Diane Mierzwik

June 19, 2010

That should be a rhetorical question at my age, but still I ponder.

I’m going boating for the first time in two years. Why so long between trips, you might ask. Well, it’s complicated.

First there is the fact that we own the boat from hell. Seriously.

We used to have a nice 19 foot ski boat with an open bow which topped out at 35 miles per hour, but mostly ran at 25. Perfect speed in my book. Then this perfectly good boat met it’s demise in the middle of the Mohave desert and we needed to get a new boat.

I explained to my husband that I wanted to pontoon boats, you know, those slow, flat boats with a nice shade canopy that are sometimes painted in camouflage. I figured, nice and slow, lots of room to move around, we could even put in a nice stereo and just cruise. Yeah, cruising was my speed.

My husband talked about a speed boat. I didn’t pay that much attention because I was sure I would get my way. Or at least there would be a compromise, say, a deck boat.

The hubby shopped and shopped for boats, inviting me along in fact. I told him, “I trust you.”

Then he came home with a speed boat, a big speed boat with “tribal” flames in red along the side. I asked him if he was planning on leaving me since I was not the wife for that boat. Four years later, we are still married, though I rarely go boating.

But, sometimes my resolve wears thin and I grow weak and I agree to go on a trip.

So, tomorrow I will be floating, no, I will be cruising, no, I will be flashing up and down the river. Oh joy!

So, as I’m packing tonight I wonder, do I pack those bikinis which I usually only wear in the jacuzzi when no one is around.

Now, you may be asking, why would a 44 year old woman even be contemplating a bikini. That’s a good question.

Here’s the thing. When I look around, even at 44 I still look pretty damn good compared. So there’s a reason to pack those bikinis.

Here’s another thing, as my fellow writer, teacher and sun-worshipper, Daryl Womack, once told me, “Tanned fat looks better than white, pasty fat.” So there’s another reason.

Finally, the last reason,  I would be doing a favor to all other women. To those other women wearing a bikini, well, they would look good compared to me. To those women wishing they could wear a bikini, I’d be helping them with their diet, since seeing me in a bikini will make them so nauseated, they won’t eat and be well on their way to that bikini body they want.

As I rationalize it, there is no reason not to wear a bikini, except for good taste, oh and vanity.

So I suppose I will wear a tasteful one-piece, with a nice slimming black wrap.

If you see me, wave, though you probably won’t see me, because the boat will be passing by you so fast you’ll be wondering what just caused that breeze.

This week I will act my age, even in swimwear choices.

June 13, 2010

On Thursday night I could hear a young, vibrant voice echoing across the valley about chasing your dreams and fulfilling your destiny. I thought about how the voices I usually hear are older, raspy and demanding and wondered where this new voice was coming from.

Then I remembered. Graduation. I could hear the graduation speaker and boy was she excited.

So, it is that time of year, and I have bought several cards to fill with money, because that is the tradition right? “Here’s a little gate money. Now good luck and don’t look back.”

I did not buy the card that said, “Reach for the moon, even if you miss, you will land among the stars.” Someone, maybe me, should tell Hallmark and American Greetings that if you miss the moon, the stars are actually much further away and you just land where there is no oxygen, lots of flying debris and you will probably die.

I was thinking of creating my own graduation cards based on this moon and stars premise:

Jump off a tall building, even if you don’t defy gravity your name will be in the paper.

Hold you breath if you don’t get your way, even if still you don’t get your way, you will turn a nice shade of blue, pass out, wake up and you can try again.

Don’t expect anything from the future, even if you never accomplish anything, you will be fully in the now.

I’m happy to freelance for either company since I am not busy fulfilling my graduation dream of being a physical therapist. And I wondered, since I’m not fulfilling my dream, does that mean I am a failure?

Luckily my cherub doesn’t graduate until next year (God willing!), so I have an entire year to compose a vibrant, encouraging message for his graduation. I think it will go something like this:

Life is like snow skiing. You think you have made it to the top of the mountain and now you can get off the lift, or graduate, and things will be smooth sailing toward retirement and afternoons of naps. But, your lift partner will probably be clumsy and push you down as you get off the lift, they will have to stop the lift and people you don’t know, and even those you do, will be irritated with you for messing up everyone else’s mojo. You have your first decision to make, spend your time explaining how it was your partner’s fault and be mad at your partner for being clumsy, or brush yourself off, smile and move on. I suggest moving on.

Then you start skiing down the hill. Things are going smoothly. This is easier than you thought so you decide to go try the moguls. They are harder than you thought. You will probably fall down a lot. You will probably wish you hadn’t taken the moguls. And, to top it all off, your partner is below you yelling at you to hurry up and he told you the moguls were too difficult. So you have to decide, be mad at your dumb decision and take it out on your partner, or smile and keep at it. I suggest, smile and keep at it.

Finally you get past the moguls and take an intermediate run when a snowboarder hits you from behind, causing you to lose one of your skis, which you have to climb back up the mountain, dodging other less-than-talented-skiiers-and-snowboarders, to retrieve and when you look around for the guy who hit you, thinking he must be hanging around to see if you’re okay and if you need help and he’s nowhere to be seen, you can either sit down and cry, or put on your ski and coast the rest of the way. I suggest coasting.

Finally, you will get to the bottom of the mountain. Your partner will be there because he wants to ride up the lift with you again and while in line you see the guy who hit you. You can decide to ride the lift with a partner who will probably clumsily push you down again. You can decide to yell at the snowboarder who ran into you and didn’t wait to see if you needed help. You can decide to stay down the mountain and get some hot chocolate.

Whatever you decide, keep in mind that it is not the skiing that matters. It is not the moguls that matter. It is not the journey that matters. It is not the accomplishments that matter. What matters is how you conducted yourself with the people around you.

And, don’t jump off any buildings because no matter how great you feel, you cannot defy gravity.

This week I will stay in the now of my life, rather than lament the dreams I have not fulfilled, not yet.

June 6, 2010

Several months ago I read that if you are the smartest person in your group of friends, you need a new group. I looked around and thought, “I need a new group.”

I sought out people who were further in their career than I. I sought out people who were more published than I. I sought out people who held higher degrees than I. I began taking my daily dose of Flaxseed oil so I could keep up with all these really smart people.

I thought I was hanging pretty good. But, this week made me question whether or not my new friends aren’t looking around thinking, “Hey, I’m the smartest person in this group, maybe…”

First I was discussing a “delicate” work related problem with a colleague when he asked if I was in my office alone. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Yes, I’m alone.”

That was my first clue.

Then my master’s in philosophy friend sent me an email referring to “like so-and-so did” then followed it up within seconds to articulate fully which so-and-so action he was referring to, because obviously his trust in my ability to deduce what he meant was meager.

That was my second clue.

Then I posted what I thought was a witty response to a Facebook post, only to be schooled. Apparently I had posted a pun, which was redundant since the original post was the pun. Duh! Okay,so maybe my powers of deduction…

That was my third clue.

I do try to keep up with my friend’s expectations. Like when one girlfriend pointed out how the light fixture didn’t match the room at all, I made a point to refurbish it to match the rest of the decor. Of course, that friend hasn’t been over since. Strange…

Or my friend who wondered why my swimming pool was so freezing. After I explained the amount of shade the pool got and the elevation my house was at, I decided to solve the problem and buy a solar blanket to warm that pool up. Of course, that friend hasn’t bee over since either. Hum…

I wonder, are my friends looking around thinking, “I need some smarter friends”?

It’s a dilemma. Do I make my smart friends feel smarter by being me? Or do I make me feel smarter by hanging around all my regular friends? It seems like my smart friends are too smart to stick around as my friends for long anyway.

I’m hoping the universe provides me with my next set of instructions about this smart and not-so-smart friend dilemma.

And, now all my friends are thinking,”Hey, which friend am I?”

Well, I am smart enough not to tell, so don’t even ask.

This week I will relish all my friends, those who make me feel smart and those who make me feel like I have much still to learn in this world.

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

April 25, 2010

I’m starting to feel like a rerun. No matter how much I try to mix those navy blue slacks and sophisticated white blouse with a different blazer, sweater or scarf, it all feels the same.

On the other hand, I hate unloading my shopping bags to place them in the closet only to find I have an exact replica of my new pieces hanging at the back of my closet.
My tight closet is part of the problem. It is a walk-in. It is also a walk backwards out because there is no room to turn around. This is a problem, along with the fact that I share it with my husband.
So I spoke to my contractor who is going to come up and build another closet in a corner of our bedroom. My husband’s clothes will be moved there, and I will have twice the closet space. I’m looking forward to being able to see all the clothes in my closet without having to squeeze everything into one corner and then slide each piece an inch to view. It reminds me of squeezing myself into those skinny jeans so many years ago. If I have to lay down on the bed to accomplish my goal, it’s time to size up.
I think I may still have those skinny jeans in my closet. Maybe that’s why my closet is so full, my inability to accept I will never fit into those jeans again.
A friend this week explained that he has three wardrobes: “I’m in shape,” “I’m slipping,” and “What happened?” I have several wardrobes too. “It’s the weekend,” “I’m staying at home,” and “I need to impress.” Unfortunately, I also have all three of these wardrobes in various sizes. So I guess I have six wardrobes, or more depending on how you label them.
So, though I am feeling like I need to go purchase some new pieces for my wardrobe, I’m wondering what exactly I will find in my closet once I’m able to spread everything out, and if I will be able to part with those skinny jeans that I would never wear again anyway (unless I get to be in the next Disney Movie when I come back as a youngster who has the body for those jeans) or if I’ll hang onto them for nostalgic reasons. I can hold them up to my grand children someday and they will be amazed that their grandma ever wore skinny jeans.
Actually, I’m amazed I ever wore skinny jeans. My tolerance for being uncomfortable was much higher way back when…
Which brings me back to my closet. I’m sick of not knowing what’s in there. It makes me uncomfortable knowing that the only reason I’m a rerun in the wardrobe department is because I am unable to see all those gorgeous clothes I have and hanging forlornly waiting for me to rediscover them.

This week I will refresh my wardrobe by going through the clothes I have, besides I have no money for new clothes with how much that new closet is going to cost.

April 18, 2010

I believe in the Buddhist (not Booty) proverb, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”

I also believe in the Norwegian proverb, “Experience is the best teacher, but the tuition is high.”

So, I’ve been reflecting on my experiences over the past few weeks and think there might, just might be something there for me to learn.
Lately, I’ve been surrounded by people who think they are smarter than they are. Seriously.
Like the woman in my spin class who wants to tell me how to breath to maximize my oxygen intake so I can increase my oxygen to … blah, blah, blah ratio. Okay, I might already be a bit irritated with this woman because she is talking during the workout instead of breathing hard. I just wish spin cycles had a speedometer on them so I could very discreetly make sure I am pedaling faster than her and that is why she is able to blab away during the workout instead of just pedaling to the music like the rest of us. Besides, doesn’t all that talking screw up her oxygen to … blah, blah, blah ratio. I know it’s bring her some bad mojo. Yes, from me.
And there’s the nice enough seeming gentleman who smiles at me at the library. Yes, I smiled back, but just to be polite, not as an invitation to get all up in my business. Then he’s asking me which books I’m checking out so he can school me on how the authors I’ve chosen aren’t really worth my time and here, he’ll get me a few books that are well worth my time. Luckily, I ditched him in the stacks, threw my books on a desk and ran out of there with my dignity still in tact.
Or the childless coworker who wants to give me parenting advice. Really? So, that works with your lhaso apso when he refuses to eat his vegetables. Yeah, I’ll try that with my seventeen year old, or I’ll let him eat cake.
After one too many experiences of this nature, I started to wonder … maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am. Perhaps, just perhaps, I’m walking around spouting off about stuff I think I know a lot about when really I know very little.
Of course, I preface all manner of spouting off with these words, “I read a report that said…” That gives me some credibility, right. Or, if I’m quite sure of myself, I demurely state, “In my experience…” because I know your experience might be vastly different. I’m sensitive like that.
Still, I wondered. Are people rolling their eyes at me when I turn my back?
I found a trusted friend and confided that I thought maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am. He reassured me that I am very smart and have nothing to worry about. He even gave me some good examples of exactly how smart I am which I’m much too humble to share with you now.
I felt much better, until a few hours later when I wondered, maybe my friend is as smart as I think he is, but a bad judge of character.

So experience has taught me, schooled me really, and the tuition has been my bruised self-esteem.

This week I will be patient with all the smart people around me and remember I’m just mostly a smart aleck and no one appreciates a smart aleck when they are imparting the gods’ genuis to mere mortals.