Diane Mierzwik

September 27, 2009

I like that a little anxiety spurs me to action. I’d rather the anxiety hit me before I’ve driven all the way to the office forgetting to pack the folder with the report that is due today or before I’ve hit send after writing a nasty reply to a well-meaning-though-morally-reprehensible post. But, there it is.

On the other hand, lingering anxiety must be exorcised and so this Sunday night I am acknowledging before all the world that I no longer need to wash my son’s PE clothes.

Let me remind you that there was the year I taught junior high Physical Education, as we professionals like to call it. And there was the student whose clothes were a tanny, brown color in April until I threatened him with a detention if he did not take his clothes home to be washed. He returned on Monday and had to flag me down as he blended so well with the other blue and gray clad students. I didn’t even notice him and we both wondered aloud if perhaps his dirty clothes had caused him to be in so much trouble all year. Then he pinched a girl’s butt as she passed, right in front of me and we both realized, no, it was nice he had clean clothes, but he was still going to be in some trouble until school let out in June. So, I understand dirty PE clothes.

There was also the time one of the male Physical Education teachers called me to yell at me for not enforcing the “Physical Education Uniform Mandate”, as we professionals liked to call it.

“All those kids should be sent to detention. How else are we going to teach them personal hygiene?” he insisted from the safety of the boy’s locker room phone.

“How about by not having them wear the same stinky clothes five days in a row?” I replied before hanging up the girl’s locker room phone.

So, perhaps I’m a bit biased, or obsessed, but I made it a point to always send my child to school with clean PE clothes for the  five years.

Okay, so I use the term “always” loosely. There were a few Monday mornings when I sprayed them with Febreeze and threw them in dryer with a dryer sheet right before the strapping young man left for school. But he never knew and I’m not telling him now. Still, I even made an effort on those mornings.

But, now he is done with his Physical Education requirement and no longer shoves his sweaty clothes into his backpack of Fridays for me to pull out frantically late Sunday evenings when I remember that tomorrow is in fact Monday and back to the real world for which we must all be properly attired. I never breathed in deep and immediately washed my hands during this Sunday evening ritual.

But, like most motherhood activities, this one too has come to a close. I am becoming less needed.

My empty-nest friends warn me. They tell me hw quiet their houses are. They tell me how bored they are waiting for grand children to dote on. They tell me how useless they feel.

I find all of this hard to believe. I’m just worried this free floating anxiety about what I should be doing for my child will never leave me. What? You can wipe your own … nose? You can make your own lunch? You can drive yourself to school? You can do your own laundry?

Okay, so he doesn’t do his own laundry. But now that there is less of it to do, I seem to have some extra time on my hands. Maybe I’ll take up plucking my eyebrows into shape again.

This week I will exorcise old, unnecessary habits and use the time to return to self-care habits.

September 20, 2009

I have a bit of an upset stomach. It started about an hour after I got home from grocery shopping. But, I get ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.

I awoke with a stomach ache. Well, stomach ache is putting it a bit severely. I was hungry.

You may be thinking, most people wake up hungry – but do most people wake up hunger with no food in their house?

I do.

As the mother-wife-female, grocery shopping does generally fall into my sphere of influence. I am a feminist so there have been times when my husband took over these duties. We fondly remember these weeks as the Coors Light and cereal weeks. I asked my not-so-sober, cereal-eating husband to stick to mowing the lawn and I would do the grocery shopping.

This morning, there was Coors Light in the fridge, along with frosty flakes in the cupboard, but not much else.

I brewed the last of the coffee grounds accepting my fate; it was grocery shopping day.

Finally, at 2 pm, I mustered the strength and wherewithal to go out and brave the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, hungry.

My mother was never one to allow us to eat cookies in the store to keep us quiet while she shopped. As a matter of fact, my mother never bought cookies. Just Saltines which can taste sweet if you stick a bunch in your mouth, chew until they are gooey and don’t swallow them for about a minute.

So, as any traumatized child in an adult body would do, I started in the cookie aisle, ripped open a package and began munching away. With cookie crumbs at the corners of my mouth, I leisurely strolled up and down each and every aisle choosing things that appealed to my hunger.

Avocados were on sale. As soon as I got home, I dug into a bag of chocolate Chex mix. Oh, I had plans of making guacamole, but I also have priorities.

After eating taquitos with fresh guacamole, I treated myself to some dessert, my favorite, chocolate chip cookie dough, uncooked please, then drank a soda.

Now, I know the rules, don’t go grocery shopping while hungry. I suppose I could have stopped off at Starbucks before grocery shoppoing and had a muffin, but really, I’m also on a budget so Starbucks was an unnecessary expense.

You might be thinking you read that article too, and remember the next bit of advice …Nibble on carrots before the feast so you don’t show up famished. I bought some apples and grapes, but I already had this chocolate taste in my mouth and carmel covered apples are good and well, but chocolate and apples … really, why ruin some good chocolate stuck in the back molars with a fresh bite of apple?

That article also suggested not keeping unhealthy food in the house.

And that brings us back to my upset stomach. I’m trying to get rid of all those cookies and chocolate chex mix. I was successful with the guacamole, by Jove! I’m hoping to start tomorrow with only healthy foods in the house so I’m eating all the unhealthy ones tonight.

Sure, I may not feel too great right now, but tomorrow when I go grocery shopping for healthy foods, I’m sure I’ll feel much better.

This week I will put hunger in its place with some cookies, cookie dough and chocolate Chex mix!

September 13, 2009

There are some things I am rather good at, and some things I’m not so good at.

I’m pretty good at gardening. Five years ago I moved from a valley home with clay earth and rather consistent temperatures. My yard was full of begonias, gardenias, Mexican sage and narcissus. Then I moved to a pass area home where we get snow, high winds and the soil is sandy. Five years later, my yard is full of four o’clocks, holly hocks, russian sage and lamb’s ear. It’s gorgeous if I do say so myself.

I’m not very good at putting in sprinkler systems. The system I put in at my valley home lay on the top of the planters and paths though I did dig a trench for burying the pipes. Luckily, my husband has grown quite good at installing sprinkler systems and I have learned to wait patiently for the sprinklers to be in before I begin planting, mostly.

I’m good at teaching. Three years ago I left teaching for administration work, yet I am tempted by moments to explain and help and coach and celebrate in others’ successes. It’s something I can’t help but do, even when not asked.

I’m not so good at singing, so this morning at church I sang my lungs out because I believe there are some things you should do with gusto even if you aren’t good at them and singing is one of those things.

I know people, they used to be my friends but who wants to be friends with people who exert energy on criticizing me, not me, who have hinted that maybe I shouldn’t sing so loud. I have been in the acquaitance of people who have rudely told me to not sing so loud, a person in the car next to mine and our windows both happen to be rolled down. Still, I sing with gusto.

At my age, I have learned to accept the things I am not good at, and find people in my life who are willing to help me with those things. Recently at a football game, my husband and son informed me they were going to help me make friends and coached me through the evening. I gather from the experience that choosing to sit where there is lots of space to spread out is not a key ingredient to being sociable. Who knew?

So, this morning when my thoughts fleeted on the notion that it would be better if the band was a bit louder to drown me out and I worried that the poor gentleman in front of me could hear me, I wondered if I had time to take voice lessons. Probably not, was the answer. Then I contemplated singing more softly. No, never did I think that I would not sing at all.

What is more beautiful? Someone who stops doing something because he is convinced he is no good at “it”? Or someone who does something with gusto depsite being fully aware at her lack of talent in the activity?

Usually my radio is loud enough that those around me can’t hear me. I rarely sing acapella, but I love to sing.

Besides, at my age, my hearing is going and I sound great to me!

This week I will do everything with gusto, even those things I’m not very good at.

September 8, 2009

All the research shows that when you start talking trauma, well stuff pours out. What research you ask - look it up!

So, back to me and my half-marathon!

The beginning of the half marathon was mostly downhill, but I was running with a partner who claimed her knee hurt when she ran down hill – yes, the same partner who ditched me on the uphill when my whole body hurt, but I digress. So we took it easy, weaving around all the walkers who thought is was a good idea to start at the front of the pack and block the way for the rest of us who were actually going to jog the course.

Which brings me to the course  … Eight thousand four hundred people running on a course no more than thirty feet wide. So, say each person takes up four feet, divide that into 30 and only seven people could fit – imagine how long of a stretch there were of runners, and imagine trying to fit through the one and a half feet of space left for passing. Oh, and did I mention all the walkers who thought it would be a good idea to start at the front of the pack so the rest of us could use them like an obstacle course. I actually improved my side to side agility and running in people’s yard ability. I don’t think it improved my time. But I digress.

What really interested me was all the people who passed me in those first few miles – yes, I was paying attention. Flame-outfit woman with the  dreadlocks,  woman who looked seventy years old wearing her teenage granddaughter’s outfit, all those runners who had fanny packs of energy drinks and pouches strapped around them just tempting me to try one out, and young happy couple who just got back from Africa and explained loudly in mile two that they had NOT been training – which became all too apparent in mile nine when I passed them – HA! I also passed flame outfit woman in mile ten. And lots of others who were now just wearing a belt with lots of empty pouches, which makes me happy that I ran the turtle race, not hair-raising, I mean hare race.

Still, I was left in the end … and probably passed by a bunch of people who saw me weaving in and out and around slower runners and thought, wow – she’s wasting a lot of energy … I wonder if she realizes that everyone gets a medal.

So, now that the flood gates are open I’m contmeplating –  why do I pay such close attention to who’s in front of me and who’s behind me and who am I gaining on and who’s gaining on me – it’s not like I could run any faster – or could I?

My husband seems to think so. He has taken over my training. Which means when the half-marathon comes up in conversation, he diverts his gaze and shakes his head, ashamed of my performance to which I exclaim “She’s 15 years younger!” Then he asks ever so non-chalantly if I’m running today. Of course, I tell him yes, get on my running clothes and shoes, leave the yard and find a nice field to lay down in for forty-five minutes and think of reasons why other people are in better shape than I. They don’t have lives. They don’t have jobs. They don’t know how to relax, which apparently I’m getting quite good at. The alarm on my watch goes off. I brush myself off and head home.

I get home, and he is proud of me and I wonder who will pass me in January.

This week I will remember that everyone gets a medal at the end.