
I have always loved open doors. Bosses who say "come on in" instead of leaving you languishing outside the door while they finish a conversation. People with storm doors or screen doors who leave the main door open so that they can let light or air in. Or the generous soul who anticipates your arrival and hops up or stays put so that you can walk through an open door . Especially when you have a stroller or your hands are full.
In my job as a banker, I've seen that I'm not alone in my love of an open door. I've seen churches with that name, and I've had customers wander in my office and ask for assistance. Not that I could help most of them since my customer base is actually the employees of the bank. But every once in a while, the phone will ring and someone will ask for my help and I'm happy to assist. I pretty much like for people to see me less as an open book...and more of an open door.
An ""open book will tell you everything about himself whether you need to know it or not. An "open book" prides herself on letting it all hang out and not worrying about what you think. I'm a little too Southern to be an "open book"...so I'll settle for being an "open door" instead. To me, an "open door" is someone who welcomes people in without hesitation, but who will rise and escort you back out of his or her life if the need arises. An "open door" shows hospitality, but can also shut that door and put some space between you and them if there's too much drama or too little appreciation. It has a welcome mat right outside, but can also tell you where to go and to not to let the door hit you on the behind on your way out.
Been there...done that. Had to.
Recently, sweet Brecksyn made me a wreath for the front door for my birthday. It is on there to remind people that this is a welcoming place and that we value the trouble that they took to come all of the way out here and pay us a visit. It still makes me smile when I see it...which is really the best kind of gift, don't you think? I rarely leave that door open, though, because we want to know who all is coming up our drive...be it the UPS man, one of the neighbors, or friends or family. The back door...is a different story. We can open it wide and invite the world (and Black Dog from next door) to come right on in.
In a few minutes, the sky will lighten and I'll be able to see the pool and the pond...and I'll remember all over again why I love living out here so much. And maybe it will finally get cool enough in here for me to rise and shut the door...but maybe not. I'm just enjoying leaving the door open for the little dogs to run in and out and for me to feel the cool air that will be more and more of a rarity in the coming weeks. After all, it is Spring in the South.
Fortunately, the pollen count is down after the rain last night, so that's good.
I don't know what life is throwing at you right now. If you are barricaded behind a door refusing to let the bad things on the other side into your life anymore. I don't know if you find it easier to let people stay in their spot and you in yours...or if your heart just can't take a cool refreshing breeze because it could easily turn into an emotional tornado and make it even worse. I can relate...because I've been there too. But today as you go through your life...notice the doors that are open to you. The welcome of old friends and the promise of new ones. The sweetness of being able to walk through some doors freely, even if the others are locked down tighter than a prison. And if you are behind a prison door due to some addiction, someone's bad behavior, or because you feel all alone out there...remember that this is just an illusion. You may be boxed in...but Someone is knocking at the door...He always is. And when you are in times like that...you can be sure that He is out there waiting for you to respond.
Have a great day...and may it be filled with lots of open doors and open hearts.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Weighing In
Tomorrow I am supposed to join my teammates in "Scale Back Alabama" to weigh in. The goal was to lose ten pounds and to hopefully cultivate some healthy habits that would keep me on the road to weight loss success. Okay, FINE, my friend Sharon asked me to do it and I couldn't turn her down...and there's that off-chance that we might actually qualify for prizes.
With my luck, one of the prizes will be a fried chicken platter from the local Publix. Not that I'd turn it down.
This journey of weight loss began back in November when I got on the scale in the doctor's office and was mortified. I have been slowly gaining weight through the years...and then I'd take about six months and beat it back down...only to have it creep back up again. I'm one of those people who can talk about food and gain weight. Probably because I translate all of that talk into actually attempting to make something I want...grazing through the pantry until I'm either eventually satisfied or so full that it requires a crane to remove me from the couch.
Many Sundays are spent in this manner. I'll admit it.
So, back to the scale. I hopped up there and immediately knew that I was "running out of real estate" as they say on the upper end of OMG! I had actually crossed over into weighing more than 90% of the Alabama Crimson Tide Football Team.
And I don't mean the scrub team. I mean the starters.
Now...you folks probably know that I've been here before. I started Weight Watchers at age 14...only to end up with a bit of an eating disorder and so many more trips back to Weight Watchers that I began to refer to it as "rehab." Seriously, Lindsey Lohan has nothing on me. She has her problems...and I have mine.
I've sat through so many hours of lectures at rehab that I honestly believe that I could teach the class. And yes, once I actually attained my goal weight.
Once. I don't think I ever made it past the six weeks of maintenance.
I'd listen to people talk about their struggles with food, how their hearts were broken, and how angry they were at themselves. I'd see other people prop them up with encouragement and clap enthusiastically when they lost 1.2 pounds after eating nothing they wanted all week. I listened to the lady who had lost 95 pounds jump into every conversation as the resident expert, and I'd see other people roll their eyes along with me. I have bookmarks, ribbons, gold stars, and more paraphernalia than you can possibly imagine. Yet...I couldn't find success.
Not for long anyway. And putting myself and my wallet through that numerous times was just more than I could continue to do. So the problem grew...literally. The last time I was at rehab, I was sitting there with my iPod listening to music when the song "Heavy" by Collective Soul came on. It was entirely too hilarious.
Oh, come on, you know you would have laughed too. So, I endured the rest of the meeting about how to get through Thanksgiving with your relatives pushing food on you or some such nonsense and then I never went back.
I just couldn't.
I believe that Weight Watchers is a wonderful program. But it is designed for people who have already made the decision to get the weight off...not for the "I'd like to drop a few pounds" crowd. You have to really stick to the program, write down everything, and drink a lot of water. And then there's the whole focus on exercise which is referred to as "moving." Frankly, the only exercise I was getting at the time was walking back and forth to the bathroom to pee.
Sorry for the TMI.
Anyway, I finally got sick of myself again and tried not eating carbohydrates and stuck to a plan of very limited foods with good success. And had I been able to stay away from sugar...I might have made a success of that program. In fact, right now I am doing a modified version of that plan. And it is still working. Just more slowly.
But the weigh-in last November showed me that I had achieved a new frontier in weight...and that I needed to take matters in hand so that I'll actually be able to walk in 20 years instead of being put on my side and rolled around the mall. Because that was where I was headed.
Not that my son hadn't been trying to get me back into the gym. Not that my daughter hadn't asked me if I knew anyone who would be a good gym partner. Not that I didn't face my closet every day dreading the attempt to find something to cover my massivity. (I know it's not a word...but it should be.) I was all kinds of in denial. And shame. Let's not forget that.
One day in late November I walked into Hogan's Gym and walked by the mirrors in the big room and I didn't die from embarrassment. On the contrary, everyone was and still is extremely supportive. I've had one person who told me that maybe I should wait until the summer to try to do more...but I think that she was just trying to be encouraging in a roundabout way. She saw me struggling through the Pilates class...and since she'd been heavy once herself, she was probably remembering how embarrassing it is when your brain tells your body to move a certain way, and the body is stopped from responding by something blocking its path.
I refer to that as my "abs." (Or lack thereof.)
Since that day, I have tried to be faithful about being at the gym at least three days a week, most often four times, and when I can five or six. I never go on Sunday. But then again...I am trying not to do my pantry diving on Sunday afternoons either.
I've learned that I can have pretty much what I want, but the sugar has to be very minimized and the carbs as well. I am as happy with a bowl of cut up strawberries (Big Dave just brought me some) than I would be with a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Okay, that's primarily because I don't like their politics...but whatever.
I now do an hour of cardio, do weight machines, and although I've been slacking in March due to my birthday, a stomach virus and oversleeping...I love my classes on Saturday morning. I love the people and how wonderful, funny, amazing, and encouraging they are. I can have a bad day...but if I walk through the door of the gym...I'm better. Well...unless someone is a horse's behind and won't turn the TV off of NBC News...because I go all Towanda over that.
In fact, that happened tonight. But let's not dwell on the negative, shall we?
Jill works out with me...which means I get to see her most days. Brian works the front desk several days a week. I've gotten to know a lot of people who I wouldn't have gotten to know had I just gone home and curled up in front of the TV with a bag of Lay's. In fact, I now know what it takes to burn 400 calories. It takes an hour of my life. Which at least makes me think twice before I go to cramming something in my mouth that I don't need, isn't good, or isn't good for me.
I'm down 27 pounds so far...and have a long road ahead of me. But I ran into a girl at the gym yesterday who is running the Boston Marathon soon. She's down 70 pounds and looks fantastic. Good for her! I saw pictures today on a guy's phone of the half-marathon that he and his wife ran last weekend. He is always on the stairmaster when I'm in the cardio room. He's also shed a lot of weight and is running his first marathon later this year. You know what I think about that? I think that's fabulous. And if by osmosis I am able to catch their enthusiasm and stick with it...then yay for me.
I don't know what your story is right now. I don't know if you are like my Facebook friend, Jodi, who is doing a bikini/figure/fitness competition this year and looks amazing. Or like my friend, Sue, who joined a gym where she lives and she is rocking her new and improved sassy self. Maybe you are like me who is just proud to be hanging with the big dogs. If you are...be proud. Be proud for anything that moves you a little closer to where you want to be. I don't care if that is surviving a Pilates class or running a mile. Just do it. Seriously.
As for me, I'm going to spend the next few months trying to fine tune my exercise routine and pick up some more good habits. Yesterday, one of the trainers, Jimmy, told me to just go up and down the steps four times to see how I feel. There are seventeen steps...and I did it.
I. Did. It. Without an elevator. Or oxygen. Rock. On.
If you are trying to figure it all out...just start with a small change. Give up diet sodas and drink water. Give up candy bars and eat fruit. Give up your TV time and go for a walk. Just do something. Anything.
I have to admit that I was really excited to go to the doctor's office this past week when I found out that my weight was down. Not that I'm proud of the number that it is now, but I know that if I stay faithful...this too shall pass.
Get up, get out there, and do something positive. Join Weight Watchers or join a gym. Maybe do both. You can do whatever you set your mind to do...just pray for the strength to get through the time when your effort turns from a duty into a habit. Today I thought I might take the night off...but when 5:00 came, I went on to the gym and did my cardio. And I'm tired. But I'm happy knowing that I did something positive for myself today.
And that totally rocks.
Wish me luck at the weigh-in tomorrow. I think I've lost the ten pounds required...and if so...I'll have that to celebrate as well. And who knows, we may be winners! But even if we aren't...we still are. So there's that.
With my luck, one of the prizes will be a fried chicken platter from the local Publix. Not that I'd turn it down.
This journey of weight loss began back in November when I got on the scale in the doctor's office and was mortified. I have been slowly gaining weight through the years...and then I'd take about six months and beat it back down...only to have it creep back up again. I'm one of those people who can talk about food and gain weight. Probably because I translate all of that talk into actually attempting to make something I want...grazing through the pantry until I'm either eventually satisfied or so full that it requires a crane to remove me from the couch.
Many Sundays are spent in this manner. I'll admit it.
So, back to the scale. I hopped up there and immediately knew that I was "running out of real estate" as they say on the upper end of OMG! I had actually crossed over into weighing more than 90% of the Alabama Crimson Tide Football Team.
And I don't mean the scrub team. I mean the starters.
Now...you folks probably know that I've been here before. I started Weight Watchers at age 14...only to end up with a bit of an eating disorder and so many more trips back to Weight Watchers that I began to refer to it as "rehab." Seriously, Lindsey Lohan has nothing on me. She has her problems...and I have mine.
I've sat through so many hours of lectures at rehab that I honestly believe that I could teach the class. And yes, once I actually attained my goal weight.
Once. I don't think I ever made it past the six weeks of maintenance.
I'd listen to people talk about their struggles with food, how their hearts were broken, and how angry they were at themselves. I'd see other people prop them up with encouragement and clap enthusiastically when they lost 1.2 pounds after eating nothing they wanted all week. I listened to the lady who had lost 95 pounds jump into every conversation as the resident expert, and I'd see other people roll their eyes along with me. I have bookmarks, ribbons, gold stars, and more paraphernalia than you can possibly imagine. Yet...I couldn't find success.
Not for long anyway. And putting myself and my wallet through that numerous times was just more than I could continue to do. So the problem grew...literally. The last time I was at rehab, I was sitting there with my iPod listening to music when the song "Heavy" by Collective Soul came on. It was entirely too hilarious.
Oh, come on, you know you would have laughed too. So, I endured the rest of the meeting about how to get through Thanksgiving with your relatives pushing food on you or some such nonsense and then I never went back.
I just couldn't.
I believe that Weight Watchers is a wonderful program. But it is designed for people who have already made the decision to get the weight off...not for the "I'd like to drop a few pounds" crowd. You have to really stick to the program, write down everything, and drink a lot of water. And then there's the whole focus on exercise which is referred to as "moving." Frankly, the only exercise I was getting at the time was walking back and forth to the bathroom to pee.
Sorry for the TMI.
Anyway, I finally got sick of myself again and tried not eating carbohydrates and stuck to a plan of very limited foods with good success. And had I been able to stay away from sugar...I might have made a success of that program. In fact, right now I am doing a modified version of that plan. And it is still working. Just more slowly.
But the weigh-in last November showed me that I had achieved a new frontier in weight...and that I needed to take matters in hand so that I'll actually be able to walk in 20 years instead of being put on my side and rolled around the mall. Because that was where I was headed.
Not that my son hadn't been trying to get me back into the gym. Not that my daughter hadn't asked me if I knew anyone who would be a good gym partner. Not that I didn't face my closet every day dreading the attempt to find something to cover my massivity. (I know it's not a word...but it should be.) I was all kinds of in denial. And shame. Let's not forget that.
One day in late November I walked into Hogan's Gym and walked by the mirrors in the big room and I didn't die from embarrassment. On the contrary, everyone was and still is extremely supportive. I've had one person who told me that maybe I should wait until the summer to try to do more...but I think that she was just trying to be encouraging in a roundabout way. She saw me struggling through the Pilates class...and since she'd been heavy once herself, she was probably remembering how embarrassing it is when your brain tells your body to move a certain way, and the body is stopped from responding by something blocking its path.
I refer to that as my "abs." (Or lack thereof.)
Since that day, I have tried to be faithful about being at the gym at least three days a week, most often four times, and when I can five or six. I never go on Sunday. But then again...I am trying not to do my pantry diving on Sunday afternoons either.
I've learned that I can have pretty much what I want, but the sugar has to be very minimized and the carbs as well. I am as happy with a bowl of cut up strawberries (Big Dave just brought me some) than I would be with a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Okay, that's primarily because I don't like their politics...but whatever.
I now do an hour of cardio, do weight machines, and although I've been slacking in March due to my birthday, a stomach virus and oversleeping...I love my classes on Saturday morning. I love the people and how wonderful, funny, amazing, and encouraging they are. I can have a bad day...but if I walk through the door of the gym...I'm better. Well...unless someone is a horse's behind and won't turn the TV off of NBC News...because I go all Towanda over that.
In fact, that happened tonight. But let's not dwell on the negative, shall we?
Jill works out with me...which means I get to see her most days. Brian works the front desk several days a week. I've gotten to know a lot of people who I wouldn't have gotten to know had I just gone home and curled up in front of the TV with a bag of Lay's. In fact, I now know what it takes to burn 400 calories. It takes an hour of my life. Which at least makes me think twice before I go to cramming something in my mouth that I don't need, isn't good, or isn't good for me.
I'm down 27 pounds so far...and have a long road ahead of me. But I ran into a girl at the gym yesterday who is running the Boston Marathon soon. She's down 70 pounds and looks fantastic. Good for her! I saw pictures today on a guy's phone of the half-marathon that he and his wife ran last weekend. He is always on the stairmaster when I'm in the cardio room. He's also shed a lot of weight and is running his first marathon later this year. You know what I think about that? I think that's fabulous. And if by osmosis I am able to catch their enthusiasm and stick with it...then yay for me.
I don't know what your story is right now. I don't know if you are like my Facebook friend, Jodi, who is doing a bikini/figure/fitness competition this year and looks amazing. Or like my friend, Sue, who joined a gym where she lives and she is rocking her new and improved sassy self. Maybe you are like me who is just proud to be hanging with the big dogs. If you are...be proud. Be proud for anything that moves you a little closer to where you want to be. I don't care if that is surviving a Pilates class or running a mile. Just do it. Seriously.
As for me, I'm going to spend the next few months trying to fine tune my exercise routine and pick up some more good habits. Yesterday, one of the trainers, Jimmy, told me to just go up and down the steps four times to see how I feel. There are seventeen steps...and I did it.
I. Did. It. Without an elevator. Or oxygen. Rock. On.
If you are trying to figure it all out...just start with a small change. Give up diet sodas and drink water. Give up candy bars and eat fruit. Give up your TV time and go for a walk. Just do something. Anything.
I have to admit that I was really excited to go to the doctor's office this past week when I found out that my weight was down. Not that I'm proud of the number that it is now, but I know that if I stay faithful...this too shall pass.
Get up, get out there, and do something positive. Join Weight Watchers or join a gym. Maybe do both. You can do whatever you set your mind to do...just pray for the strength to get through the time when your effort turns from a duty into a habit. Today I thought I might take the night off...but when 5:00 came, I went on to the gym and did my cardio. And I'm tired. But I'm happy knowing that I did something positive for myself today.
And that totally rocks.
Wish me luck at the weigh-in tomorrow. I think I've lost the ten pounds required...and if so...I'll have that to celebrate as well. And who knows, we may be winners! But even if we aren't...we still are. So there's that.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Attention, Lying, and Whatever...January 2013
Well, January 2013 was a really big month for liars. And before you roll your eyes and think I'm going to get all political with this post...you can think again. I am fairly certain that everyone knows where I stand with regard to the political landscape...and to point a finger would mean that I'd pretty much have to point at everyone hanging out in Washington D.C.
So, moving on...
This year started out with confessions about sports cheating (I'm looking at you Lance Armstrong), fake girlfriends, a hyped up Notre Dame football team, and Beyonce lip syncing the national anthem at the inauguration. Most of us are pretty stunned that some of this has come out...but in this "let it all hang out" society...where people are putting photos of their cute (but naked) children on Instagram, where we are acutely aware of Lindsey Lohan's arrest record, and where flaunting your money, sexual escapades and trips to the gynecologist are pretty much standard fare...it was just a matter of time.
I know that back in the day, people kept their business to themselves. And people lived and died by their abilities. I think that most people know that Beyonce has the ability to sing the "Star Spangled Banner" - but she apparently thought that failing to show up for rehearsal and then actually trying to do it on her own might somehow be a "fail."
And heaven knows we can't have that.
I think that some of my best lessons in life were learned by failure. Just ask Big Dave and years of attempted biscuit making. He'll tell you that we don't need an arsenal around here when we could just whip up a batch of biscuits to fight them off. All I'd have to do is aim for their head...and they'd be out cold.
Sometimes failing makes us want to be better. And it doesn't mean that we are failures. It just means that we haven't found the particular recipe for success. So, we'll try out again next year...resolved to make the team. We will get some tutoring so that we can actually pass Algebra. We recognize that we are not as gifted as we think we are...and we learn to do something else instead...while learning to appreciate the talents that God gave other people. Some people get stuck at that place...where they envy anyone else who is successful while failing to take time to develop their own abilities. In fact, you probably know them too...by their bitterness.
It was years before I realized that I was pretty average at almost everything...in spite of the gift of lessons and the time I spent trying to learn everything from how to sing to twirl a baton. Average is't bad...average is...well, average. It means that I'm better than some and worse than others. And that's okay. Yes, I am average in a great many things...as are most people that I know...and I've come to realize that I only truly suck at a few.
It was years before I realized that I was pretty average at almost everything...in spite of the gift of lessons and the time I spent trying to learn everything from how to sing to twirl a baton. Average is't bad...average is...well, average. It means that I'm better than some and worse than others. And that's okay. Yes, I am average in a great many things...as are most people that I know...and I've come to realize that I only truly suck at a few.
And boy do I suck at those few.
I always wanted to be able to belt out a song...but my voice has no range. So, I sing in church and I go silent on any note higher than an E. Because - frankly - I don't want to rile up the dogs in the neighborhood...or get a glance from the folks sitting around me on the pew. I am not necessarily afraid to sing...and I can carry a tune. I just can't "sing." But I am a huge supporter of those who can. God blessed them to do it...and gave them the capacity to bring joy to others with that gift.
Yes, yes, even at a cantata.
I wanted to be athletic...but I don't really have that in me either. I have no hand-eye coordination...so games like tennis and softball are out. I can't play golf, either, although a boss and coworker tried to teach me one time. I am, however, quite excellent at driving the cart. I've learned that I can do aerobics classes because I have rhythm (score!), I understand enough about what exercises work what muscles, and I love being sore from pushing myself to the next level. I tried basketball in high school...thankfully, the ball was big enough...but I cannot shoot without looking like I'd be more comfortable doing a granny shot. Probably because that's true.
I finally learned how to twirl a baton...but after high school.. or at the most college....there really isn't that much of a call for baton twirlers. And the thought of wearing a leotard at this point in time is beyond comical.
But back in the day...
But back in the day...
Seriously.
What I have finally settled on is that I love to write. Give me a subject...and let me go. It can be letters, calligraphy, or even this blogpost, and I am happy. When I was young, I used to write poetry. It was sad and heartfelt, and was a kind of therapy for me. Maya Angelou, I was not, but being able to put words on paper - or into a typewriter (in the early days) and now into a computer - is what God put me here to do (in addition to caring for my family, my friends, and whatever else it is that I do). But I'm not so naive as to think that what I do couldn't be better if edited properly.
And I suppose that is what Beyonce was thinking when she went with the taped performance instead of relying on her own gift. She wanted it to be a perfect offering. I don't really listen to her anymore - yes, because of her political views - but I can understand it somewhat. But, I would have felt a lot better about it had she actually shown up for rehearsal on the day before like she was supposed to instead of just throwing out the excuse she used. At least I would have found it believable instead of the comments of a prima donna who had the audacity to name her child Blue Ivy.
We all want to be loved and to be significant. We want to put our best out there...and we want people to give us their best as well. Those desires are ingrained deep within us. And when we think we must...sometimes we want it so much that we will take extreme measures to get there. When I think of the attention that the fake girlfriend has gotten Manti Teo and any attention aimed at the Kardashians...who I honestly do not understand at all...I'm convinced that this is probably going to get worse as society turns more and more away from God and more and more toward the world.
On a brighter note...I do find it refreshing when people are just who they are apologetically. They aren't in your face about it...but they just have to let you know what you are dealing with up front. I've recently met a couple of these people who have a few bruises on the apple...but they have learned to leave it to you to realize that not accepting them for said bruises really isn't their problem. It has been a bit of an education, to tell you the truth. Because they want to be loved and feel significant even though they are making the best of choices that they've made or had thrust upon them.
On a brighter note...I do find it refreshing when people are just who they are apologetically. They aren't in your face about it...but they just have to let you know what you are dealing with up front. I've recently met a couple of these people who have a few bruises on the apple...but they have learned to leave it to you to realize that not accepting them for said bruises really isn't their problem. It has been a bit of an education, to tell you the truth. Because they want to be loved and feel significant even though they are making the best of choices that they've made or had thrust upon them.
So, in that light, I'll try not to blame Beyonce for her performance, or even Manti for his complete and utter lack of discernment. Because, honestly, we all have fallen short of our best and we've been grateful when we've been loved at our worst. After all...who am I do judge?
Exactly.
Exactly.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Making Progress
I am quite sure by now that if you are my friend on the Book of Face, that you are well aware of the fact that I have dragged myself up from my comfortable chair, knocked the dust off of my tennis shoes, checked them for dry rot, and held my breath long enough to get them tied as I bent over before starting back at the gym in November. It was the end of a long and arduous process of living through denial and a cycle of failure that was taking up way too much of my mental energy to fight. Much like industrious deadbeat criminals who hatch elaborate schemes to rip people off instead of just using all of that talent to find and keep a job, I was using up a tremendous amount of energy trying to avoid dealing with the inevitable.
Because, folks, no matter how much you want things to be different...there are only two ways to lose weight...you eat less...or you exercise more. And frankly, you'll get to a point where you realize that you actually have to do both. All of the time. Every day. Consistently. Unless, of course, you are part of the 1% of the population that was born with a metabolism that could power an entire city if harnessed, or your body rejects the notion of fat storage. I actually know people like this...they do exist. And they are upset that everyone thinks that they are anorexic or aren't eating like normal people. To which I acknowledge their pain...but I'm not really terribly sympathetic. Because one of my superpowers is apparently the ability to gain weight.
And no, I will not be putting on a leotard and tights and putting a big FG on my chest for "Fat Girl." That would be entirely too tragic.
Because, truth be told...I'm not a fat girl. Now, I realize that I look like a fat girl. My clothes are purchased in the Junior Zeppelin Department, and elastic is my friend. But contrary to this evidence...it is only because my brain and body just think I am. Part of that is because I have sent my body the message that I am fat for the better part of 35 years. And now my brain believes it and has moved to make my body reflect that reality. For the record...my mind is a powerful thing.
So is yours.
Anyway, of late, I've been trying to tell it the truth...that I am a healthy, vibrant, child of God. Some days, it seems to respond to that message. Other days, not so much. When I am faced with a food choice that is not wise, I at least think about it. And about once a month, I just throw caution to the wind and eat whatever I want for one meal. Possibly two.
But even that isn't as much fun anymore. Because it just sets me back another week. Because I now know what burning off 200 calories feels like and can equate it to something that makes sense. By the way...in my case...it is 26 minutes on the elliptical machine. It used to be 36 minutes to burn the same number of calories, but I've gotten faster as time has gone by. Which is a really, really positive development. Because on day 1...I was happy with ten minutes on the thing.
But since I brought that up...I'd like to take you back to the first day that I entered the gym. After months of being encouraged to show up by my son (who works there) and watching Facebook posts about friends in the gym...I decided that the time had come. My daughter had been telling me that she needed a workout partner...and after throwing out every name that I could think of I realized that - ahem - her workout partner was...
well...me.
That was in November of 2012. Actually, it was in mid to late November. I was wearing a shirt in size OMG and waddling by an entire room full of mirrors. I refer to this as the "walk of shame."
Except I was harder on myself than anyone else there. Everyone else was welcoming me and encouraging me to come back the next day...and the next...and so I have.
I am still not a fan of having to consider fitness a part time job. But it is. I'm not always happy that I can't go home and curl up in front of the computer and write about my day. Or that Big Dave and I miss those precious thirty minutes in between dinner and the first gentle sounds of snoring emanating from the couch. Sometimes the 30 minutes on the elliptical machine followed by 30 minutes on the bike is not my happy place. Especially when someone else has the remote to the TV and they insist on leaving the set on NBC Nightly News.
Yeah, Towanda is totally not a fan of this.
But I do my time and I wait for my daughter to arrive and then we head downstairs for another hour of weights, machines, or whatever. Sometimes the "whatever" involves pushing myself beyond what I did the day before. Other times it could be me holding Jill's feet while she does abs. Abs are something that I pretty much only aspire to as mine pretty much went into retirement in 1993, so I have fun just encouraging her along. After all...I'm told that swimsuit weather is right around the corner. I honestly wouldn't know.
Nor do I much care.
What I do care about is that every day be a little better than the day before. There are no guarantees, you know...even if you stay focused. Sometimes I just want to jump all over a pint of ice cream, or have a piece of cake in the breakroom. When you have a lot of weight to lose...it seems like such a long path that you can easily get down some rabbit trail promising to do better as you wipe the crumbs from your mouth.
Is at times like these, when it is really, really important to have people in front of you who have your back. Who tell you to get back on that elliptical machine and to say "NO!" next time. Who tell you that your face is looking thinner and your behind isn't as "robust." That you are doing great for just showing up...and are improving over time. That they are proud of you for being consistent.
Anything really worth doing involves showing up. And sometimes not just showing up...but pushing yourself to be just a little bit better. My instructor told me this morning that we are all works in progress. That you get to one level and you keep encouraging yourself to be faster, healthier, stronger...better.
And why not? The possibilities are endless. And so are the rewards.
I've had a number of people tell me that they are proud of me for doing something positive...and for making the hard choices. I'm not perfect, but I was inspired by others...so I like to think of it as just passing it along. It is my dream to be at a normal weight and to cage the monkey that has been on my back for the better part of my existence. It really needs to move on...because beyond this...there are so many other things that I want to do in life.
Five months ago, I was in Europe on vacation...and although I didn't say a lot about it...I was absolutely frightened to death at how little control I had over my appetite and how old I felt as I tried to walk around London and Paris. I'm too young for giving up...and I'm way too stubborn to let something like half of my normal weight handicap me.
Yes, you read that right. I need to lose half of my body weight. That's the downside. The upside is...I might end up on the cover of People Magazine. My Mom would be so proud.
But for now, I am just taking a day at a time. I make poor decisions still...but I'm making fewer and fewer each week. Eventually, I will get a handle on some of this...although I'm really happy that I can do an hour of cardio without hyperventilating or making bargains with God that if He gets me through the 30 minutes on the elliptical...I'll leave Lays potato chips alone forever. Mom always told me that you can't make bargains with God anyway. I've tried to keep my Lays consumption to a bare minimum just in case.
I hope that I can sit here and write about this journey a few months from now and will have more words of wisdom for those who are lacing up their shoes and considering that "walk of shame" past the mirrors in the gym. Just do it. Just hang your head and get it over with. And after that...hold it high for having the courage to do something that is really, really hard.
Because it is. This wanting to be better is always difficult. But it is also worth it. That is what I've learned thus far. Plus, I've gotten a lot of quality time with my daughter and a host of positive people at Hogan's Gym...and you really can't put a price on that.
I'm down 20 pounds more or less and have a very long way to go. But I'm down the road a lot farther than I was in November...and I'm very grateful for that.
Very grateful.
Because, folks, no matter how much you want things to be different...there are only two ways to lose weight...you eat less...or you exercise more. And frankly, you'll get to a point where you realize that you actually have to do both. All of the time. Every day. Consistently. Unless, of course, you are part of the 1% of the population that was born with a metabolism that could power an entire city if harnessed, or your body rejects the notion of fat storage. I actually know people like this...they do exist. And they are upset that everyone thinks that they are anorexic or aren't eating like normal people. To which I acknowledge their pain...but I'm not really terribly sympathetic. Because one of my superpowers is apparently the ability to gain weight.
And no, I will not be putting on a leotard and tights and putting a big FG on my chest for "Fat Girl." That would be entirely too tragic.
Because, truth be told...I'm not a fat girl. Now, I realize that I look like a fat girl. My clothes are purchased in the Junior Zeppelin Department, and elastic is my friend. But contrary to this evidence...it is only because my brain and body just think I am. Part of that is because I have sent my body the message that I am fat for the better part of 35 years. And now my brain believes it and has moved to make my body reflect that reality. For the record...my mind is a powerful thing.
So is yours.
Anyway, of late, I've been trying to tell it the truth...that I am a healthy, vibrant, child of God. Some days, it seems to respond to that message. Other days, not so much. When I am faced with a food choice that is not wise, I at least think about it. And about once a month, I just throw caution to the wind and eat whatever I want for one meal. Possibly two.
But even that isn't as much fun anymore. Because it just sets me back another week. Because I now know what burning off 200 calories feels like and can equate it to something that makes sense. By the way...in my case...it is 26 minutes on the elliptical machine. It used to be 36 minutes to burn the same number of calories, but I've gotten faster as time has gone by. Which is a really, really positive development. Because on day 1...I was happy with ten minutes on the thing.
But since I brought that up...I'd like to take you back to the first day that I entered the gym. After months of being encouraged to show up by my son (who works there) and watching Facebook posts about friends in the gym...I decided that the time had come. My daughter had been telling me that she needed a workout partner...and after throwing out every name that I could think of I realized that - ahem - her workout partner was...
well...me.
That was in November of 2012. Actually, it was in mid to late November. I was wearing a shirt in size OMG and waddling by an entire room full of mirrors. I refer to this as the "walk of shame."
Except I was harder on myself than anyone else there. Everyone else was welcoming me and encouraging me to come back the next day...and the next...and so I have.
I am still not a fan of having to consider fitness a part time job. But it is. I'm not always happy that I can't go home and curl up in front of the computer and write about my day. Or that Big Dave and I miss those precious thirty minutes in between dinner and the first gentle sounds of snoring emanating from the couch. Sometimes the 30 minutes on the elliptical machine followed by 30 minutes on the bike is not my happy place. Especially when someone else has the remote to the TV and they insist on leaving the set on NBC Nightly News.
Yeah, Towanda is totally not a fan of this.
But I do my time and I wait for my daughter to arrive and then we head downstairs for another hour of weights, machines, or whatever. Sometimes the "whatever" involves pushing myself beyond what I did the day before. Other times it could be me holding Jill's feet while she does abs. Abs are something that I pretty much only aspire to as mine pretty much went into retirement in 1993, so I have fun just encouraging her along. After all...I'm told that swimsuit weather is right around the corner. I honestly wouldn't know.
Nor do I much care.
What I do care about is that every day be a little better than the day before. There are no guarantees, you know...even if you stay focused. Sometimes I just want to jump all over a pint of ice cream, or have a piece of cake in the breakroom. When you have a lot of weight to lose...it seems like such a long path that you can easily get down some rabbit trail promising to do better as you wipe the crumbs from your mouth.
Is at times like these, when it is really, really important to have people in front of you who have your back. Who tell you to get back on that elliptical machine and to say "NO!" next time. Who tell you that your face is looking thinner and your behind isn't as "robust." That you are doing great for just showing up...and are improving over time. That they are proud of you for being consistent.
Anything really worth doing involves showing up. And sometimes not just showing up...but pushing yourself to be just a little bit better. My instructor told me this morning that we are all works in progress. That you get to one level and you keep encouraging yourself to be faster, healthier, stronger...better.
And why not? The possibilities are endless. And so are the rewards.
I've had a number of people tell me that they are proud of me for doing something positive...and for making the hard choices. I'm not perfect, but I was inspired by others...so I like to think of it as just passing it along. It is my dream to be at a normal weight and to cage the monkey that has been on my back for the better part of my existence. It really needs to move on...because beyond this...there are so many other things that I want to do in life.
Five months ago, I was in Europe on vacation...and although I didn't say a lot about it...I was absolutely frightened to death at how little control I had over my appetite and how old I felt as I tried to walk around London and Paris. I'm too young for giving up...and I'm way too stubborn to let something like half of my normal weight handicap me.
Yes, you read that right. I need to lose half of my body weight. That's the downside. The upside is...I might end up on the cover of People Magazine. My Mom would be so proud.
But for now, I am just taking a day at a time. I make poor decisions still...but I'm making fewer and fewer each week. Eventually, I will get a handle on some of this...although I'm really happy that I can do an hour of cardio without hyperventilating or making bargains with God that if He gets me through the 30 minutes on the elliptical...I'll leave Lays potato chips alone forever. Mom always told me that you can't make bargains with God anyway. I've tried to keep my Lays consumption to a bare minimum just in case.
I hope that I can sit here and write about this journey a few months from now and will have more words of wisdom for those who are lacing up their shoes and considering that "walk of shame" past the mirrors in the gym. Just do it. Just hang your head and get it over with. And after that...hold it high for having the courage to do something that is really, really hard.
Because it is. This wanting to be better is always difficult. But it is also worth it. That is what I've learned thus far. Plus, I've gotten a lot of quality time with my daughter and a host of positive people at Hogan's Gym...and you really can't put a price on that.
I'm down 20 pounds more or less and have a very long way to go. But I'm down the road a lot farther than I was in November...and I'm very grateful for that.
Very grateful.
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