It is officially the year 2002.
At least, that's the year I've returned to based on the scale. I have erased the effects of the last 8 years and I'm feeling like 1998 is just around the corner!
The idea of erasing years and getting my "sexy" back feels like a form of ammortization. You know, getting back to square one by putting in installments of sweat, tears and fast food denial.
Of course, these days, money and budgeting have become my life. I budget my calories (eaten and burned). I budget the time I spend working. I budget the time I spend writing. I budget the time I spend with each child, with dog, and with my husband (often, sadly, in that order). And of course, I budget the cash flow.
It's no wonder that I have come to see myself as the CEO of Team Slagle and a commodity in and of myself.
Truth be told, I've always been a fairly logic driven person who sees the world through binary lenses like the ones Neo sports in The Matrix trilogy, but here lately, I've been in a slightly new arena: that of perceived human worth.
This brings me to my thought of the day.
Recently, I spoke with two friends -- one female and one male -- on the topic of perceived self worth. My male friend was sick and tired of being undervalued by women who had the unmitigated temerity to leave him feeling unappreciated. I must admit, at the time the quandary left me giggling. I mean, seriously? Feel self-important much?
Then later, I spoke with my female friend who is considering lowering her standards and "casting a wider net" because the old biological clock is ticking and she doesn't want to end up alone. For the record, she's freaking fantabulous and yet this woman sounded as despondent as the man sounded effronted; I couldn't help wondering what was really going on here.
Sometimes it takes a flip of the coin to see both sides. When my male friend was waxing on and on (and on) about how he was underappreciated, I was mostly just amused. When my female friend admitted to lowering her standards, I was mostly appalled.
I'm a little ashamed to admit that the motivation for my reaction in both cases was that I was appraising the fair market value of each as though they were properties for sale on one of those shows on HGTV. You know the ones where they flip the houses and then put it on the market?
Sometimes they price their property just right and make a quick sale and sometimes they take a look around and decide to ask for waaaaaaaaaaaaay more than they should. In these instances I yell and gesture at the television beside my amused husband questioning their sanity and their ability to walk with cajones so grande.
When I'm watching the shows, I think to myself (and shout out loud) that value is determined by the market -- not your imagination or personal perception. It's quantifiable and objective, not subjective.
But then it happens. The ringer. The person who goes balls to the wall with a 50K overshot, gets an offer and makes the sale.
You see, there's a little something called the X Factor. That little something called swagger that separates the Trumps from the rest of us. Those with a go big or go home mentality, Castanza-ing their way through life regardless of receeding hairlines, paunch-bellies and underwhelming job prospects.
When they make it -- and they do make it -- we are mystified and (secretly) encouraged to dream and to soar, to hell with logic and history.
Then there are the rest of the populus, the sensible few who live within the boundaries of precedence. Who do what they think makes sense and get what others would tell them they deserve.
I can't quite say who it is I'd rather be.
In my case, I was delusional enough to dream way off the charts and then determined that I'd get what I wanted if that meant dragging the world behind me like road kill on my personal path. My biggest strength (and flaw) is my decisiveness and my willingness to apply it without taking any prisoners. God love my husband for standing by me, right in the eye of Hurricane Kimberlyn.
Some have called me a steam roller, psycho, control freak (these are actual quotes). I prefer to go with driven. Either way, when it comes to perceived self worth, there is at least one part rational thinker and two parts fool inside of me.
In the end, I wouldn't trade what I have now for a fair amount of money (start throwing billions my way and I might have to make some tough decisions), but I wonder about the other two groups.
I suppose in the end, spending month after month on the market feels the same no matter why your still listed.
4.07.2010
4.06.2010
Back on the Saddle
This morning was the start of my official return to the saddle.
After being sidelined by one heck of an icky bout of strep throat, I feel like I am back to ninety five percent, give or take 5 percent. Either way, it's an A so I'll take it.
I started by suggesting I walk to school with my sons. They countered with a suggestion that they ride their skateboards. This meant taking a slight uphill turn followed by a steep decline that both sons took like rockstars, without pads and without fear. They didn't need any because I was scared enough for us all. As a result, I spent the first part of my day transforming gasping and praying into a form of athleticism.
I took the long way home and ended up with 4,710 steps on the old odometer before 8:30 AM. Sweet.
Next up. A little cleaning. My favorite! Anesthetized by a phone conversation with my friend, Tracy, I braved the upstairs bedrooms, the living room & dining room. Then knocked out a little laundry. I've been dumping it onto the bed to be folded later while I watch New Moon. Again. Anything to numb the pain since I can't drink.
Of course, I may have to drink if I plan on taking on the bathrooms. I'm just not sure I feel brave enough.
You see, for whatever reason, both of my sons can fearlessly hurl themselves down a hill rolling at least 20 miles an hour, but they can't seem to find the strength to actually pee inside the toilet bowl. I am truly mystified.
Once I finish this blog, I'll be cleaning my carpets. Apparently my bulldog Clemmie 'just won't go' outside for anyone but me. And here I thought she loved the outdoors. Sun in her face and all that.
Interesting.
I'm sure you can imagine what a full week of my daring to sleep has done to the floor.
Sometimes (like now) I wonder how it all ended up coming to this: me knee-deep in urine management. I mean, yeah, I always felt like I was destined to manage something -- boss someone around or be some sort of expert. But urine? Really?
If you know me, or even feel like you do, you should know that housework symbolizes all that is evil and wrong in the world -- or perhaps, all that is evil and wrong in an otherwise delightful lifestyle. I would like to demand the aid of my elves, my laundry fairies and (perhaps most of all) my kitchen gnomes at this time. Sadly, they are all otherwise engaged.
On the upside, all of this work is burning calories like you can't imagine so there is a silver lining on this cloud of doom.
Until next, I remain. Kimberlyn, goddess of urine-pierced carpets and urine-assaulted grout.
After being sidelined by one heck of an icky bout of strep throat, I feel like I am back to ninety five percent, give or take 5 percent. Either way, it's an A so I'll take it.
I started by suggesting I walk to school with my sons. They countered with a suggestion that they ride their skateboards. This meant taking a slight uphill turn followed by a steep decline that both sons took like rockstars, without pads and without fear. They didn't need any because I was scared enough for us all. As a result, I spent the first part of my day transforming gasping and praying into a form of athleticism.
I took the long way home and ended up with 4,710 steps on the old odometer before 8:30 AM. Sweet.
Next up. A little cleaning. My favorite! Anesthetized by a phone conversation with my friend, Tracy, I braved the upstairs bedrooms, the living room & dining room. Then knocked out a little laundry. I've been dumping it onto the bed to be folded later while I watch New Moon. Again. Anything to numb the pain since I can't drink.
Of course, I may have to drink if I plan on taking on the bathrooms. I'm just not sure I feel brave enough.
You see, for whatever reason, both of my sons can fearlessly hurl themselves down a hill rolling at least 20 miles an hour, but they can't seem to find the strength to actually pee inside the toilet bowl. I am truly mystified.
Once I finish this blog, I'll be cleaning my carpets. Apparently my bulldog Clemmie 'just won't go' outside for anyone but me. And here I thought she loved the outdoors. Sun in her face and all that.
Interesting.
I'm sure you can imagine what a full week of my daring to sleep has done to the floor.
Sometimes (like now) I wonder how it all ended up coming to this: me knee-deep in urine management. I mean, yeah, I always felt like I was destined to manage something -- boss someone around or be some sort of expert. But urine? Really?
If you know me, or even feel like you do, you should know that housework symbolizes all that is evil and wrong in the world -- or perhaps, all that is evil and wrong in an otherwise delightful lifestyle. I would like to demand the aid of my elves, my laundry fairies and (perhaps most of all) my kitchen gnomes at this time. Sadly, they are all otherwise engaged.
On the upside, all of this work is burning calories like you can't imagine so there is a silver lining on this cloud of doom.
Until next, I remain. Kimberlyn, goddess of urine-pierced carpets and urine-assaulted grout.
4.01.2010
No (April) Foolin'
You know that Ice Cube song, "Today Was a Good Day"?
If you are cool (like me) you do and you should play the beat as the internal soundtrack to this blog.
If you are not cool, but you are industrious (also like me) you can simply open a second box and stealthily you tube that sucker for pop culture reference purposes.
First, a disclaimer. If you are watching (or remembering) the video, I need to say upfront that I didn't do any gambling, weed smoking, six-fo' driving, or bedding of a random chick in an anonymous hotel. I can assure you that it most certainly was not that kind of party. But today was with out question one heck of a good day.
Let me walk you through the highlights.
After days of feeling like walking death, I awoke to a new day of almost no pain. Then, my son who got the strep throat cooties from me, is officially done with the strain without so much as ever even feeling an itch in his throat. Next, I heard that my older son has been spotted slipping "inappropriate language" while at school through two different branches of a pretty solid grape vine.
Okay, so you may think that last one isn't so great, but wait for it. . .
I had the presence of mind to ask a series of open ended questions (not the usual hysterical interrogational battery I usually spew) and he actually confessed to a whole cornucopia of offenses. Ha!!! I say to the parenting fates. Ha!!! and again Ha!!!I actually played a hand smoothly and got more scoop than I bargained for.
If you are a parent or actually if you've ever found yourself in the position of intelligence gathering and discovered that you were actually guilty of of shrieking and screaming with little or no response from the shell-shocked detainee, you will understand my joy at staying cool.
I was a parenting goddess for crying outloud. I actually wish I'd taped it -- I could play it back when company came over and say, "See, I got it right once. The evidence is right here."
In a different, but slightly related note, I attended a meeting that was largely centered on explaining to me why I should not freak out that my son was moving from one school to the next. That freaking out was possibly, the worst thing I could do. Instead, I should have a game plan that starts immediately at best, summer at the latest, and that this plan should be subtle, intentional, overt, honest, calm, collected, routine, a change and perfectly natural.
In short, impossible.
This delightful message was then followed up with a list of all the things (other than myself of course) that will probably freak my kid out, although I must not, under any circumstance, be freaked out or show the slightest indication of freakedoutedness. Apparently kids sense this and they freak out in response. Got it.
The good part? I listened to it all and did not throw up. Not once. Not even at my car or at home. I felt good, giddy. Some might say hysterically so. Naysayers. Screw 'em. I have a plan. I have a series of frantically scribbled notes with arrows and stars that will get me through. First on the agenda, I'll have the hubby build a mock locker at home & we'll do drills every Saturday after TAKS testing passes. I'm sure that's totally what they meant by remaining rational. . .
If you are worried, don't. I am seriously calm and relaxed. I find it funny and ironic and amusing. This is so not me. Which makes it a good day -- see?
I think the stimulus behind all of this warm fuzziness is the fact that I feel so much good energy today. I had a friend show me love yesterday. And I had a friend give thanks for the love today. I had a friend make a difficult decision and tell me something that wasn't easy -- but was needed.
I watched as a friend tugged on to the rope of patience despite the fact that there were only two little pathetic fibers left in that sucker and found more love to extend to her son.
I saw the cutest button of child demand independence. Saw the best mommy ever grant it in return. And my eyes watered at the significance of both actions.
The world of love is bigger than our singular experience. On the contrary, it is the intersection of our strengths and vulnerabilities that reveal the beauty of our lives. Today, my awareness of that fact was piqued.
There is a fullness that only the warm embrace of community can bring. And although April Fools is notoriously associated with news that is given and then taken away. I don't think that it's possible in this case.
Afterall, the imprint of love is indelible. If it means that we have hard times or disappointments or even frustrations, it's okay. I think love makes even those days, good days.
So I say, because of the bumps and the surprises and the ridiculously unattainable tasks, because I get to share all of these with those I love, today was a good day.
If you are cool (like me) you do and you should play the beat as the internal soundtrack to this blog.
If you are not cool, but you are industrious (also like me) you can simply open a second box and stealthily you tube that sucker for pop culture reference purposes.
First, a disclaimer. If you are watching (or remembering) the video, I need to say upfront that I didn't do any gambling, weed smoking, six-fo' driving, or bedding of a random chick in an anonymous hotel. I can assure you that it most certainly was not that kind of party. But today was with out question one heck of a good day.
Let me walk you through the highlights.
After days of feeling like walking death, I awoke to a new day of almost no pain. Then, my son who got the strep throat cooties from me, is officially done with the strain without so much as ever even feeling an itch in his throat. Next, I heard that my older son has been spotted slipping "inappropriate language" while at school through two different branches of a pretty solid grape vine.
Okay, so you may think that last one isn't so great, but wait for it. . .
I had the presence of mind to ask a series of open ended questions (not the usual hysterical interrogational battery I usually spew) and he actually confessed to a whole cornucopia of offenses. Ha!!! I say to the parenting fates. Ha!!! and again Ha!!!I actually played a hand smoothly and got more scoop than I bargained for.
If you are a parent or actually if you've ever found yourself in the position of intelligence gathering and discovered that you were actually guilty of of shrieking and screaming with little or no response from the shell-shocked detainee, you will understand my joy at staying cool.
I was a parenting goddess for crying outloud. I actually wish I'd taped it -- I could play it back when company came over and say, "See, I got it right once. The evidence is right here."
In a different, but slightly related note, I attended a meeting that was largely centered on explaining to me why I should not freak out that my son was moving from one school to the next. That freaking out was possibly, the worst thing I could do. Instead, I should have a game plan that starts immediately at best, summer at the latest, and that this plan should be subtle, intentional, overt, honest, calm, collected, routine, a change and perfectly natural.
In short, impossible.
This delightful message was then followed up with a list of all the things (other than myself of course) that will probably freak my kid out, although I must not, under any circumstance, be freaked out or show the slightest indication of freakedoutedness. Apparently kids sense this and they freak out in response. Got it.
The good part? I listened to it all and did not throw up. Not once. Not even at my car or at home. I felt good, giddy. Some might say hysterically so. Naysayers. Screw 'em. I have a plan. I have a series of frantically scribbled notes with arrows and stars that will get me through. First on the agenda, I'll have the hubby build a mock locker at home & we'll do drills every Saturday after TAKS testing passes. I'm sure that's totally what they meant by remaining rational. . .
If you are worried, don't. I am seriously calm and relaxed. I find it funny and ironic and amusing. This is so not me. Which makes it a good day -- see?
I think the stimulus behind all of this warm fuzziness is the fact that I feel so much good energy today. I had a friend show me love yesterday. And I had a friend give thanks for the love today. I had a friend make a difficult decision and tell me something that wasn't easy -- but was needed.
I watched as a friend tugged on to the rope of patience despite the fact that there were only two little pathetic fibers left in that sucker and found more love to extend to her son.
I saw the cutest button of child demand independence. Saw the best mommy ever grant it in return. And my eyes watered at the significance of both actions.
The world of love is bigger than our singular experience. On the contrary, it is the intersection of our strengths and vulnerabilities that reveal the beauty of our lives. Today, my awareness of that fact was piqued.
There is a fullness that only the warm embrace of community can bring. And although April Fools is notoriously associated with news that is given and then taken away. I don't think that it's possible in this case.
Afterall, the imprint of love is indelible. If it means that we have hard times or disappointments or even frustrations, it's okay. I think love makes even those days, good days.
So I say, because of the bumps and the surprises and the ridiculously unattainable tasks, because I get to share all of these with those I love, today was a good day.
3.27.2010
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.
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.
3.25.2010
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!"
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!"
3.24.2010
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,
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,
3.22.2010
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.
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.
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