Double your pleasure; Double your fun

Last night was the school Mommy-Son date night.

Two weeks ago, my little guy (aka. Captain Toothless), came running up to me with a wide grin and asked me to be his "date for this paper." I took a moment to translate what on earth he was talking about and finally realized that it was a PTA event -- the annual Mommy-Son event. I said of course and then like a yahoo actually waited for my older son to mention the event.

I'm glad I didn't hold my breath; I might have died.

My 9 3/4 year old (aka the Inconvenient Genius) didn't say a word. Not a peep. Okay, so my self esteem is still in tact. I mean, He had other things going on like TAKS benchmarks, etc. He'd get around to it.

So a week went by and Toothless checked in to make sure that we were still on for our "date." I assured him that we were and he sailed away. Reminded, I saddle along side Genius and asked him if he wanted to go.

He shrugged. "I guess, whatever. Is there food?"

Nice.

So the big day rolled around and the boys and I set off for the date night. Toothless was the perfect gentleman, solicitous of my step, even placing his little hand at the small of my back as I crossed the street. Genius walked ahead as though he wasn't really with us, looking left and right and presumably scanning the area for friends.

We schlepped our sleeping bags into the school cafeteria, dropped them on the floor (yes, I fought my germaphobe issues marvelously, thanks) and then went to explore the rest of the offerings.

Across the hall was a gymnasiusm crock full of bounce houses. When he saw it, Toothless hauled off screaming like a psycho leaving me standing in his dust beside Genius.

"Are you good, mom? I'd like to go play, too, but I don't want to just leave you."

My heart melted. That's my boy. I felt warm and fuzzy, bestowing a graceful smile and nodding that it was fine, go ahead.

"Sweet."

A single word and he was gone with super speed, pushing and shoving his friends in a shockingly rowdy exchange in a nearby bounce house of terror.

There I sat, alone on date night, cold with John Travolta singing "Stranded at the Drive-In" in my head and unsure of just what I felt. Dissed? Yes. Kicked to the proverbial curb? Yes. But also a little touched at the different forms of love both boys bestowed -- even though it was fleeting.

I spent the next hour watching the brown, beige and black streaks that were my sons little biracial faces dart from one room of hysterical giddiness to the next until finally it was movie time.

They plopped down on the sleeping bags, exhausted, and looked up at me with those adorable little faces. I was touched, misty, a little overcome. Then they opened their mouths.

"Mom," Toothless spoke first as is his custom these days.

"Mmmm?" I purred, caught up in sentimentality. Surely he'd be saying something kind and sweet and just perfect.

"Is there food? I'm starving!"

Bam! Reality hit me right in the face. Ah yes, maid mode. I know it well. It usually comes hand in hand with serving wench responsibilities. The next ten minutes found me shuffling back and forth to concessions to get hot dogs, nachos, soda, and candy -- all at a frantic pace because they were "still hungry" and perhaps "going to die." Neither lifted a finger to help; neither even considered it.

I was a one-woman sighing machine.

Then the darkness came and the movie began to play. Genius cast a furtive glance around the room and noticed a few boys sitting behind me.

"You comfortable, mom? They aren't too close are they?"

"I'm fine."

"Can you see?"

"Yep. I'm good."

"kay" he said, and with that turned toward the screen and I was invisible once again.

The movie passed in silence, with me touching Genius' back lightly (Toothless was sitting too far away) and him leaning toward me slightly but not offering so much as a glance my way.

When the evening ended. Genius lagged behind as Toothless scurried to escort me outside, once again the consumate gentleman. I mentioned that we might want to huddle together because I was very cold. Genius just said, "That's okay, I'm good" and walked ahead until we reached the car.

Inside, with excitement still illuminating his little 6 7/8 year old eyes, Toothless thanked me for "an awesome time." Genius nodded almost imperceptably.

When we got home, Toothless' excitement had calmed to exhaustion. He collapsed minutes after his bath. I went upstairs to work for a while.

I was near wrapping things up when the floor creaked behind me and I caught Genuis shuffling my way. He hugged me with his alarming strength and said simply, "I love you, mom. Thanks for tonight. Thanks for everything."

Then he kissed me on the forehead and shuffled back to his PSP and to his ear plugs in the cave of his room.

I just sat their feeling pretty lucky and certain that this was one of my best dates ever.

I Win!/I Lose!

So you know how relationships go through ebbs and flows? Sometimes you want your partner to be something more than they are in that moment. Sometimes they are so fantabulous that you are left breathless and ashamed at your inadequacy. Sometimes the two of you are right in sync and the result is magical synergy.

I actually think this is true for all relationships: friendships, familial relationships, etc. In my case, it's even true of my relationship with myself.

I've been feeling a little ho hum lately in my relationship with myself. All this working out has me secretly wondering what's up with these abs and thighs. Where's the payoff for the sweat? I haven't been naming names, but I've been thinking that some body parts need to get with the program.

You see, as my neck and butt shrinks (they are both down one inch as of today; Betty the Meanie said so) and my biceps bulge, my tummy and thighs remain unchanged. Though it hasn't been audible, there's been a little internal talk with words like "weakest link" and "WTF" floating around in my head.

And so I've been at that sticky, awkward point in the relationship when I want more than I feel the other party is bringing to the table (which, I suppose is actually still me). Today, I committed the cardinal sin in any intimate relationship: I put my abs and thighs on blast to a third party.

That's right, I told Betty the Meanie how I felt, not too much, just dropped enough of a hint to let her know that there were problems at home if you know what I mean. This is when she frowned (she has this mock confusion thing she does that always comes right before she ups my weights) and said, you know, your body should be craving better nutrition; how's your food intake?

What? Et tu, Betty?

This was when the boomerang of judgement whipped out of no where and just pimp smacked me upside the head. I replayed my menus from the week: Jet's Pizza, Burger King Big Fish (the lime cilantro one is awesome, but I digress), and tonight McDonald's cheeseburgers and fries.

Um, my nutrition? I asked audibly and heard the sound of metal sliding as the balance of power in my relationship with my self shifted. Slide, clang!

You see, maybe it hasn't been my abs and thighs that are letting me down -- maybe it's been me who has let them down. I haven't been giving my body the proper fuel, despite the fact that I've actually been craving the healthy stuff. Call me a crack head, but I just haven't been able to let the convenience of fast food go.

Now here I sit, the weaker link in my relationships with myself, pouting and feeling less than. An injured, deposed dictator. Now the task of getting my collective crap together lies with me. The eyes of expectations watch my every meal choice. I am, in effect, on the hot seat.

I feel that rush of warmth that comes from show and prove time collecting between my shoulder blades (although it could be today's work out, I'm not entirely certain). She didn't even say a word, but I feel like Betty the Meanie will be watching, waiting, expecting.

Fortunately for me, one of the many quirky (okay, potentially unhealthy) things about me is that nothing turns me on like a chance to dominate an irrelevant situation (the truly relevant stuff just freaks me out). So to my abs and thighs I am hereby issuing a challenge: "It's on, baby! Bring it!"

What a Difference a Blade Makes

So I thought of this catchy little title in response to the fact that my hair cut today gave me the best hump-day boost ever. Then I thought of it, in a different way, and thought that the responsible thing to do would be to let you know that I didn't mean any suicidal references.

With that obligatory disclaimer out of the way, I think it's safe to move forward.

I got my hair cut today after a 7 week delay caused by a changed cell phone number (my stylist) and an incorrectly saved one (also my stylist, no judgment). We seemed to pass one another like two ships in the night and I was crest-fallen.

You see, as it would (and does) happen, the euphoria of working out seemed to fade this week. After, all, I suffer from a little thing called the "what's nexts." Don't worry, it isn't contagious or life-threatening. Still, I've got it and bad. Since I've hit the one month mark and it is no longer new, working out just isn't sprucing the old goose anymore. It's hard and kind of poopy this week if you must know.

Then it happened, my stylist and I connected and the long-awaited appointment finally happened today. Talk about your glitter in the air moments! I sat there with anticipation of the magic and then wanted to do little butt-bounces when I looked into the mirror . You'd think I was on a makeover show of some sort. I couldn't stop looking at myself.

Oh, the vanity!

I took pictures -- several -- by twisting and contorting myself in the tiny downstairs bathroom. I shrieked and giggled and rubbed and purred. I was sexy damn it.

The funny thing is, that this week I've noticed my arms have new definition that glistens with sweat as I pump through spin or weight lifting or sit ups. I was impressed, but only like a 3 out of 10 on the old Richter scale. My bum has lifted visibly and you didn't catch me taking a picture of that -- not that anyone would want to see it just yet :o).

No, oddly enough, these things, things for which I've worked and sweat and cursed audibly in a public gym, did not inspire an uncontrollable case of the "hey-look-at-me's." It was a hair cut. Something I did nothing to earn and nothing to contribute to. I simply sat on my (slightly firmer) ass and was treated to a new me.

And I loved it!

It was, by far, the best thing that has happened all month. Maybe longer.

It got me thinking about what a difference a blade makes, a snip here and clip there, and I wondered if my delight in instant gratification makes me shallow or some other equally disparaging label.

I really tried to maintain my focus on this topic, but my hair is just so freakin darn cute that it's hard not to get distracted. I mean, have you seen it? If not I changed my profile picture so you can. I also changed it on Facebook and sent out a few images via text. . .

But I was talking about something. What was it? Oh yeah, avoiding the temptation to be shallow and valuing the things I work long and hard for and not the things that come via the quick work of a blade like my hair cut, which is sooooo cute. It's short in the back, with little pixies on top and longer sides that are just perfect. . .

Okay, so maybe it's no use. I want to have substance and sometimes I do. I read, and write, and think all the time. Really, I do. Even the big words in Jane Austen! But come on, I love what happened today under the blade. The beauty from the violent snipping, the cool air blowing against my newly exposed scalp.

If that makes me wrong, I guess I'll just be wrong. For today, I'd like to declare: "To hell with substance, viva la superficial!" After all, I won the hair cut lottery (and trust that I've had enough bad ones to feel justified in today's celebration) and I want to celebrate damn it!

Until next,

Prayer Jacking & Fowl Quacking

You know, originally, I thought that I'd be addressing a long-denied issue I faced a few months back. Then I read a note by a friend on Facebook that kind of threw me for a loop. It took a minute, but I actually think that the concepts are connected so bear with me as I try to make this dollar out of fifteen cents.

A few months ago, I was prayer jacked. If it's ever happened to you, you are probably nodding knowingly. If not, let me fill you in on the gritty details. There I was, engaged in a (seemingly) normal conversation with a (seemingly) normal person when all of a sudden, I was blindsided by a random and very passionate prayer. There was cadence to rival Jesse Jackson. There was the quoting of biblical scripture. Then it happened.

The prayer jacker told God -- the big guy himself -- that I agreed with what was being said and was asking for this as well.

Okay, I don't know about you, but I think appealing to God is pretty serious business. You don't go doing this willy nilly let me tell you.

Further, I don't even know half of what was said, let alone desire to be enlisted in the appeal. I can tell you this, anything that random and frantic can't be rational and I would like to be aware and sincere when I am offered up, Isaac-style, in a prayer thank you very much.

This kind of spiritual disrespect felt so icky and, truth be told, way too familiar.

It reminded me of all the creepy, uncomfortable memories that I have accumulated when it comes to organized religion. The weird, totally uncool events that smack of human ugliness and self-service and don't even scratch the surface of what I believe to be divine influence in our lives.

These events are all collectively the reason that I carry a tiny little 2 ton chip on my shoulder when it comes to anyone telling me what is moral or religious or right. And in that instance, it all came flooding back to me.

How dare anyone be bold enough to speak for me to God. I have to tell you, of all the insane, inherently offensive acts a person could bestow within the religious realm -- and I was raised Missionary Baptist in the South -- I really felt like this was just about all I was capable of standing for.

I'll be honest here, I wanted to ask what the h - e - double hockey sticks they thought they were doing. But I'm from the South, and I did the southern thing. I stayed quiet, got mad, got madder, got a headache, had a lemonade and then got the hell over it.

It's okay, I'm fine now. But for a while there I was suffering all the stages of mock victimization. There was the shock. The outrage. The why me-isms.

That leads me to the ideas my friend shared in her note on Facebook. She was waxing poetic (very Thoreau-esque although she swears not) about what she saw in nature. A goose or duck or some sort of fowl was alone in the air and a group of others heard the song of the first and moved toward it.

It seemed so odd, that the single song could spark the movement of the masses, but it did. That image stayed with me and is with me still as I ponder the whole religion thing, which is, by the way, the same as the whole woman thing, the whole black thing, the whole mother thing, etc.

Am I who I am because I choose to sing the song that is mine, or because I follow the song that is someone else's? Who am I, truly? The bird who sings or am I in the group that hears the song? Is there just as much strength, just as much authenticity, in both identities?

I think there is. I think that there is a time to sing and a time to hear and follow the song of others. It is my choice that makes me authentic. It is my voice that honors the divine.

I think this is why impositions and presumptions piss me off so thoroughly; because they rob me of my authenticity, and of all that I value and call divine within. I don't want someone else's version of what is to be placed upon me like a yoke. With all due respect, screw that.

So I say, to the prayer jackers of the world -- who I suppose are also identity jackers, value jackers, humanity jackers -- that it is not their place to lasso anyone else into their idea of what is right. Instead, try singing a song that is yours and waiting to see if I follow.

Of course, I wouldn't advise holding your breath.

Long Time, No See!

Well folks, I have genuinely missed you. Wish I could say I've been doing something fantabulous, but alas, I have only been engaged in advanced dicking around.

Okay, there have been a handfull of worthwhile efforts, relevant ventures and the like. But all in all, I feel like there's been plenty of hustle without much to show.

One of the worthwhile ventures I've picked up is a renewed commitment to fitness. You may recall last year's love affair and all of the associated discoveries. This year, my goal was less oriented on staying sane and more focused on the more superficial elements of life. I fell off the wagon at the YMCA after lots and lots of work and not much to show.

I then spent about two months riding on the coat tails of my previous workout; two more months of mortification at my rapidly spreading rump; and finally, a writing assignment to review local gyms brought me back to the fitness game where I was summarily humiliated by the backlash of backsliding.

Now, here I am, 7 lbs lighter than I was a month ago and feeling pretty good. I've joined a new gym (24 hour fitness) and purchased a shocking amount of fun little accessories to help me in my journey. My favorite new toy? The bodybugg. It is a fabulous little thing that seems to be exactly what the doctor ordered. This thing calculates heart rate, steps and calories burned. If you enter your food (and I do) it will even make it very clear -- with color-coded charts and graphs -- just why your ass is still fat.

I believe I needed this little bodybugg. It's like Florence, the maid from The Jeffersons, smirking matter of factly and pointing out just why I'm a jive turkey. You can lie to Weight Watchers; you can fake the funk in your group exercise class; but no matter how you try, you can not, lie to the bodybugg. It knows all and doesn't flinch to tell it.

If there is anything in life I can respect, it's a balls to the wall examination of what's really going on so you can imagine that we are a match made in heaven!

My favorite new group exercise find? That's a tough one. If you'd asked me Friday, it would be 24 set (think step aerobics and weight lifting combined). If you'd asked yesterday, it would be yoga. Today, it's Everlast shadow boxing -- 45 crazy minutes marked by sweat and confusion and manic energy. It's a little something I like to call a damn good time :o).

My favorite new, absolutely ridiculous thing? A personal trainer. Betty Guiterrez is her name, I mention it so that you can either seek her out and ask her why she'd hurt someone as sweet and kind as I am or so you can go and ask her to hurt you, too. It's your choice just go with whatever you are into -- no judgment.

This woman is kind and beautiful and cheerful and polite -- all of which she bestows while asking you to suffer what is tantamount to physical torture. And yes, I pay for it. I don't want to know what that says about me -- I choose to avoid words like "masochist" and instead, opt for "fitness enthusiast" and "boundary pusher."

At any rate, combined, the new fitness fun I've been having has boosted my energy level most days (sucked me dry others). Overall, it's boosted the seratonin levels, my boobs & my rump, so I'm good!

In other fun stuff I've been writing for AOL's That's fit. You can check out the riveting gym reviews (hey, gotta start somewhere) now at the link below. If you post comments, I make more money so feel free to do so! If you don't, I've already been paid so that's cool too :o). There is also a single fitness article scheduled to be published in the months to come. I've also been registering on a few other freelancing sites so the new direction is chugging along nicely.

So sorry to have been absent for so long and yet, absolutely ecstatic to catch up again.

Until Next,
Kimberlyn

http://www.thatsfit.com/2010/02/23/la-fitness-keller-texas-review/
http://www.thatsfit.com/2010/02/26/northpark-ymca-of-fort-worth-review/

We hold these truths to be self-evident

My nine year old son came home a few weeks ago with an assignment that required him to memorize a portion of the preamble to the constitution.

I should explain that this assignment did not appear in conjunction with a lesson on the content of the words they were memorizing. Oh no. They were just supposed to learn it, to hell with meaning. But I try to be a good mother and roll model, so I joined the crazy party and made him memorize the thing.

The assignment, common to all the fourth graders at my local elementary school, sparked a gaggle of facebook banter. A sea of disgruntled and incredulous dissent swept across the familiar blue and white screen, but in the end, we all caved. Every single one of us.

I actually wound up memorizing the darn thing right along with him – even my six year old knows a bit, maybe the dog does, I don’t know. We moved through our lives with a sliver of paper flopping around like a pathetic appendage that I would whip out at traffic lights while in route to soccer games, soccer practice, church, the park, the grocery store, wherever.

Whenever I did this, I smiled and reminded my son that this was “the introduction to an amazing document, a work of rhetorical genius that has served as the foundation for our country and for others in their pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness!”

Of course, when I said it, I sounded like Tour Guide Barbie and my kids can smell insincerity like dogs smell fear. My son, inconvenient genius that he is, was not having it. He gave me the same, yeah whatever mom smile he gives me when I mention Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy: the smile that says, “I know this is a crock, but I’ll play along.”

And you know what? I have a sneaky suspicion he might be right. I mean seriously, what exactly is the value of memorizing those lines? For that matter, what exactly is the purpose of myriad little requirements he’s had in his four years since kindergarten? If I had a dollar for every seemingly pointless process, I’d be a fairly wealthy girl.

Case in point: around the same time that the now-infamous memorization fiasco occurred, my son showed me something called a Boss chart. Several steps that helped you understand how to round numbers up. Apparently, the number on the right is the “boss” and the “boss” is always right.

Seriously?

Are there kids out there struggling with this? 5 & up round up. 4 & down round down. I’m done.

But they have a chart, a story and maybe even a song (yes, I actually do see songs from time to time) designed to help them remember equally inane processes. It might just be me, but isn’t it harder to learn all the extra stuff? Maybe they’d remember the tree a little better if you didn’t make them touch the whole forest just to do so.

That’s just me, though. What do I know?

Clearly the necessity of these steps is considered “self-evident” to the powers that be. If not, then why in the heck do they subject our kids to it?

I realize the idea of what is or isn’t necessary when it comes to education can be tricky. Trust me, I know, I was in the classroom for 11 years hashing out many of these idiotic processes. But even I drew the line when they asked me to recite rap songs about the parts of speech. I think I’d rather show my boobs on the internet thank you very much.

Of course, it isn’t just educators who are at fault, this insanity transcends the classroom. I mean, do kids need someone hovering over them when they play outside? Do I need to enroll them in sports at age 3 and hire a trainer at age 6? Do I need to establish play dates so they won’t be weird? Do I really need to pump them full of fluoride or vitamins or only feed them raw vegetables that they have chewed 23 times (the recommended average)?

I don’t know.

I mean, I should know. I’m mom, after all. I’m supposed to know everything, but I don’t. So for now I’ll be the girl assuming that all of the frantic hovering goes with the territory. I’ll err on the side of caution and all that. Yeah, I'll play along, but in the back of my mind I’ll be wondering if this was one of those self-evident truths that will revolutionize the world (or at least the lives of my children) or if it’s all just a crock.

No Sweat

On most days, I can be found at my local YMCA sweating and straining and grunting in the most embarrassing of ways. I do it on purpose, by the way, despite the fact that it really sounds kind of masochistic when I put it this way.

Unlike most people, I didn’t join my gym to lose weight. For me, getting in shape was secondary; I joined my gym to fight the crazies.

That’s right, you heard (read) me correctly. My therapist, juggernaut of insight that she is, suggested that I start working out to ease tension and release stress. And she was right, I mean, I’m not one for self-diagnosis, but I believe I was suffering from a bout of the hohums and an acute case of Shleprockitis. Don't even ask about the woe-is-mees.

But I have drifted off topic just to explain that I was in the gym for an hour six days a week and that I wasn’t there to lose weight. My apologies. So much for exercise increasing your ability to focus.

You know me, I'm one for analysis and it doesn't stop when I'm working out. I watched the crowd over my first months of membership and decided that it could be be split into two basic categories. No, not the sexy and the sloppy. It’s a YMCA, not a Bally’s for crying out loud. No, the two categories I registered were those who drip and those who stayed dry.

The drippers were splotchy and wet and a little gross if you must know. They were the ones who left the gym in desperate need of a shower -- STAT.

The dry crowd might have worked into a glow. They looked aware and ever so slightly rejuvenated, like the people in a coffee shop, or folks with recent Botox injections. These are the folks who'd leave the gym, still clad in their lycra and spandex, and continue comfortably on to a series of errands when their workout was done.

Until about a month and a half ago, I was proud to be in the dry crowd. After all, sweating is gross and I was a delicate flower.

Unfortunately, I was a delicate flower with a fat ass.

Of course, anyone who’s ever spent time in a gym knows that you can only go so long before stories of amazing weight loss come rolling in. There were people who’d done what I was doing and the results were 20, 25, 30 – even 35 missing lbs.

Me? Not so much.

I worked out six days a week for six months and didn’t so much as lose a pound. In fact, a gained a few – damn that “muscle weighs more than fat” clause.

Well, call me a genius, but after six months I started wondering how I could maybe get in on the weight loss action. I studied my peers to see what they did that I didn’t do. There may have been eating differences, but I couldn’t prove this. The one glaringly obvious difference was that they were all drippers and I wasn’t.

So I kicked it up a notch and found that I (delicate flower that I am) am, in fact, capable of sweat.

Oh, I can get downright beastly if you let me. I actually did tricep push-ups the other day and sweat so hard that I couldn’t see. I don’t soak the floor like my new role models, but I have a dream. . .

Baby steps.

I’ve also stopped eating like the calorie rules don’t apply to me (it turns out they do). That helped. So far I’ve lost 9 pounds in the last 4 weeks, ten if you catch me in the morning.

Tuesday morning a gym buddy and I were briefly discussing this idea. The idea of sweat, I mean. She was soaking wet and we were kind of celebrating. It’s gross, I know.

Our conversation got me to thinking about the importance of sweat and the effort that it both requires and reveals. I considered the journey I’d made from one who never sweats to one who can drip with the best of them.

Thinking about the journey naturally led me to consider my starting point and I realized that it’s been a long time since I’ve felt stressed out the way I did back in February. I thought of the many things that had originally stressed me out then (landing me on my therapist’s couch) and I realized that many of these things still bother me, but they don’t overwhelm me.

I work not to let them. I pray for strength. I reframe issues to gain proper perspective. I delight in the long-term benefits of short term sacrifice and a willingness to be uncomfortable.

In many ways, I treat the challenges in my life the same way I treat challenges in the gym.

I won’t lie to you and tell you that it’s easy. It isn’t. I work my booty off (literally) every single day, but that’s okay because I feel good. And the stresses and strains? Well, that’s no sweat.