May 30, 2010

Amazing the power a 1/4 inch number printed on the inside of my pants has over me! If it’s a 4, I think I died and went to heaven, so since I’m in heaven I should probably be eating some chocolate chip cookies, right?

If that small number is a 6, well, whatever. Life is life, right?

If that small number is an 8, it is truly hell and I’m eating carrots and other tasteless crap.

And then there is that small voice in my head. Is it the voice of God or the voice of the devil? No, it sounds just like me, wait it is me!

Several years ago, when I was in the same dilemma as above with slightly different numbers (2, 4, and 6) and my mother-in-law was passing on dessert because she was feeling chubby I filled with feminist self-righteousness and proclaimed, “Really? Are you going to be in a bikini contest any time soon? Have some dessert!”

And I believed that advice. There should be a time in a woman’s life when she is done with diets and skipping desserts and is able to eat, just eat.

I’m just not sure when that time is.

I know I read somewhere that a woman’s weight at 25 should be her natural weight for the rest of her life. But what if at 25 this woman was running 6 miles a day, had never had children and didn’t think eating chocolate every day was a requirement for not killing someone?

I also have a very wise mother who tells me, a bit too emphatically, “A woman’s body changes. See I told you.” Then she lovingly pats my wide rear. She may have been aiming for my shoulder, but big targets…

So, I ask that voice in my head that is a bit too bossy, when? When does a woman stop worrying about what she’s eating?

No, I am not planning on being a contestant in any  bikini contests any time soon. But I would like to look slim, even if just slim for my age, this summer on the boat.

Which reminds me of some 40 year old skinny lady I met boating who told me, “It’s not that hard. Just workout and watch what you eat.” (I hope she is hearing voices in her head, her own voice by the way.)

And yes, I do think too many people judge women too quickly by their size.

Which reminds me of the time I was deathly ill, lost 15 pounds and when I returned to work everyone kept going on and on about how great I looked. I kept yelling back at them, “I thought I was going to die!”

So, I wonder, have I hit that when?

One of my girlfriends only worries about offending her socks. ( http://www.redroom.com/blog/ems/outsmarted-by-my-socks.)  When all I worry about is offending my socks, I’ll know I hit my “when”.

Another girlfriend has turned her basement into a private workout room. I don’t think her “when” is anywhere near for her. She is so trim and slim that I have a hard time hanging out with her, but no problem giving her advice, “No really, have another piece of cake.”

Another girlfriend moved to Hawaii. I would move to Hawaii just so I could wear Moo-moos all day, every day and not be a fashion boo-boo. When I saw her stateside, she was slim and trim in shorts and a nice fitting blouse. I was the one wearing a flouncy blouse. But maybe, she has found her “when” in Hawaii.

So when, I ask. When do I get to eat chocolate chip cookies to my heart’s delight and not worry about the number on the inside of my pants? I know, when that number is 4. Only it’s creeps so fast to 6 it’s creepy.

I’m boating third week in June. Bikini contests, count me out!

This week, I will try to take my own best advice, and be careful about giving advice that may come back to haunt me.

May 23, 2010

At my age, the vices I am willing to indulge in are dwindling.

I was never a smoker, except when really drunk. The whole mouth tasting like an ashtray effect of smoking made it unappealing to my desire to enjoy eating. Besides, smoking is supposed to be sexy, but how sexy is it to be coughing until your eyes water. “No darling,” I could rasp, “I’m not teary-eyed because you brought me flowers. I’m choking!”

Yes, there was the drinking. But throwing up after a heavy night of drinking isn’t so funny when you’re over 35. It’s just rather pathetic. Oh, I know, don’t drink until you throw up, some of you are thinking. For me, that is easier said than done so it’s best not to even get started.

You see, when I do something, I figure you should do it all the way, to the best of your ability and all that, or don’t do it.

So last weekend when I decided to go on a caffeine binge, I went on a caffeine binge. Two cups of coffee in the morning. Two diet cokes as a mid morning refresher, then a bottomless glass of iced tea for the afternoon. I was so pleased with myself when I had no trouble falling asleep that night.

Remember those commercials, “No, just one cup or I’m up all night.” Yeah, that’s my life. I was hoping that as I got older things would affect me less, not more. I would be able to drink as much caffeine as I wanted and feel no after effects. I would be able to listen to my conservative Republican friends blabber on about how the country is NOW going to hell in a hand basket and how the Bush administration had nothing to do with it, and not get  blisteringly angry then start screaming at them. I thought age would bring levity.

Instead, I’m more sensitive to things. Eat too much salt, I blow up like Veruca Salt at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Drink too much milk, my stomach becomes a reenactment of the Civil War, with sound effects heard by all. Consume too much Sweet and Low, my teeth sing with sensitivity.

But I have short-term memory problems. I have a hard time remembering that I ate a whole package of cookies yesterday and that’s why I’m bloated today.

So, last weekend, I threw caution to the wind and consumed large quantities of caffeine and thought I would be fine. I thought I deserved to live it up a little. Besides how bad can too much caffeine be, really.

Not too bad actually, until Monday, at about 11 am. 

I was so tired I was dizzy. The world seemed slightly askew.  I was so tired I contemplated drinking some caffeine, then worried about whether I would fall asleep that night.. I was so tired, I went to bed at 5pm and slept until the next morning.

Didn’t get a whole lot done Monday night, and had to spend the rest of the week trying to catch up.

Was it worth it? It never is, that is why they are called vices and not virtues.

I suppose it is time to give up caffeine. A 44 year old woman in bed at 5pm is not a pretty sight.

But I refuse to give up chocolate. Which I think has small traces of caffeine, but who’s keeping track?

This week I will choose my vices carefully, and pretend they are virtues.

May 16, 2010

Fourteen years ago, I was teaching English for three classes and physical education for two when at the end of the school year I was told that I would be a full-time physical education teacher for the upcoming year.

I could have been upset. Teaching middle school physical education was very close to my idea of career hell. The boys never took their P.E. clothes home for a washing and were so spazzed out with hormones that they were basically smelly Tasmanian devils who wanted to argue with me about the rules of soccer.

“That was off-sides!”

I was thinking, who cares - this is a freakin P.E. class, not the World Cup, but had to maintain my authority. “No, your angle is all wrong for making that kind of call.”

The girls, on the other hand, were just as bad. More interested in their hair and picking clover flowers to make necklaces than participating in Ultimate Frisbee (and who could blame them), I spent most of the time yelling at them to watch out or they’d get hit with the ball or frisbee or the boys who were actually participating and not watching out for them.

Then there were my esteemed colleagues who thought it was fine to teach the girls self-defense while the boys learned wrestling. Oh, and who called me to tell me that even though it was 24 degrees outside, if the students didn’t have grey sweats, they could only wear their P.E. shorts and shirts.

So, you would think that being told I was going to get to teach five classes of physical education, I would have contemplated a flying leap off some close by cliff.

Instead, I was very Zen about the whole thing. When concerned colleagues asked me about it, I responded so sweetly, “Everything happens for a reason. It may be awhile before I figure it out, but there has to be a good reason for it.”

I remembered being so wise this week when I was wondering why it seems no matter what I try, it goes wrong, at least wrong by my standards.

I started the week with a rejection from a literary magazine for a piece I submitted. I want to mention here that my reading group thought the piece was great. I want to suggest that my reading group start their own literary magazine so they could accept all my pieces they think are great and publish them.

The rejection is just one small failure in three years worth of failures, and maybe the straw that broke the camel’s back. Really, how much rejection and failure can one person take, especially if that one person is me? I’m thinking I’m glad the camel’s back is broke (metaphorical camel, I love me some animals even smelly, lumpy ones that spit) because now maybe I can get a new and improved camel that isn’t even going to haul all the straws of my failures, but gallop me to some luxurious oasis so I can be fed grapes, fanned and take naps whenever I feel like it.

Yes, I have been telling myself with all these failures that I am learning and growing. Mr. Magana used to tell us in Spanish class that failure builds character. I wonder, does character grow in your butt and thighs, because they’ve grown quite a bit over the last few years, too.

But I am ready for the big reveal, what was all this failure really about? I’m ready to find out what the good reason for it was. Because if things don’t start actually working out, at least once in awhile, I may just stop trying at all.

But wait, isn’t that true Zen?

This week I will remember that good things happen in good time, and remind the universe that this time is as good as any.

May 9, 2010

We all have those moments, when things slow down and we know that our next decision, the next words out of our mouths, will impact our futures.

At least I have those moments. Maybe I’m more evolved than others…self-absorbed, evolved, whatever! You know what I mean.

So the other night when I got home from work and spied my son’s backpack exactly where I had left it that morning, I knew he had not gone to school. I announced to the house, “Wes didn’t go to school today.” Surprisingly, my husband from the other room answered, “How do you know?” I say surprisingly because he should have been at work, but that is another blog.

I didn’t bother to explain to my husband that my momma-senses were tingling, more like giving me a headache.

Bill asked what we should do. I marched straight to Wes’s room and made him got off Modern Warfare immediately. Already I was establishing myself as the dominant figure in the discussion. I hovered over him while he remained below me, reclining in his leather lazy-boy. Yeah, but still, I was towering.

“Why didn’t you go to school?”

“Mom, it’s a waste of time today. I’m passing all my classes and nothing’s going on in any of them. Besides, I was tired.”

I wouldn’s say he was whining. No, I wouldn’t say he was pleading either. There was a high-pitched quality to his voice, something more like trying to contain amusement.

Why would he be amused at ditching school and getting caught? Well, I may have let it slip about the time I was in high school and spent the day in the sheriff sub-station for ditching school. Or that I flunked my first period class because I ditched every morning for an entire semester. I suppose it was difficult to take me seriously knowing my history.

And so the moment was before me. The defining moment. Do I resort to do-as-I-say-not-as-I-did or do I rise to the occasion and take the position of I-understand-school-can-seem-pointless-but-you-must-behave-responsibly?

Well, I am sharing, so obviously I went with the responsible argument. And I knew I had forever defined who I …. no, wait, not yet.

Wes then retorted with the  I-am-responsible-look-at-my-grades-and-my-commitment-to-running argument. He had me there.

This is where I defined myself. I became possessed by the spirit, the spirit of Dr. Phil and began raising my voice, “Look at all these nice things you have and why do you have them? Because I go to work everyday, even when it seems pointless and I’m tired. I know. I’ll start selling your stuff so I can just stay home from work. I could probably quit my job if I wasn’t buying x-boxes and ipods and lazy-boys and…” well the list goes on, but I don’t want to embarrass myself .

I think I began spontaneously balding when I said, “So when you decide to stay home, I’m taking one of these nice things I bought for you and selling it so I can stay home.” Figures of my son sleeping on a bare mattress, but with perfect attendance danced in my head. I expected the studio audience to begin cheering me at any moment. Instead, the house was eerily quiet. I realized my husband had turned down his television so he could hear the exchange from the next room.

I took a deep breath. “No more missing school from now until June 9th!”

“Cool.” There was an awkward pause. “Does that mean I can ditch the last day of school? School gets out on the 10th?”

Being that I had redefined myself as a mother in this moment, I refrained from laughing and shook my head seriously.

I left Wes and went into the room with my husband.

“How do you like how I handled that one?”

“Great.” Awkward pause. “Only, could we just pretend to sell his stuff because it’ll cost us more to buy it all back later.”

This week I will know that acting like a mother is harder than it looks.

May 2, 2010

Stamp of Approval