Sara's SmartFit Bits

Finit

2010-05-27T10:07:00.001-07:00

My heart is very heavy today. Yesterday I taught my final three yoga classes, and today I trained a client at the Y for the last time and taught my last class at Twin Lakes. I've managed not to let my guard completely down and begin weeping, but it will come later.

As much as I'm ready to go ahead and start our new lives together in Mt. Airy, it is so painful to leave friends and students behind. As we all know, no matter the promises to keep in touch and visit, we rarely do. Facebook makes things a little easier to stay somewhat connected, but it's not the same. It's on to making new friends, finding a new church family, starting a new business.

I remember feeling exactly like this when we moved from Cary. As much as Burlington frustrates me with its conservative attitudes, I'm not nearly as itchy to get out of Burlington as I was to leave Cary. But even then, I remember grieving for quite a while over my lost classes and clients. I really didn't work hard at developing friendships there, so it was more of a professional loss than a personal loss, but as what I do is so very personal, it was kind of the same.

Along those lines, I have to say that if I start really thinking about the people I'm leaving behind, I'll fall into a snotty cry-fest. There is not a better bunch of people in the world than my yoga students, both at church and at Elon. Watching them become stronger and more confident in their practice has been a thrill for me, and I am humbled that I have been allowed to be a part of their yoga journeys. I have been blessed with a group of friends who are smart and funny and strong and have become like sisters to me. I have laughed more here in Burlington than at any other time in my adult life, hanging with my peeps. I will miss those birthday dinners! My church family is this great big wacky family of individuals who band together and support each other through thick and thin. Back when the room mothers and PTA dictators at Oren's first school refused to give me the time of day, our church welcomed me as a partner with open arms and were happy to see me and my family walk through the doors. Our church convinced me to give the infamous West Burlington crowd a chance, and for that I'll be forever grateful.

I am happy to report that Oren's new school feels in some ways like our church here, open-hearted and gracious, happy to see us. That will be a big change, and I look forward to watching Oren blossom in a smaller school. Having grown up in a town of less than 300 people, I'm looking forward to a smaller town. And we're all excited to be in a town that is so close to the mountains and lots of recreational opportunities.

We still have to find a house to buy, but starting next Tuesday we'll have a rental house for Rick to start enjoying during the week and all of us, including the monster kitties and stinky pup, to start enjoying in mid-June.

But for now, I'm wallowing a bit in my sadness. This afternoon, I'll pack up my blankets, straps, blocks, and mats, to be put away until I can begin new classes. There may be some tears, and there will be some lonely moments, but I have a strong feeling that this will end up being a fabulous change not only for me, but for our family as a whole.

Falling in love

2010-05-10T19:27:00.000-07:00

Our house sold, start to finish, in 36 days. Unheard of in this market, I know, and yes, we HAVE thought that maybe we should have asked for more money, BUT I'd rather have sold it and wonder if we charged enough than be sitting on it for months and wondering if we asked too much.

So the hard part has turned out to be the easy part. We sold our house, we moved everything out (only one storage unit this time as opposed to five the last time we moved!), and we're officially not homeowners right now.

So now what is supposed to be the fun part, the easier part, has turned into the hard part. We cannot find a house to buy. We made an offer on a spectacular house, one I still hope we will get, but the owners had to take it off the market due to some challenges, so we had to start over. The day we saw that house, I walked in and fell in love. Actually, that's not true. I saw it online and fell in love, much like our house here in Burlington. I could imagine us having Christmas dinner there, eating breakfast in the kitchen, sitting on the front porch. I still can, which is why I haven't let go of the dream quite yet.

But we do need to find a house to buy, and since the earliest this house will be back on the market, if it ever does go back on, will be September, we are still looking. But we are very limited in terms of where we want to buy, and what type of house we like, which makes it tough in a town of 10,000 people where the housing inventory is, well, nearly nil. We drove up to Mt. Airy yesterday to look at what online appeared to be very much like our house here, but brick and with a full front porch.

The house itself was about 80% there as far as the way it looked and felt. Great floors (all pine, which we know from experience is not ideal), high ceilings, plaster walls (I would have to install picture rail moldings, but I love those), a good-sized kitchen (without a dishwasher or disposal, in need of lots of updating), nice yard, five bedrooms, odd baths (a corner shower was installed in the middle of the floor of the upstairs bath), nearly non-existent closets (but a full basement). Lots to love, lots to work with, but there was this feel in the neighborhood, not helped at all by the snarling dogs next door, their fence butting right up to the property line, which was just a driveway's distance from the house on that side.

Rick and I talked a lot about it on the way home, and we agreed that house hunting is a lot like dating. You go out on a date, and the guy is nice-looking, polite, confident, pulls your chair out for you, laughs at your jokes, doesn't smell, but there is just something that bothers you about him. You sit and eat and talk, and the whole time you're thinking, "What is it?" There isn't anything obviously wrong, but you just feel a little bit antsy. When he takes you home, you hope that he won't try to kiss you.

And then you go out with someone else, but this time, you think he's gorgeous despite the fact that his teeth aren't perfect, you pray that he'll kiss you even with that weird moustache, and you find it charming that he seems nervous. You just don't care. You notice, but you don't care, because when you're sitting across from him during dinner, you just know that there is something special, something that just feels right. On paper he might not be up to par with the date you had last weekend, but in your heart it's a whole different story.

And that's how it is to buy a house. Yes, the walls are smooth and the kitchen is updated, yes the bathroom is nice and the basement is dry, but if there's no spark, if you can't envision yourself around the table playing Scrabble on a windy winter night, it just isn't the house for you, resale value and square footage be damned.

When you find the right house, you can't imagine living anywhere else. Sure there is a big crack in the ceiling, but the house is solid, you're sure of it. No, the bathroom isn't big enough for one person, let alone two, but you don't mind brushing your teeth in the hallway. You love the house, and barring any major structural issues, you're going to buy it. It's an emotional connection that is much like the one you might have with a love partner.

And that's what makes this whole process so challenging. We loved our old house. Really loved it. The closets were inadequate, the basement was a disaster, the kitchen was so small that I could make dinner and reach all the pots and pans, the stove, the sink, and the kitchen door without moving my feet, but we adored the feel of the place, the moldings, the hardwoods, the tile, that wonderful raspberry foyer. And we won't be happy until we find a place that makes us feel that way again. And the house we offered on makes us feel that way. So on June 1st, we'll plan to move into our rental house while we wait for a house to come on the market that is just right for us. It's not the plan we had, but what's that saying about when we make plans, God laughs?

She's probably rolling on the floor over this one.

Letting go (just a little bit)

2009-12-21T09:01:00.001-08:00

The Invisalign saga continues. After several days of great fear of ripping the trays every time I tried to pry them from my teeth, I settled into the new world of having plastic trays in my mouth 21/7. I'm now on my third and final set of trays before I see my ortho again, and it's Christmas, which in my world means pajamas and lots of cookies.

So have I been good about keeping them in 21 hours a day? Well, not really. Whereas on Thanksgiving I skipped breakfast in order to buy myself an additional hour in the trays so that I could relax and enjoy a leisurely Thanksgiving lunch, this Saturday when I had friends over, I took the trays out and enjoyed myself. I've got three weeks on this set of trays before I get re-checked, so I figure I've got an extra week to be good.

And my teeth are most definitely moving, especially the lower middle ones, the reason I got the Invisaligns in the first place.

This whole thing has once again reminded me of what a control freak I am. Although I know that the longer I keep the trays in every day, the faster my teeth will move, I also know that if I'm bad for a couple of days here and again, it's not a crisis. I might delay the treatment a little bit, but I waited for 20 years to fix my teeth once they shifted after braces, so what does it really matter if it takes another month or two to finish my treatment?

I've made my life miserable on days when I really wanted to eat a snack before class and chose not to because I'd miss a few minutes in the trays. I'm one of those people who can sit in the dentist chair with a nail poking into my thigh and I can tolerate it for an hour or two simply by dealing with it. I have often thought that aside from the smelling really bad, I'd be a great Survivor player, because I have the patience to withstand a lot of discomfort before I crack. But this ability to sublimate my physical reality in order to make things simpler for other people and to make myself look better (yes, it's a kind of vanity, being the "best patient") creates a controlling monster in my psyche.

So this morning after yoga I went and got a cup of coffee, popped out the trays, and enjoyed it. And yes, I brushed my teeth AGAIN, which is fine, but that coffee sure was wprth it. Did I miss 30 minutes of treatment time? Yup. Did the world stop turning? Nope.

I'm still learning.

Invisalign!

2009-11-19T10:16:00.000-08:00

Today was the day. I just returned from the orthodontist with my new Invisalign trays. After a quick REALLY unhealthy lunch (I can't eat until dinner--no snacks, so I wanted to be really bad), I brushed and flossed, and they're in.

Putting them in is a breeze, but taking them out is a nightmare. I did manage to take them out at the orthodontist office, but in the process I broke off one of the little button things on one of my back teeth. The tray is still fitting well, so the ortho said not to worry.

I look like I've been in a fight. My mouth is red and my cheeks swollen from all of the manipulation, but I'm really excited. These lower teeth have been bothering me for over 20 years, and it was time to DO something about them. This way, I can still floss easily, and within six to seven months, I'll be done. No snacking between meals, though, which is freaking me out, since I need them to be in 21 hours a day at least. But I'll get over it.

And the lisp isn't so bad right now. We'll see if I adjust. One thing I know will happen is even more vigilant brushing and flossing on my part. These trays cover the entire tooth, so anything that gets trapped there will be a most uncomfortable and unhealthy state of affairs. And maybe I can break my habit of biting my lips, since I don't have biting edges to my teeth anymore.

Now to distract myself, I need to get back to work!

Birthdays

2009-09-18T06:14:00.000-07:00

We are now the proud parents/brother of two new delicious baby monster kittens. They are the sweetest kitties I've ever encountered, bar none. Both of them, and both in different ways, are loving and sweet, curious and playful. Last night Minerva spent many hours in my bed, curled up next to me, her head nuzzling my throat, her little paws kneading my side, purring up a storm. As I type this, little Luna is in my lap, drifting in and out of sleep (I can tell that she's asleep when she stops purring) making it slightly awkward to maintain the proper posture that I'm so anal about maintaining when I'm at my computer. So sweet. We still and always will miss Puff, just like we still reminisce about our our babies, Harriet and Ozzie. But these two monkeys are just what this house and our hearts needed.

This morning, as I was waking, I thought about the birthdays of our girls, and came to a realization.

Our 8-year-old Basset Hound, Angel, was born on June 10, the same day as my adoptive father. Minerva and Luna were born on June 1, the same day my biological father died in Vietnam 42 years ago. Odd.

Yesterday, I attended the surprise birthday party of my grandmother, my biological father's mother, Irene. She turns 88 today, two months after my adoptive mother turned 88. The party was really nice, and she was surprised and very pleased. Four of my six Simpson first cousins were there, one I'd not met, and that was nice but it's always so strange to be around other people who, had things been different, I might have grown up with. There is this automatic intimacy and a total lack of recognition at the same time.

At one point during lunch yesterday, my grandmother's hands were worn out. She has horrible arthritis and has a tough time holding a fork. I was sitting beside her, and she asked me to help her finish her cake. I fed her a few bites, which was a nice feeling, but still, strange. Because even though she is my biological grandmother, I don't know her at all. Buying her a birthday card was a challenge, since all of the grandmother birthday cards said things like, "I remember how you baked me treats when I was a child..." or "Here's to the memories we share."

Fact is, we don't share ANY memories.

I still feel that my head is going to explode at any minute. And things have gone so very well. I don't want to imagine how I'd be if they'd gone badly. My uncle Don's wife asked yesterday how I was coping with all of the discoveries and new relatives, and I said I'm just taking it as it comes, which is true. I am still realizing how very lucky I am, and acknowledging that the bubble that I've always felt surrounds me and keeps me from the worst of harm has done its job once again. Everyone I've met has been someone I would be proud to befriend. The integration of these new people into my heart is tougher than I thought it would be, especially since I believed that I would encounter at least some resistance. Oh, I was ready for that. But this?

Blessings are sometimes hard to accept. But I'm trying. Happy birthday, Grandma Simpson.

Good-bye

2009-08-27T12:12:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, August 25th, 2009, at about 5:45pm, we said good-bye to our dear, sweet Puff. After over two weeks of eating nothing--and I mean NOTHING AT ALL except for about 3ml of food we fed her with a syringe--she was nearing the end. We did the subcutaneous fluids for about six days, along with daily injections of Pepcid, but she never did take a bite of food. She did her famous water dance, as she's done for years, but only took in an ounce or two of water over the course of many days, all of that from her favorite cup that we brought back from Williamsburg. The last three days of her little life found her hiding under the bed and occasionally coming downstairs to soak up some sun in the living room or into the guest room or along the front wall of our bedroom to pee on the floor, something she had never done before.

She purred up until the very end, and when we took her outside those last two days--her first time outside except to go to the vet--she sniffed and listened, her little pegged feet wobbling in the grass as she explored. We took her up into Oren's treehouse, where she sat and smiled and surveyed the back yard, purring up a storm. It was her body that failed her, not her spirit. We buried her under that tree, in an old black shirt that Oren had outgrown. It was his suggestion to bury her in something dark, since her favorite clothing to sleep on or rub against was always dark, better to showcase her beautiful white fur.

We were together, three humans and one kitty, as she took her last breaths in the vet's office. It was horrendously sad and yet peaceful. Rick held her and Oren and I spoke softly to her as the medicine went into her vein and we said our farewells.

What an incredible blessing she was in our lives. Contrary and recalcitrant, she was never a lap kitty. She resisted being held or carried, but would plop down just beyond our reach so that we would have to bend over or change positions to pet her. She went through phases where she would sleep under the bed, on the bed, on my pillow, on the couch, at the top of the stairs, and then she would hide away for hours when we couldn't find her at all. She couldn't tolerate the dog or the vacuum cleaner, and would not swallow a pill unless we were really, really sly about it. Nothing that anyone ever suggested made that process easier, and even toward the end of her life when her energy level was practically nil, putting a pill into her was like fitting a bowling ball into a wiggly sink drain. "Not gonna happen, not now, not ever, so just give it up, Mom!"

The cat-shaped hole in our hearts insists on being re-filled, but we will try to wait a little while so that we might fully grieve our little girl. Her spirit is in the house, her fur still lining the baseboards, still woven into every garment any of us own (especially the black ones!). When the house settles, I think it's Puff walking down the hall. This morning when the tag on my hair dryer moved, I expected the movement to be Puff walking into the bathroom. I swear I can hear her purring as I lie down to sleep at night. For a tiny puff ball of a kitty, she filled up a very big space for her 15 years.

So as this chapter closes, another one opens. We will never find another kitty like Puff, but that's OK. We were privileged to be her humans for so long, and there can never be a creature like her. But, there is another (or maybe more than one...) little fuzzy feline ready to crawl into our hearts, and I look forward to the adventure.

Doing the right thing

2009-08-13T10:49:00.000-07:00

Our 15-year-old kitty, Puff the Magic Kitty, hasn't been herself for the last couple of days. She is our oldest baby, about a year older than our son, and we adore her. She is white, medium-hair, with a bobbed tail (an accident at birth, perhaps), and has dark markings on her back and sides that look exactly like a little poodle is riding piggy-back. She is THE most beautiful cat in the universe. Not the most cuddly cat in the world, Puff adores being petted but not carried. She is not a lap kitty, but when I had my foot surgery a couple of years back, she slept beside me every night as long as I was on pain meds, as if to make sure I was still breathing. When Oren was a baby, she and her sister Harriet (who died nine years ago from kidney failure) would crawl into his stroller and sleep, and when Oren was sleeping in his bouncy/vibrating seat, they would watch him, silent sentinels observing the baby human.

Several months ago, we were sure we were losing our Puff. She started throwing up, not just her normal couple-times-a-week purging, but everything in her stomach and then some. She stopped eating and drinking, and then she started wobbling and looking unbalanced and dissheveled. The most distressing symptom was the lack of purring. Puff is a purr box. You look at her, smile, and her engines start humming. But for a day or so, not a purr was to be found. We knew it was the end. We took her to the vet, who couldn't diagnose anything acutely wrong, and then took her back home, prepared to lose her. Rick and I even walked in the yard looking for a good burial plot. I haven't cried that hard since.

And then miraculously, Puff felt just fine, thank you very much. We figure a couple of things happened. First, she probably heard us talking about digging a hole, and snapped out of it. Second, during all of this drama, we completely changed her food from a tiny bit of wet food in the evenings (for her heart meds) and dry the rest of the time to an all-wet diet.

Yeah, she probably played us a little bit...

But regardless, we had our Puff back and we were glad. She gave us another scare a month or so later, but never stopped purring, so we felt like she would be OK. And then day before yesterday, she started throwing up and stopped eating. I cleaned up ten or more puddles of vomit on the floor (this is why we don't have and will never voluntarily have carpet in a house). I had scheduled a nail trim anyway, so yesterday I took her in and had the vet examine her.

Once again, nothing startlingly acute came back, but Puff's kidneys aren't completely healthy, and she may have an infection. Both issues can be helped with meds, but one of them is an oral medication, which scares me to death. Giving a cat a pill or a tincture is a nightmare, and Puff gets so stressed out that I wonder if we'll do more harm than good. There are other things we can do as well, including injections of anti-acid medication and subcutaneous fluids, which we can also administer at home.

But how much is too much? While the notion of giving her an injection or two isn't abhorrent in any way to me (probably because I have no problem with needles and have never thought shots of any kind were all that painful), I wonder how she would feel. Would she start to hide whenever I approached? Or would she feel so much better that it would be worth it? I just don't know.

I want to do the right thing by her, and I feel like she has a lot of life left in her, but she is a kitty and by virtue of her feline status, I believe she deserves to be treated as kindly and humanely as possible, which precludes anything unnecessarily invasive just to make us humans feel better and less guilty.

Yesterday at the vet (thankfully I got the good vet instead of the fresh-out-of-vet-school-vet who wants to do every test and every intervention known to man), I asked Puff if she would please tell me when it is time for her to go. I've never had to put a pet down for old age, so I don't know if I'll recognize the signs. Even the vet said that she didn't think Puff was there yet. Maybe if she stops purring completely we'll recognize it as a sign.

When we thought we were going to lose her back in December, I told Rick that no matter what sort of pain we would experience by her loss, it was worth it as a tiny payment for the enormity of joy that little creature has brought into our world.

This is the price we pay for love.

Ah, dreams...

2009-07-28T10:04:00.000-07:00

Last night I had another bizarre dream, but this time it was the resolution that stuck with me.

Remember Shirley Jackson's The Lottery? I remember reading it in school and will never forget how it creeped me out. If you've not read it, you must. It's all about how superstitions can overtake us, how our communal patterns of behavior can supersede all sense of reason. Lifetime television made a sub-par made-for-TV movie out of it, but nothing could ever duplicate the feeling I had when I first read the story.

So in my dream last night, I was in a community, not really a family, but most of the faces seemed familiar. One of the members of this group was one of those sad-sack cases, a person who had been the brunt of life's cruelties from birth onward. I remember him as being blond and small in stature, and maybe there was a little baseball hat or a beanie on his head. He was an older teenager or a young adult, and I just felt sorry for him, as did everyone else present.

In the dream, we were required to determine which one of us would be killed. If you've read The Lottery, take the atmosphere of that story and plant it on this one. No one seemed all that upset about anything, but I was thinking how ridiculous it was that we were going through these time-worn behaviors to do something so cruel. I also thought that there was no way that the group would ever decide to take out the young man who had been so beaten down by life. No way would anyone agree to make him the victim again. The larger group was divided into smaller groups, and wouldn't you know it, I was put in with the young man. We were a small group, maybe six of us, and we sat down around a table.

The choice as to who to eliminate (at this point I figured I was at the elimination table) was to be a random one, although I believed the young man would be excluded from any such selection because of his circumstances. So with six of us there, one probably out of the running, that left five, and a 20% chance of being knocked off was a little too high for me, and at the same time I couldn't fathom actually making that choice or carrying it out against another person.

So I did something that in that circumstance might be considered either foolhardy or heroic. I spoke up.

I explained that what we were about to do was absurd, that the antiquated habits of our predecessors were not only out of touch with our current reality, but were barbaric and needless.

And the table agreed. All it took was one person saying something, and suddenly the threat was gone.

Oh, if life could be that simple.

In the dream, I was genuinely surprised that my words had any effect at all. Before I said anything, the fear of dying was tangible, and I remember feeling physically ill at the prospect. And then I took the step of speaking out, and everything changed.

What is the message I'm to take from that dream? Is there one? Or was the dream just a random collection of things I'd seen and experienced over the last few days? Was it due to the blackberries I ate yesterday? Was the moon in an odd phase? Or should I take something from it, maybe the notion that I need to speak up when I see things that need to be changed? I feel like I do that sometimes, but maybe not enough.

I believe in being open to whatever the universe wants to share, and so I'll tuck this memory away and consider it.

And maybe eat fewer blackberries before bed tonight.

Post-mortem

2009-06-26T11:52:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson's death has stirred up a lot of emotions from a lot of people.

I remember when Elvis died. We were visiting some friends of my parents, and I was with their daughter, several years older than me, when we heard of his passing. She immediately drove us to the nearest shopping center to purchase some of his albums. I don't know how much of his music she already owned, or even IF she owned any, but it was as if she was on a mission to honor him by spending some money. Just a moment ago, I read that MJ's music is flying off the shelves.

Am I missing something? It seems like the last time I heard anything about him, Mr. Jackson was up to his eyeballs in debt and suspicion. I seem to recall that at one point he was living in Saudi Arabia, avoiding the spotlight all together. Maybe I'm remembering wrong, but I thought his image had been tarnished by the Neverland allegations and his apparent obsession with altering his appearance.

But now, he is gone, and suddenly none of that seems to matter. I certainly don't know what went on behind the scenes in his life, but I do know that for a time, there were a lot of very angry people accusing him of molesting their children. How are those people feeling, watching the spectacle of a mourning public, some resplendent in white gloves and sequins?

Death is like a big eraser, as if the reel of your life's story is suddenly edited for content. Sins are forgiven, or at least not mentioned, and a haze of gentle sunshine seems to shine on the deceased and his memory. When my father died, I did his eulogy, and even though he had not been a good parent, I found myself doing my best to say as many nice things about him as I could. I remember writing and re-writing that speech, trying to balance the truth with kindness. I was determined to be honest, but to be respectful to his memory, even though my memories of him were anything but good ones.

What is it that makes us perform this ritual? Is it a true desire to forgive and forget, or is it that we hope others will treat us with the same deference when we're gone? I'll be curious to see what happens in the weeks and months to come, as we learn more about MJ's passing.

And as an aside, I am saddened that while her life was just as rich and her story equally poignant, Farrah Fawcett's passing seems to have faded well into the background. Anyone who witnessed the TV special a month ago that documented her fight with cancer can tell you that she was also a remarkable human being with a story to tell.

May we all try to live lives that require a minimum of posthumous re-writing, and when we goof, may we be fortunate enough to have friends and family around that will gladly cut us some slack.

The cure's worse than the disease

2009-06-25T18:04:00.000-07:00

I spent last week at the beach with my mom, my husband, son, and my husband's mother. It was a wonderful week, full of rest and recuperation from what has been a watershed year.

In my quest to do no further damage to my already-destroyed skin (from all of those years in the backyard honing the perfect tan), I have been working really hard to stay out of the direct sun for years. I'm trying to undo damage, as well, which means being hypervigilant about sunscreen. And this vacation, I was, emphasis on the "hyper." First, my regular SPF 40, the stuff I normally wear. Then breakfast, then another layer of SPF 65, then another layer of zinc oxide/titanium dioxide for a physical block on top of the two chemical blocks.

Yes, I realize how insane this sounds.

Not surprisingly, I got absolutely no color. None. In fact, I think I'm paler now than before we went. In addition to the triple SPF protection, I also sat under a tent with long sleeves, a hat, and a book in front of my face, partly for entertainment, partly for the blocking effect against any errant UV rays bouncing off of the sand. Oh, and I never sat outside between 11 and 4.

This week I look like I've had the worst sunburn of my life. Not from sunburn, oh no, but from the wear and tear of trying to wash the 3D sunscreen off my face every day. I'm peely and tight, red and sore. On Tuesday, it actually hurt to smile, and my left cheek was so swollen that if I glanced down, I could see it.

A friend said I looked like I'd had a chemical peel. Well, I have. A self-induced one, but a chemical peel nonetheless. Could I be onto something? We'll see after my skin stops sloughing off. I've been diligently putting on Vitamin E oil day and night, and I have a sneaking suspicion that all of my pores are clogging and next week will erupt into a mountainscape of acne. So I'll go from 90-year-0ld skin to 13-year-old skin.

And I complain that I'm stuck in a rut.

Coming through

2009-04-14T12:52:00.001-07:00

Today I received a card with a note and some snapshots from our last visit with my birthfather's family, sent to me by my uncle's wife (which I suppose makes her my aunt!). These are the neatest people, and it's an honor to know them and a thrill to be related to them, although our relationship is so very new.

They have embraced me and my family so fully that it makes me even sadder that I will never know my birthfather. Would he have been as warm and welcoming? Would it have been different, since I would have been his own child, not the child of a sibling?

My birthfather died on June 1, 1967. I would have been just over eight months old at the time. What was I doing that day? Could I tell that he was gone? Do children have that sort of connection to their biological parents? I do believe that permanently removing a child from his/her mother's arms and placing him/her in another's does lasting damage to his/her ability to trust and to feel safe again, but how deep is the biological connection? I can't imagine that I didn't feel anything when my birthfather's helicopter crashed, but maybe I didn't. All through my life I've fantasized about finding him, finding the father I dreamed of, the father that would somehow make up for the adoptive father I was given, so there was no instinct that told me he wasn't around anymore, even though he was dead before I spoke my first word.

But his death isn't negotiable, and I have to go from this place and connect with those who are left. And how wonderful that connection has been. I didn't get the outcome I dreamed of, but perhaps I got more than I ever expected. My grandmother told me recently that I've been a real blessing in their lives, since I contacted them last fall. And that makes me feel so good, but it's also true that they have blessed my life. Even as I was braced for the worst (suspicion, rejection), I have been overwhelmed with the best possible reception.

And perhaps that is how the fear and the mistrust that has shadowed me my whole life will finally find another home.

Methinks she doth protest too much...

2009-03-20T08:33:00.000-07:00

The discoveries just continue and continue.

In a bag full of memorabilia I received last week, I found a picture of my birthfather with a woman on a beach. This would have been 1966, when I was in utero, and the woman was most definitely NOT my birthmother. I'd heard the story of how when he was confronted with the pregnancy, my birthfather said, "Well, there's nothing I can do about it, and I'm seeing someone else now anyway." Could this be that "someone else?"

On the back of the photo was a name and address. Of course, this was over 40 years ago, so I figured the chances were slim that I could locate this woman, but I googled her and the city she was living in at the time, and BINGO, I found her on a class reunion website! Her last name was different, but when I saw her picture, I knew I'd found her. Another search and I had her current address and phone number. Feeling fly, I dialed.

And there she was, the woman in the picture from so many years ago. Yes, she remembered my birthfather very well, and had he returned from Vietnam, she was SURE they would have married. No, she didn't know about the "girl he left behind" or the pregnancy.

Surprise, surprise.

And then she did something which I've been puzzling over ever since.

"Now, I was a good girl. I wasn't a slut. I was what you would have called a tease," she explained, as if it mattered to me whether or not she'd had sex with my birthfather. Then she went on to say, over and over throughout our conversation, how she was a Christian.

As an aside, I believe that if you feel compelled to tell me and then try to convince me that you're a Christian, you're sort of missing the point, but that's another blog altogether.

There was a part of me that at this point in the conversation desperately wanted to respond to the "I wasn't a slut" comment with, "Oh, you mean you weren't a slut like my birthmother, huh?" Of course, that would have been confrontational and not very helpful, but I do not tolerate holier-than-thou sorts very well and was fairly tempted.

From our talk, she was obviously very much enamoured with my birthfather, and was deeply hurt when he died. She went on to marry twice, and each of her husbands' names were in some way similar to my birthfather's names, which I found quite interesting as did she. She made sure to discount any part of the name deal being superstitious, as she apparently thought that wasn't Christian. Oh, boy.

Why does it matter so much what people think of us, even after four decades?

I did copy and send her the picture of her standing arm-in-arm with my birthfather, along with a couple of other pictures. I wonder if I'll hear from her. I wonder if the ache of losing her 1966 love will creep back into her heart. I wonder if she wishes she hadn't been so good?

Lost letters

2009-03-13T16:59:00.000-07:00

I am reminded once again how much kindness matters.

Today I was given a bag full of memorabilia of my birthfather, pictures, newspaper clippings (about his boomerang skills at NC State, for one!), the telegram telling his parents that he had been killed in action in Vietnam, his driver's license, his pipes, and scads of other things that I'm still going through. It is a treasure-trove of blessings for me, and I look forward to spending time with them this weekend.

Among the letters was one written in June of 1967, just after his passing. It was written by a Catholic priest who knew my birthfather and flew with him in his OH-23 helicopter. The letter was written to my birthfather's parents as a letter of condolence.

I'm sure that this priest wrote countless letters such as this, but this is the one I have possession of, and when I read it, I wept. 42 years since his death, this man's words speak to me.

Fortunately, this man is still living, in his early 80s, and I was able to find him online and have written to him. I hope I'll hear back.

In this age of electronic communication, let us never forget the value of the written word. Words on paper have a power that bits and bytes in cyberspace do not.

Rude awakenings

2009-03-12T11:07:00.000-07:00

Last night/early this morning, I was yanked from sleep when I saw someone breaking into the house via the basement stairs. The image was so crystal clear, a man pushing his way through the basement door to do who-knows-what sort of destructive mischief. Yes, on the second floor, I had the distinct image of someone coming through the basement to break into the house. Yep, that's the image, that's what I was sure I saw.

When I woke enough (after pacing upstairs considering my options, my heart racing, sweating profusely with fear) to realize that I had been dreaming and that no one was in the house except those who belonged AND realizing that it was physically impossible for me to see through two floors into the basement below, I was able to calm down and go back to sleep.

But this experience, one I've had before, made me stop and consider other images that I have held, some that are just as alarming and unsettling, things that aren't really so.

Sometimes what I think I see and what is really there are two separate things, and it can get me into trouble. For example, the perceived slight from someone who I thought was a friend which turns out to be an oversight or the result of a really rotten migraine. Or the person who seems to have it in for me on the highway, cutting me off at every opportunity, when the real culprit is an urgent need to get to the bedside of a sick parent. Or the snub I feel from someone who I care for but who doesn't seem to return the feeling, when the true story is a deeply held sense of fear or regret that has paralyzed the person from acknowledging true emotions.

Most of the time when I let myself get into such situations where I convince myself that I'm being somehow rejected or abused or neglected, I eventually discover that I am the one being oversensitive and, more importantly, too self-absorbed to see the situation for what it really is.

It's an ongoing issue with me, and I'm working on it, along with a slew of other foibles, but it's an important one. Because when I don't see things for what they truly are, I'm avoiding the truth. And that is never a good way to see the world.

Transition time---again

2009-03-11T13:07:00.001-07:00

It was just a few seconds ago that I walked with my son through the halls of what would become his middle school, and now tonight, he'll be going to what will become his high school to gather more information about what courses to take next year.

I remember when he graduated from fifth grade how thrilled I was to be leaving that school and moving forward (notice how I say "I" was thrilled, because as a parent, where your child goes, you go!). His elementary school was a bit, oh how can I say this diplomatically, "precious." You know the kind, where the mothers are in a fashion competition with one another, where the children are spoiled beyond measure (except for the more normal kids who, like the rest of the world, aren't spoon fed from an unending trough of resources), and where the favoritism of certain teachers toward the children of the most involved parents (aka, the non-working mothers) is palpable.

His middle school is made up of a much greater variety of people, which is quite wonderful. But it is a very large school, and in middle school, teachers no longer hold students' hands. Sixth Grade was a challenge, balancing effort with what was expected, but Seventh and Eighth Grades have been incredibly positive. What I was often warned of as being a "tough school" has been anything but. Engaging and interested teachers, committed administration, well-balanced curriculum. Challenging, you bet, but enriching for my son beyond my greatest expectations.

And now high school looms.

I am so very glad that it is not I who will be entering Ninth Grade in the fall. Oh, how I remember my own experience as a high school Freshman. Glasses, braces, crazy skin, absolutely no self-esteem or sense of who I was (no, that's not fair--I knew who I was, I just hadn't come to realize that other people's opinions of me weren't as important as my own).

So as I walk with my son into his soon-to-be new school tonight, I will think of all of the firsts we've experienced since he first entered my world. And I will think of all of the many firsts to come. And I hope that I will always appreciate each one for the gift that it is.

No more tripping!

2009-03-06T08:02:00.001-08:00

Oh, joy of joys, today is the day! I've been waiting for this for months now, and couldn't be happier with how things are moving along.
Today I'm getting a new floor in my kitchen. Our kitchen serves as our walk-through about 97% of the time, so it gets a lot of wear. When we bought our house five years ago, the previous owner had installed a blue and white checked floor to match the blue and white striped wallpaper. I have nothing against either, but in a kitchen, anything white on the floor seems a little silly. The day I dropped a scalding hot casserole dish--upside down, naturally--on the floor and burned a hole in it, I decided something needed to be done. I priced my options and as usual, went with the cheapest option, the one I could do at home, peel-&-stick vinyl tiles. I went for a color I knew wouldn't show dirt (you guessed it, "dirt" color), and prepped the existing vinyl to perfection. The tiles laid and the walls painted (Roman Orange, don't you know), the kitchen was finally more me. And for about two years, it was functional and fun. But one day I noticed a big bubble under one of the tiles, and that was the beginning of what turned into a hazardous floor situation. The corners of some of the tiles started lifting, then breaking, and walking across the floor with bare feet was sometimes dangerous and often painful as I would catch myself and trip on the uplifted tiles. I endured this for months and months, called Moon's Flooring and got an estimate, continued to endure it, and finally a couple of weeks ago said ENOUGH!
So now as I type, Moon's Flooring folks are busily installing my new FABulous laminate floor. It is great, and I can't wait to be able to vacuum and mop the thing without catching the mop or picking up the corners of the tiles with the vacuum.
And let me say, Moon's Flooring is the BEST in the area. They did our hardwood refinishing when we moved in, as well as my mother-in-law's floor a couple of years ago. They are professional, prompt, really personable, and great to work with. You know when you have people doing work in your home, and you feel like you can completely trust them? That's how I feel with Moon's.
Now the problem, with the new floor going in, is my countertops don't look so spiffy anymore. That's next on the list.
It's like getting your nose fixed and then noticing your brows need lifting...
Not that I would ever do that, mind you....:-)

Search and find

2009-03-04T12:52:00.000-08:00

Boy, it's been a long time since I last posted. I had forgotten my password to log on to blogspot, and had one of those moments of panic trying to remember it. I was lucky and got it on the second try. I have this great fear that one day I'll forget all of my passwords and not exist in cyberspace anymore.
Actually, that's a nice thought. Just think of the time I would save...
This has been a transformative year, a year of self-discovery as well as discovery of long-lost identities and secrets. As an adoptee, I set out this past summer to find my biological family, and from April until December of 2008, I obsessed and worked on finding out information about who I was before I became the person I've always known as Sara.
As adoptees in a closed adoption, we only know who we are in terms of our adoptive history. It is as if we didn't exist until some well-meaning couple took us into their homes. I actually was a living, breathing human being for 4-1/2 months before I had the legal identity I grew up with. My amended birth certificate is a fraud, a fake that was manufactured to foster the pretense that the people I called Mom and Dad were, in fact, my mother and father from birth forward. Of course they were my parents, no question, but I also had a prior set of parents whose identity was unknown to me until this past year.
At the ripe-old age of 41, I realized it was time to do some searching, and began in earnest. Oh, the hours I spent on ancestry.com and the Vietnam War Memorial website, the hours I spent in libraries and looking at microfilm (I think my vision is forever altered by those fun afternoons).
I am one of the lucky ones, because I learned all about my family of origin, both sides, and have met my biological mother and my biological father's brother and his family. My birthfather was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam who lost his life before I turned a year old, so I'll never meet him, but meeting his mother (my first and only grandmother!) and his brother has been the most incredible experience, and I am truly blessed to know them. I am especially blessed to know my family health history, which is one aspect of closed adoptions that people don't consider when they're looking at that tiny healthy baby who has just been born to most likely young, healthy parents.
My biological mother is living, and I've met her once and spoken with her several times on the phone. She is great, and I look forward to getting to know her more in the future. There is a lot of pain and grief to work out when you are a birthmother, and she is still working through all sorts of emotions. It's easier for me. I have no memory of being relinquished, while she remembers all too clearly the wrenching heartache of surrendering her baby. She is a strong woman, and we continue to find things about each other that are so very similar.
Which leads me to my adoptive mother, my mom. I worried about how she would feel when I found my biological family, and didn't mention anything about my searching until I'd completed it and met both sides of my birthfamily. I didn't want her to worry about me, and this was a journey I needed to take by myself without having to consider anyone else's reactions but my own (my own were quite enough to deal with, thank you very much). When I told Mom about meeting my birthfamily, instead of reacting in a threatened way, she was joyous. She immediately phoned her sister, who christened my news "Our Christmas Miracle." I'm sure she has gone through many emotions of her own, but this discovery has reinforced how incredible and resilient my mom is and how much her influence has shaped the person I have become. Being a parent is a complex thing, and you can be a biological parent or a functioning parent, you can be both, you can be one or the other at different times and under different circumstances. The big thing I've learned over and over during this process is how much you can love many different people. It's perfectly acceptable to have several children and love them all, so it makes sense that I could have two mothers, one a biological one, one an adoptive, functional one, and love them both. I am grateful to my birthmother for carrying me and making the sacrifices she had to make to bear and then relinquish me, and I am grateful to my adoptive mother for the sacrifices and the leap of faith she made to take me in and love me as a mother should. I can't imagine being a mother to a child not of my flesh, but she did it and continues to do it. And I love her and always will. She is still the person I call when I need advice or a sympathetic ear, and I don't imagine that will ever change.
My own journey of discovery continues. Now that I know where I come from, where I was born, the circumstances of my birth, my health history, a lot of the mystery of me has melted away. And that is nice, but a little disconcerting. No longer can I fantasize about exotic origins. I come from hard-working, decent people with strong family connections, their share of eccentricities, and really dark eyes. Oh, yeah, name the disease, and I can find it in my family health history, which makes me especially thankful that I've taken reasonably good care of my health most of my life.
Now that I know where I came from, I have come to the conclusion that we are the product of biology, environment, and something else, a spark of identity that transcends any explanation. And that is a very good thing.

Preconceived notions

2008-04-25T12:21:00.000-07:00

This week has been one of dispelling first impressions. I met someone recently, made a judgement based on previous experience with similar people, steeled myself for our next encounter, predicting how the person would behave and how I would respond and how I wouldn't let my emotions get the best of me, and what do you know, this person has turned out to be a lovely, if challenging human being! Who would'a thunk it?
But before I give myself too hard a time for pre-judging, I do believe that by thinking ahead and armoring myself with enough personal power to withstand whatever this individual threw at me (again, gleaning from past experience), I was more than ready for the situation. And in the first few moments of our second encounter, I could feel the testing, the feeling around for boundaries, and having established them firmly and with clear focus, I was able to set the tone. And how glad I am that I did.
We learn as we go. Just today I had a conversation with a young person who had gotten into a rather precarious situation last night, and as the young adult explained away what had happened, I said in response, "Well, at least you've learned something." We learn from our failures much more than from our successes, and in the case of this young person, lots of lessons were learned, with no one injured or arrested, which is always a nice thing...
I'm learning that while my first impressions may not be completely accurate in judgement of a person's future behavior, my instincts are always useful in dealing with new people. But what a pleasure when my negative first assessment of someone turns out to be far from the truth, and I'm surprised to discover the blossoming of a new friendship.
Happy weekend to all.

Trails

2008-04-17T09:54:00.001-07:00

We were hit with a stomach bug this week, each of us in turn over the course of four days. It had been years since any of us had been that sick, and I don't think we've ever been that sick as a family. Even today, the third day, I've tried to stay as still as possible. That kind of stuff can really take it out of you, and sometimes the best medicine is rest.
Where did we get it?
You shake a hand, you give a hug, you pick up a pen to sign a credit slip, and POW, the germs have been transferred. And it's often impossible to trace. There is no clear line back to the first instigator of the germ trail, and I guess really, there couldn't be.
Of course, this is unlike life in other ways, where there is a very real trail of what we do and when we do it. Apply for a credit card? Background check ensues, and you'd better hope that the identity thief who nabbed your credit information a few years back didn't do any lasting damage. Churches are getting into the swing of things with background checks and Safe Church trainings, where anyone who works with children must be screened and go through a educational seminar. Such important work for churches to do, but there again sometimes lies a trail that could be slightly awry. One misplaced digit in your social security number, and POW, you're on some list somewhere. Same name as someone else? Uh oh, you'd better have a good explanation of where you were in 1987...
Even without the information our computers give us, (just a keystroke and there is a list of everyone who has visited your website over the last several months, time, date, length of visit, etc.) we do leave trails behind, don't we? We enter into a store, and our foul mood poisons the environment so that the person checking us out snaps at the next customer. Or hopefully, our smile and genuine "thank you" to the person serving us our lunch makes that person feel valued and perhaps tinges his/her day with a brighter cast.
Same in our families. We give our spouse a casual wave, and she leaves the house feeling sort of invisible. Or we look directly into his eyes, say "I am so glad I married you" and suddenly what could have been an ordinary day turns into an extraordinary one.
We leave trails of where we've been, both in tangible and intangible ways. Let us all be more cognizant of the trails we leave behind so that our paths leave happy memories, not dust and dreariness.

This and That

2008-04-08T15:44:00.000-07:00

This past weekend a couple of my preconceived notions were put to the test. And while neither was dashed completely, there were moments when how I see the world shifted just a little. And this was good, because getting stuck in a rut is one of the most self-destructive things a body can do.
I also got to spend some time with one of my best girlfriends, someone not from here, someone I've known for 15 years. It was nice reconnecting with someone who knew me before I was a mother, before I did what I do for a living, before a lot of things. It's so important to maintain connections with people, and I don't always do a good job of that.
I think I'm through my sleep issues for now. Stress and worry did it, and no matter how I changed my daily routine, calm reading before bed, changing the time of vitamin ingestion, warm milk, etc., for a couple of weeks there I could not get a good night's sleep and was beginning to be frantic and teary about it. Last night I slept a full eight hours! Go figure! It was terrific.
And that is all.

Enough, already!

2008-03-31T12:19:00.001-07:00

We just got back from a wonderful family trip to Charleston, where we toured the USS Yorktown. It has a great history.

I was reminded of the tenacity of all of the men who served the Yorktown during WWII, the determination, the heels dug in for the long fight. Young men, some of whom had never left their home towns, let alone visited abroad, were thrust into a situation not of their making, sent around the world to fight a war they'd only heard of on the radio and on news reels, and from those home on leave. Their families were back home, sacrificing for the war effort, praying for their safe return. The country pulled together, civilian and soldier alike.

Sometimes life calls on us to settle in for the long haul. We must put distractions aside and do what must be done. Perhaps not in a war zone, our battles are fought in our offices, our neighborhoods, our own brains. We are struggling with an addiction, or are preparing for a major project, or are fighting to hang on to a relationship, or we are clinging to a job that we feel we must keep to maintain a lifestyle we believe to be essential.

But there are those things we hang on to that we just need to let go. Past relationships come to mind. It's over, it's been over, it won't be starting back up, let it go. Your drive-bys aren't unnoticed, they're just annoying. Or maybe failed work assignments. The presentation DID stink, and it's over, you're not going to get a re-do, the world did NOT come to a crashing halt, let it go.

We hold on to so much, as if the past defines us. The past doesn't define us. It shaped us, but it's the past. And the past only has the power you give it. As I reflect on how the lives of those who served on the USS Yorktown were changed by the experience, I marvel at how well most of those men did once they came back to the real world. They let things go. Surely you can, too.

Doing the best that you can

2008-03-17T12:52:00.000-07:00

Sunday afternoon, the three of us went to see "The Other Boleyn Girl," (a great film, by the way). Standing in the popcorn line behind a mother and her son, we overheard the mother's exasperated voice talking on her cell phone.

"I don't like to be called a liar! Don't call me a liar!"

Now, I have no idea who she was talking to. It could have been a friend, a family member, a credit card company--no matter. It was obvious that she was agitated. And honestly, it agitated us a little bit. We were barely on time for the film, and were in a hurry to get our snacks and sit down. I thought, "Oh, great, another cell phone addict, messing up my time table."

During this call, her son, who was about seven or eight at most, engaged my husband in a conversation. It was obvious that this child was bright and cared for. To look at his mother, one might have questioned her choices in clothing and hairstyle. Her shirt exposed a midriff, her hair was an unusual color, and there she was, talking on a cell phone while there were people waiting around to get their snacks and go sit down in the theater. It would have been easier to judge her harshly, to chalk up her lifestyle as yet another example of how the world is just one big mess.

But that child was something else. Clean, articulate, intelligent. His mother was making the effort to take him to the movies, and she didn't even get exasperated with him when he couldn't make up his mind between Milk Duds and Whoppers. She smiled at him, patted him on his head, and you could tell that the two of them, no matter what kind of life they shared, loved each other dearly.

After another line opened and we got our snacks, I couldn't help but think that she was doing her best. I don't know her journey, I don't know her struggles. I do know that she loves that little boy, and that he will be a stronger man for it.

That's all we can do, really. We can do our best and then let go. I can only do the best that I'm capable of at any given time. And that best may not be very good sometimes, but it's all I've got. When I think of the mistakes I've made, some of them whoppers, I have got to allow myself a little forgiveness! I was doing the best that I could at that time. It might not be the best I could do today, but it was the best that I had then. Does this excuse me from glaring lapses in judgement? No, but it does allow a little more space for mercy, and isn't mercy toward oneself the hardest kind to muster?

So today I've focused on that, the notion that all we have is now, and all we have is the best we can do now. We can try harder tomorrow. And we can learn from our mistakes today. But before we judge ourselves or anyone else too harshly, we must remember this truth.

And we must have faith that we'll be capable of doing better tomorrow.

Setting the tone

2008-03-14T05:23:00.001-07:00

I had a conversation with a friend yesterday regarding morning people vs. night people. There are definitely some people who function better early, some late. You hope that you'll be able to fashion a life that allows you to work within your tendencies, but often we have to adapt as best we can, always straining at the bit to slip back into our natures. A night person has to take an early morning shift, or an early riser has to attend 8:00pm meetings. It's tough, and it can wear on a body, physically and psychologically.

I am definitely a morning person, and it's taken me a lot of years to figure that out. Now, please don't ask me at 4:45am whether or not I like to be up and at 'em before dawn, because I'll throw my alarm clock (which I never need during the week, as my body automatically wakes at 4:30 now M-F, even with the time change, which was weird for me this week), but at 5:05 when I'm up and dressed, it's a whole new ball game. Life is good! The sun will be rising soon! Anything is possible! Do I sleep late on Saturday? You bet, because my early rising pattern most definitely does not jive with most of society, and by Friday, I'm wiped out from 6-1/2 hour nights.

Since I've allowed myself to fall into my natural tendencies (whereas five years ago I'd let myself sleep until the last possible minute most mornings), although it's hard to get out of bed, once I'm out, things are great.

Try and allow yourself to discover how your body's wake/sleep cycles work the best. Don't presume that just because you've always stayed up until 11 every night that you aren't an early bird at heart. Yes, sleep is definitely important, critical, even. But so is having the time to do what you want in your day, and there is nothing like getting up a little earlier to make you feel like you've got more time for whatever you need to do.

If you're rising at the crack of pre-dawn and are walking around the world like a zombie, then maybe you aren't an early riser at heart, and perhaps there are other options to create a life schedule that works for you. I've actually questioned myself in the last few months, because by Thursday, I can feel myself winding down. However, if I'm honest, it's poor sleep hygiene that gets me into trouble most of the time (watching TV before bed, not regulating the temperature of the room, staying up ten minutes later than I need to, etc.) If I'm disciplined at getting the lights out early enough, I do just fine.

We're so wrapped up in an artificial time system that it can be enlightening to look and see how we would behave if the clocks were turned off. That's an idea for an open weekend or a vacation week, seeing just how you would sleep if you weren't on anyone else's schedule.

Sounds nice, doesn't it?

Lies, lies, lies

2008-03-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

Someone told me a lie today and doesn't have a clue that I know it was a lie. It was an interesting lie, it was entertaining, extremely creative, but a lie nonetheless. This person might consider it more deception than lie, but it's a non-truth, which equals a lie. And I see it for what it is, and it is telling me a lot about this person that I always suspected but now have confirmed.

With all of the scandal regarding NY's governor and his apparent "issues," I've been thinking about the lies we tell each other and the lies we tell ourselves.

There are big lies and little lies, if you buy that theory. Your best friend has a new boyfriend, and asks, "Isn't he cute?" What are you going to say if he reminds you of your neighbor's Basset Hound? Cute? Well.... You might choose to hedge and answer, "And I can really tell he likes you a lot!" Telling her that you think he is unattractive isn't going to serve anyone's interests, especially yours. You lie to protect her feelings, and there is little harm in it, because the truth in this case is really about perception, and the perception that matters is your friend's, because it's HER boyfriend you're talking about.

Then there are the times when the truth, while hard to spit out, really can serve well, but we choose to lie anyway. A friend asks, "Do you think I'm a bully?" You know she is, you have heard others say that she is, you know she's alienated a lot of people because of it, but can you come right out and say it? It is information that she might be able to use, and she did ask, but it's tough to say out loud. So you might hem and haw for a while before you smile, shake your head, and say, "Of COURSE you're not a bully. Everyone else is just too sensitive..." It's a lie, but it's gotten you out of a tough spot, for now. You've set yourself up in a precarious position with this lie, and it'll probably come back to haunt you.

But what about the lies you tell yourself? "Oh, it doesn't matter that I haven't had any vegetables today. I'm healthy." Or, "Drinking four glasses of wine a night won't hurt me. I'm young!" How about, "That dryer! My pants have shrunk again!" You say the things you want to hear and avoid the reality that cuts a little too close to the bone. You don't allow yourself to 'fess up and confront yourself head on. It's like a parent who is avoiding disciplining her rude teenager because she just doesn't feel up to another fight. She tells herself it'll work itself out, and goes on living in her fog of self-delusion.

Much of the time, the lies we tell each other and the lies we tell ourselves are just avoidance maneuvers, like changing lanes on the interstate to get around a slower car. Lying can buy us a little time and keep reality at bay, but eventually reality will rear its head, often when we're most vulnerable and least able to cope. And then the piper's pay date is NOW.

When we lie and get caught, like the governor just did, we're slapped in the face with not only our own judgements but the judgements of countless others who shouldn't even be a part of our struggles. Honesty is much harder than truth a lot of the time, but it's easier, cleaner, and doesn't leave much of a scar.

And that's the truth.

Disappointments

2008-03-11T09:35:00.000-07:00

Last week was NOT a great week. I spoke with someone over the weekend who asked, "Yeah, my week was the same, so what was up with that?" I have friends who would say that the reason the week was so dreadful had something to do with the moon and the position of planets in the sky, and I don't doubt that celestial goings-on matter to us earthlings. However, speaking with a friend today, I took some time to reconsider.

I described to this friend that last week I was frequently disappointed with the behavior of others. And she asked, "Then was it you, right?" And of course, it was. I set myself up last week. I allowed my own peeved attitude to reflect badly on people around me. It's not uncommon of course, but I'm thinking it's a bad habit that I need to break.

Right now I'm reading "Eat, Pray, Love," which by the way is a FABulous read, and I've just read through a part about controlling one's thoughts. The author has met someone who tells her that she must have control over her thoughts to find the peace/fulfillment she seeks.

I've always believed that feelings are feelings, uncontrollable, surprising, and trying to control feelings is like herding cats. But controlling thoughts? Could I buy into the notion that I really could control my thoughts and weed out those negative, self-distructive thoughts that make me grind my teeth and doubt my very purpose? Well, why not? But would I? Would I take the effort to step out of my thought patterns and direct my brain to walk down another path?

I don't know. Something to consider.

High-class problems...

2008-03-07T07:32:00.000-08:00

Whine, whine, whine.
This has been a week of whining, to my mother in particular, who I'm sure rolls her eyes and thinks, "Oh, if she only KNEW what troubles are..."
Last year this time, when our entire family seemed to be in one health crisis after another, I would have jumped through hoops of fire to have a week like I just had, but now that our health issues have resolved, I'm whining because of this and that little thing.
It's the whole Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Once you've got the basics covered, hunger, shelter, social contact, job, THEN you can go on to nitpik at everything else.

Am I fulfilled?
Does my life have meaning?
Will I leave the planet a better place when I'm gone?
Are there people who wish that exit would happen sooner rather than later?
Gee whiz.

I expect too much from everybody, not just myself. I expect people to be charming, receptive, interested, and when they're not, I feel that I've failed. Sometimes I'm sure I have, but all the time?
Oh, it's the whole only-child-center-of-the-universe curse rearing its ugly head again.
When we (I'm speaking of me now) are too self-absorbed with how others see us, we fail to remember that we are NOT the reason most people are the way they are. Someone not responding in the way you'd like doesn't necessarily mean that you've misspoken or hurt their feelings or done your job poorly. Perhaps they don't feel well. Maybe they heard some disturbing news earlier. Maybe they're just tired and not in the mood to learn or to be entertained.
Oh, this hypersensitivity is a pain.
But again, this is a high-class problem.

Spring, huh?

2008-03-05T07:32:00.001-08:00

OK, so I hit the wrong button the other day, so be it. I didn't really have anything I was desperate to get out into cyberspace, so I'll let that one be a miss.
It rained last night! And the thunder! Yippee!
As we went to bed last night, the thunder and lightning was booming and flashing, and I'd seen on the news that there was a tornado sighting near by. So, being a responsible parent and spouse, I determined to listen for any impending doom rolling down our street...
Was that a freight train I heard? Or something much more sinister? Or was that a car....
What was THAT!?! Oh, that was another car.
Why is it suddenly so quiet?
Whah? Oh, that was the cat...
This went on for hours until the rain and the storm stopped, and then it just kept on going...
Do I have my presentation materials mapped out for that class on Thursday....
What should I do about training...
Could that be an issue that comes up...
I'm hot.
I'm cold.
I'm hungry.
Is my nose stuffy?
Can't sleep.
Can't sleep.
Can't remember HOW to sleep....
What is my place in the universe...
How long can I go before I die from lack of sleep...
How much sleep MUST I have to teach the 5:45am bike class this morning....
Should I even TRY to sleep now, or would I be better off just knitting something.
I can't knit. Mom taught me, and I've already forgotten.....
How do you hold the needles?
What exactly holds a sweater together?
What is a purl?
Knitting? Crocheting? Macrame? Weaving on a loom?
STOP IT! GET OUT OF BED AND READ OR WATCH TV OR SOMETHING!!!!
This went on until 3:30 this morning, when, with only an hour and a half left before my alarm, I crawled back into bed after having watched a movie and a half in the dark downstairs den.
I crawled back in, snuggled under the warm covers, and started to wonder....
Should I create a fresh handout....
How many people will be there....
Should I bring in chairs....
How detailed should this get....
Why IS the sky blue?
Where IS WALDO?

Sleep deprivation, even for one night, is toxic. It happens to me occasionally, although hardly at all compared to even five or ten years ago, and it really throws my view of reality off a couple of notches. I referred to the floor as the ceiling in my first yoga class this morning.
This should be an interesting day...

Spring?

2008-03-03T11:11:00.001-08:00

Use it up, wear it out?

2008-03-01T14:50:00.000-08:00

This morning, I had yet another conversation, this time with a total stranger, about using up one's body parts instead of letting them lie fallow.
I'd been listening to NPR earlier and had learned that Prince, yes the same Prince who for a time was The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, the same Prince who did Purple Rain, the same Prince whose voice and music was part of the soundtrack of my college years, is having a hip replacement.
WHAT!!!!??????
Prince? A hip replacement? Can purple orthopedic shoes be far behind?
I'd walked into a department store just after hearing this interesting bit of information, when what came over the speakers but Let's Go Crazy. Just as the song hit the chorus, a gentleman walked by saying to his companion, "Yup, that's Prince." I interjected, "Yeah, and he's getting a new hip!"
The gentleman and I talked about this for a moment, and we both agreed that it was better to have worn out one's hip from overuse than to have let it go stiff and useless from sitting on one's duff.
It's a trade-off. If you don't exercise at all, your joints stiffen up, and if you exercise too much, they can wear out. A perfect balance seems a bit of a challenge, but I guess until someone really grows usable cartilage in the lab, we'll have to muddle through. For me, as I try to hum loudly whenever I go up stairs so as not to have to listen to the grinding sounds emanating from my knees, I think I'll take some precautions but not too many. After all, I've got a life to live.

Wearing out one's hip for Little Red Corvette and the countless other hits that helped define a generation? Only Prince can determine whether or not it was worth it.
I hope he thinks it was.

Recycled teenager

2008-02-29T07:48:00.000-08:00

This morning, I had the distinct pleasure (note the tinge of sarcasm) of volunteering at my son's middle school to help with Spring Picture Day. While I outwardly claim NOT to like other people's children, most middle school kids really are perfectly tolerable for short periods of time. OK, I'll be honest and confess that I've always been pleasantly surprised when I've volunteered for things at school before, and I was pleasantly surprised today as well. On the whole, the students were respectful and well behaved, and although many of them are really tall, I managed to be taller than most, which made me feel better (I was the shortest kid in my class until eighth grade, so I'm sensitive about such things...)
At one point in the morning, a student referred to her teacher, a woman in her 40s, as a "recycled teenager." Presumably, this was to have been a compliment.
Ugh.
I don't know that I could do the whole teenage year thing over again. In fact, it's one strong vote from me AGAINST the concept of reincarnation. I'd rather take my one life, thank you very much, rather than having to go through middle school and high school again. The awkwardness, the uncertainty, the hormones--it's a lot to go through, all at the same time figuring out your future path. And things are tougher for kids now. By middle school, choices you make about electives can have a strong bearing on high school and college options down the road. It's imperative to belong to at least one extracurricular club or activity, and not only do kids have to worry about grades, now they have this ridiculous "No Child Left Behind" junk to work through with countless standardized tests. Teachers are more stressed, creativity is put on the back burner in order to crank up those test scores. What are we doing to our kids!?!?!
But again, at the end of the day, humans are resilient, and many children are thriving under the pressure. But would I want to be a recycled teenager? Not on your life!

Self-care

2008-02-27T07:40:00.000-08:00

Oh, boy. Today I go to the dentist.

I have no reference to back this up, but I once was told or perhaps I read that dentists have a much higher incidence of depression than other health professionals. From my own attitude, I suppose I can see why. When was the last time you talked with someone who was EXCITED to go to the dentist? Even if you're in pain and you know that the dentist will make that pain go away, excitement and dentistry? They don't seem to go together very well. I'm just going in for a checkup, but I'm always afraid that something will show up, some little spot that I can't see or feel but that the dentist will notice, one for which I'll receive the stern warning, "If we don't fill it soon, it'll turn into something MUCH WORSE!"

Now, to clarify, in the course of my life, I have been fortunate to have been seen by a legion of really wonderful, bright, charming, and quite interesting dentists. It has to sometimes feel like a thankless job, but it's a job that not only saves our teeth, but can also save our life, as there seems to be a strong connection between poor dental hygiene and cardiovascular disease. So please don't think I'm down on dentistry, because I'm not. I do see how imporant good oral care is to our overall health, but I just don't enjoy going to the dentist. It's a high-class problem, to be sure.

Three times in my adult life, I've gone great periods of time without seeing a dental professional. The last time was after we moved, and it was about three years between visits--I know, I know, that's not good, I realize that, but it is what it is. When I finally did find a good recommendation for a compassionate dentist, the first words out of my mouth when I made the appointment were, "Don't give me a lecture. I know what I should have been doing, but we can't go back in time and correct for that, so let's just move forward, shall we?" to which the very nice person on the line responded, "We're just happy you're making an appointment now."

Wasn't that a nice way of dealing with a reluctant patient? Not once in my visits (and, yes, there were several to make up for lost time and lost enamel) did anyone lecture me about my lapse in self-care. It had happened, but there I was, making it right.

And really, when it comes to taking care of ourselves, although we make a big deal about how important it is to exercise, eat well, stretch, strengthen, moisturize, sunscreen, floss, attend to our bodies over the long haul, what really matters, what we really can control, is today, right now. Sure, you might feel better today if you'd done a better job avoiding the fried foods over the past decade, but if you forego the fried fish for a broiled selection this evening, then you've made a positive step. And those are the kinds of steps we can make on a regular basis to do something good for ourselves. Dwelling on the past does nothing but make us feel inept. Dwelling on the "now" works. The decision you make in the next ten minutes is one you've got a handle on. You can't undo what you did yesterday or last year, but now? Yeah, you've got some control.

Do your best and then forgive yourself when you don't. Each day is full of new opportunities. As we approach our extra day this February 29th, make a committment to do something special on that day that furthers your work toward taking care of yourself. You're worth it.

A little bit juvenile...

2008-02-26T05:16:00.000-08:00

OK, I'm going to step back in time now to my youth, and it's not all that pretty.
I was a skinny, short (until eighth grade) kid with NO, and I mean this in all sincerity, NO hand-eye coordination, which at a school with only basketball and softball as sports I could choose, left me no alternative except to stay at home. I had size 10 feet long before I had much height, so I looked like I was wearing clown shoes. At a piano recital when I was about 11, a girl asked if I was wearing my mother's shoes. Charming.
I remember the painful expectation of gym class, when I knew I'd either be the last to be picked or the second-to-the-last for teams. Everyone knew that I wasn't fast, wasn't coordinated, and to be honest, I really had long-stopped caring. It was obvious that I wasn't an athlete, and there was no need even trying anymore. At this stage, after giving cheerleading a disastrous try--hey, we all have our moments--I'd decided to be as aloof as possible to protect myself from emotional injury, a bad habit I'm still trying to break.
The images we develop of ourselves as children really have staying power, don't they? I've been an adult a lot longer than I was a child, and yet I still haven't truly bought into the idea that I'm an athlete, and frankly, not a half-bad one. This triathlon (in which I did a remarkably decent time) really has reminded me of how far I've come in my self-perception and how far I have to go. I shouldn't have to garner praise for my physical prowess, but when I do, it feeds this part of me that is still quite undernourished. This is not the first physical challenge I've undertaken (and no, I don't think this little triathlon is something outstanding, but it's the idea of it) and done relatively well in, but I'm so incredibly excited about the little medal I won and my t-shirt that I will wear with pride, just like I've worn my first (and ONLY!!!) 10K race t-shirt until it's nearly transparent from washings.
Maybe this is why I enjoy teaching exercise so much. I know what it feels like to be told I'm a loser at anything athletic. I have been the last to be picked for the team over and over again. I understand the shame when once again I've tripped or dropped the ball. And the scars are still forming from that, which is more a testament to how seriously, deep down inside me I wanted to be a jock than to the merit of the jeers and rolled eyes of my classmates when I'd failed once again.
I like to teach exercise because it matters. I want to make everyone in my classes feel that they ARE successful in their own rights, no matter what anybody else in the room is doing. I want my students to know what it feels like to challenge themselves to something they think might be impossible, and then push through the barriers and finish it. I want to create this army of strong, healthy, powerful people who can go out into the world and show that you don't have to be the strongEST or fastEST in the room to be a force to be reckoned with.
So this little triathlon has done more than just made me confident in my physical abilities, it's reminded me of why I do what I do. I do it for the skinny, pimply kid in gym class who will grow up one day and have to decide for himself just what kind of a physical being he will be. I do it for that little girl in dance class who is always a step behind but feels that deep down inside her lives a dancer. I do it because when you feel powerful, you are better equipped at helping others to feel powerful, too.
And that counts for something.

I did it!

2008-02-22T09:54:00.000-08:00

It was weird, much more mental than physical which is what I'd imagined. I got in the pool, felt good, had eaten the proper amount, body felt pretty good (I taught the 5:45 bike class this morning and helped move tables, so I had been nervous that I would feel tired going in). I did my first lap, felt STRONG, you know, like you're really on your game, and then something happened. I panicked, or my breath got off-rhythm, I don't know, but I just felt so stupid. So, as I had reminded those in my bike class who were planning on doing the triathlon, I reminded myself that it didn't matter HOW I did it, I just had to swim six laps. So, I flipped over on my back, and backstroked, breathing like I was sprinting, but able to breathe better than doing the head turn thing in the water. Thank God I have a really strong backstroke to make up for the putzing around I did when I freaked out.
Of course, having panicked and not paying attention, I SLAMMED my head into the side of the pool at the end of that particular lap, which shook me, but I kept going on, backstoking, and finished faster than I'd timed myself the other day doing the crawl, so maybe it was good not to have been rigid and force myself to stay with the crawl.
Then the bike was fine, and although that's the thing that I worked the hardest on (my heart rate was in the stratosphere the whole time, which I've not done in a while), it was the most natural, and my time for 12. 4 miles was better than I'd planned for.
Then the run. I don't care that we've evolved into upright creatures, I still question running on these two legs. Running is so hard for me, and I'd been running on the treadmill for what seemed like forever, looked down, and I'd gone half a mile. How discouraging! So I took a towel, covered up the numbers on the screen, and counted songs on my MP3 player. Then I played games with myself, "I'll look at my distance when it's been five minutes on the wall clock," or "I'll look when this song ends." I had a general idea of how fast I'd be, because of the speed I'd set, but I didn't want to watch the seconds go by one by one by one. I knew I'd give up. About a mile in, my shins were miserable, I felt like my feet were flopping, and although I wasn't really breathing all that hard, I was getting really tired. But I kept playing games, blocks of time on the wall clock and counting songs, and when I permitted myself to look at the distance again, it was 2.9 miles! I only had 2 tenths of a mile to go, so I cranked up the speed and made it.
In the middle of this process, I was NOT having a good time, but I am so very glad I did it. Right now, I don't want to do another tri, but I have a feeling that I will after I get rested for this one. It is nice to push yourself sometimes. As I heard in a song this morning, you need to do one thing every day that SCARES YOU. I definitely did my "thing" today.

Today's the day...

2008-02-22T06:39:00.001-08:00

I'm off to help move tables, after having taught a bike class a couple of hours ago, and at 11:00 I'll be in the pool beginning my first triathlon. Yikes!
Maybe I'll do a few push-ups now...
Not.
I'm most afraid of my brain talking me out of pushing harder. No fear of the pool--what a change since last summer--a healthy respect for the bike, real dread at the run. Downloaded a few new tunes this morning to the MP3, and I've got my bag packed.
Here we go...

A word to the wise...

2008-02-21T08:16:00.000-08:00

Teaching a dinner-time yoga class can be a challenge when you've not eaten anything since lunch. Knowing this, I do my best to schedule a snack mid-afternoon so that as I'm fixing dinner for the family I'm not tempted to eat a full dinner before I lead a class through an hour of asana. The general rule of thumb is to practice on an empty stomach, but I'm a realist, and I get hungry, so I do eat about an hour before class, just something simple.
Last night, I prepared a fabulous panko-encrusted chicken breast, a lemon-mushroom sauce (very light and delicious) and steamed cauliflower.
I am not a big fan of cauliflower. I just don't get it. It's white, for pity sake, so how much nutrition can it have? But, I know there is fiber in there, and the rest of the fam likes it, so I steamed a batch to go with the chicken. Steamed, no butter, no salt, no cheese, just steamed.
I had taken a bite of the chicken, so I had a little protein in me (very little seasoning on it), and I decided to try a piece of the cauliflower. A piece. About an inch in length. Just a little floret. No butter, no salt, no cheese, just a piece of the steamed cauliflower.
Now I know better.
From the first forward-fold through savasana, my esophagus was burning like I'd been drinking battery acid, and I very rarely have any heartburn, even after extremely spicy food. What was the deal?!? It had to have been the cauliflower, that little anemic floret.
Never again. I've learned yet another lesson: no cruciferous vegetables before yoga.
And now I can, with full confidence, refuse offers of cauliflower in future. I have never liked it, it's not necessary for my health, and it doesn't like me very much when I stand on my head.
So there.

Join the club

2008-02-15T10:18:00.000-08:00

This morning, continuing to encourage my students to join me in the in-Y triathlon I'm running next week, I spoke of how important it was to just try and finish the thing, and not worry about time. We laughed, because one participant in the class, a woman in her 60s who is fit and strong and a wonderful role model, said that she was planning on bringing lunch! (she'll start in the early morning, and this is a sprint-distance triathlon) We all laughed, because of course it won't take her that long, but she knows her body and her limitations and strengths and she's willing to do the triathlon just for the sake of doing and completing it. And, really, that's what I'm doing as well.
I know that my swimming is average at best (I timed myself this morning and surprised myself at how fast I was, but this is compared to how I was last August when I began my swimming adventure--I'm not fast compared to anyone else in the pool, I can tell you), my cycling should be adequate (when I was on the road a lot, I could hammer with the best of them, but now I'm above-average more than likely, nothing stellar), but the running. Ugh. My foot, my knees--I acknowledge that I will be in pain following the thing, but the worst thing that can happen is that I have to stop running and go to a walk, and there's nothing in the world wrong with that.
So here I am, preparing to enter an athletic event that I have no hope of doing particularly well in, and I'm thrilled. I just want to do the distance. I've always admired people, especially non-studly people, for entering and completing triathlons. This is a club in which I've craved membership.
And the swimming--rather than being the thing that scares me, I know I can do it. And last year, I wouldn't have said that. So if nothing else, this race is a celebration of the blood, sweat, and tears I put into swimming last year. A week from now at this time, I should be finishing up, I hope, or nearly finishing. Wow.

What's the deal?

2008-02-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

OK, today it's a two-post day.
I just came back from running an errand, and once again was faced with the curse of the absent turn signal. That's right, the condition that overtakes 90% of the people in this town when they're about to make a left (or right, although that's less bothersome) turn. The offender approaches the intersection, the light is red, and they sit quietly in their lane UNTIL the light changes, when that turn signal finally comes on. It's as if they're not quite sure which way they're going until that light turns to green, and then I guess they take it as a "green light" to finally make up their minds!
This wouldn't bother me except for the fact that if there is a right lane I can enter, I'm not inconvenienced at all by the left-turning car ahead of me. If I don't see a signal, I can't know if the car in front of me is turning, and I can't make an educated decision about which lane to choose.
Maybe this is picky, but it's one of those really annoying things that I'd not encountered on such a massive scale until we moved here. An acquaintance of mine is a driver's ed instructor, and I mentioned this to him one day, and he said, "Well, I try, but it's the parents and their driving habits that the kids copy."
So there. As parents, can't we lead by example on this one?
It's the same on the interstate. As I remember from my own driver's ed (which was a looooong time ago), it is imperative to use the turn signal when changing lanes. It takes no effort, and it's helpful and courteous to the drivers around you to use a signal when you're making a lane shift. But nooooooo, that's too much trouble.
Just like it's apparently too much trouble to roll your shopping cart back to the cart corral, but that's another post......
My point is this. The world has enough problems as it is without us being discourteous and charmless to our fellow humans. Saying "please" and "thank you," using turn signals, smiling at strangers--simple things that go a long way toward putting your fellow humans in a decent frame of mind. Just think if we all worked on being more pleasant and charming. Small thing? Perhaps, but I'm not so sure...

What a difference a day makes!

2008-02-12T08:29:00.001-08:00

You know, I think I really do believe in biorhythms, you know, the natural cyclical nature of our inner workings. My Aunt Kitty, who was one of the loveliest and most evolved people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, once gave me a formula for figuring out what are good and not-so-good days in our lives. I think I know where that formula is, and everytime I've pulled it out and done the math I've looked back and it's been a fairly accurate calendar of what turned out to be effective days as well as I'd-sooner-forget-them days. Hormones, the phase of the moon, who knows, but there does seem to be a pattern in our lives that leads us to feel more powerful some days and more vulnerable others.
Anyway, today I feel much more pulled together. I think teaching class yesterday was part of it, the privilege of leading my students through asanas and through a bike ride. So much fun, and such a kick. I couldn't ask for a better group of folks.
I also think that last night's perfect sleep is a big factor in how I feel today. I slept all the way through to my alarm--at 5:00am--with only one memorable dream, one of driving a car on ice and slipping around, just barely missing other cars and coming to a stop in front of a giant (13') television in the middle of the road. Go figure.
I've recently switched from swimming to lifting weights again. The swimming was my personal challenge, as I've (from the age of 12) been deathly nervous in the water. I really struggled with that, and for the first two months of lap swimming in the early hours of the day on Tuesday and Thursday, I would swim a lap, stop and catch my breath, and do it again, over and over. I would do this for 45 minutes, and exit the pool exhausted, hiccupping, and miserable. And then suddenly one day I "got it" and from that point on was able to swim continuously for the whole 45 minutes. It was miraculous! The problem with it was that I was losing muscle mass by not lifting weights, so I'm back in the gym again. I do so much exercise you'd think it wouldn't matter, but apparently I've trained my body to demand a high level of activity in order to function well, so I listen. There is really something quite cool about moving steel plates and dumbbells. It's empowering in a real, physical way. What a thrill to be able to deal with physical challenges when they arise.

One of those days...

2008-02-11T14:22:00.000-08:00

This has just been a blah sort of day. Nothing really wrong, but I don't have any energy and I feel like curling up into a tiny little ball and sleeping for about a week. Mondays are hard, waking at 5:00am and teaching four classes, but this is different. Part of the problem is last night's fractured sleep--waking up every hour. But also, I'm at an impasse with a couple of projects and life choices, and when I get to a fork in the road, sometimes my best coping mechanism is to shut down for a day or so.
Decisions are hard, and change is hard. I need to make a change at work and I'm having a hard time gathering up enough chutzpah to do it. I also need to GO BACK TO SCHOOL and seem paralyzed at the thought of it.
High-class problems, to be sure.
It's amazing what a bad night's sleep can to do you.
One thing good today was that at 6:30 this morning I signed up for the triathlon! I'm a little nervous, but I'll make it through. It'll be nice to have a challenge that I can conquer in just one day.
Unless I'm even slower than I think I'll be...

Triathlon!

2008-02-10T13:37:00.000-08:00

I've recently given my X-Bike class (5:45am!!!) a challenge--to do 24 fitness activities in the month of February, as well as one fitness activity that is way out of character and out of the comfort zone.
As an instructor, I can lead by teaching a class, but I also need to lead by example, so this afternoon my husband and I took a very wiiiiiiiiiiindy walk together. We worked a little harder than usual, pushing through the wind, which was kind of fun. My hair looks like a bird's nest, but my bones and heart are happy!
For me, my own personal "outside the comfort zone" activity is going to be a sprint triathlon, especially set up within the Y where I teach X-Bike (pool swim, stationary bike ride, treadmill run). I've never done a triathlon, but know so many people who have, people who are normal and not uber-fit. My big achilles heel is my foo (not my achilles heel, though!), so the running is an issue. The swimming I've licked--for the past six months I've been swimming laps and actually have a three-stroke rhythm that seems to work pretty well. The biking, no problems there. But doing all three together? It'll definitely be a challenge. But the worst that can happen is that I'm miserable and sore the next day, and I like the soreness from exercise, and this will hopefully break yet another barrier I've built for myself, the wall between me and the triathlon.
Do we, the formerly awkward last-to-be-picked-for-the-team kids ever get over that image of ourselves as non-athletes? I keep wondering as I enter my 20th year of fitness instruction. I guess growing up doesn't stop until we stop caring.
I really never want to grow up.

Karmic Balance?

2008-02-08T10:56:00.000-08:00

This doesn't have much to do with physical fitness, but with fiscal fitness and one's view of one's own fiscal fitness as it relates to the fiscal state of others.

I currently reside in an area where the vast majority of my associates are far better off financially than I am (at least on the surface, as some of them, no doubt, are living on credit and can't sleep at night for fear of the repo man coming and taking away their high-dollar cars and leased furniture and double-mortgaged McMansions). Now, I'm perfectly well off, with food in my belly, a bed in which to sleep, a car that works, a house that will eventually be paid for. But, as most of us have experienced, there is a certain comparison that goes on between friends and neighbors (whether that comparison regards the car we drive or the school our children attend), and as well-meaning as we may be, when one is holding the shorter stick most of the time, it can be a bit wearing.

First, let me say that no matter what my financial state, I know for a fact that money does not buy happiness. Some of the most miserable people I know have more money than they'll ever spend. And to clarify, I am blessed to be able to afford not only the basics, but thankfully, a few luxuries as well. My husband and I have chosen career paths that serve our souls over simply serving our bank accounts, and while we aren't rich in dollars, our hearts are full and our souls satisfied that we've made good choices. But, again, it is human nature to wonder "what if" when it comes to seeing neighbors travelling regularly to exotic locales and installing new flooring, shingles, and a garage re-do while sending their three children to private school. One wonders.

So, today I was having one of those moments, and on my way home, I stopped by the bank to make a deposit. (There's a clue for you, I was making a deposit, not a withdrawal). I pulled up the the ATM, and hanging out of the machine was the receipt from the last person to drive through. I entered my card, pin, etc, and pulled out the receipt so that mine would print. The receipt was for a withdrawal of $20 from the person's checking account. The remaining balance was $11.57. That was it. Now, maybe, as we are next door to a college town, this was a student's bank account, and Mom and Dad had a check in the mail or a money transfer in action as I sat there, but I thought, "Whoa! What if that was me? How would I feel if that was all I had left?"

When my own receipt printed, my checking balance was $11.57 plus exactly a standard sum, (no, I'm not telling what standard sum) leaving me with quite a bit more than the person whose receipt I was holding.

I believe the universe communicates with us as effectively as it can.

Exercise

2008-02-07T12:44:00.000-08:00

Some people do it, some don't. Some are consistent, some aren't. What gives? What is the difference? This week I've been having the same conversation over and over with clients and friends, and I'm starting to believe that maybe one of the things I'm meant to work on this year is to try and answer this in a deliberate, thoughtful fashion.

What keeps us from exercising?

We know it's good for us, and for most of us, there is some form of exercise we find pleasant or at least not UNpleasant. Is there some basic difference in personality or character that makes one person focused and habitual in his exercise, while another simply wanders off and never laces a running shoe again? Is it nature or nurture? If we watched our parents take their evening walk after every dinner, are we more likely to pick up the habit? Is it genetics? Are some bodies more inclined to crave physical movement than others? It is socialization? If our buddies are swimming three times a week, do we feel more compelled to jump in the pool than we might if all of our buddies sat on the couch all day? Are people who exercise regularly more disciplined? And what does that mean, discipline of self? I know plenty of people who never shed a drop of sweat in an exercise class, but when you visit their house, you can eat off the floor, it's so sanitary. That's not undisciplined, keeping a house spotless, and it's certainly not lazy. What about the non-exerciser who runs a company, makes payroll every week, goes into the store on the weekend whenever there is a crisis. That person is certainly motivated, and no one could call her lazy.

Is it the difference between feeling successful and not feeling successful at exercising? There are certainly those among us who are faithful at working out and eating well, but still lack the ideal physique, and yet they keep on working. And of course there are those who are naturally gifted with lovely physiques but couldn't lift anything heavier than a purse if their lives depended on it.

I'm starting to believe, and this is after 20 years of doing this, that there truly (stop the presses) isn't one thing that makes the difference. I've known people who had parents who would rather have slit their wrists than go for a fitness walk who turn out to be marathoners. I've known children of athletes who you can't pry away from the computer. Some clients have had great support from their families when it came to squeezing in another workout, and others leave for their morning walks with kids and spouses yelling, "You're so selfish!"

It can't be something totally extrinsic, and yet determining the intrinsic seed of possibility that leads to an active lifestyle may be better left to the scientists in the lab than to me, basing my opinions on anectdotal evidence.

What I'm finding is there are certain things that do tend to hamstring us, tend to trip us up. These are things we can work on. Tomorrow I'll take some time and study this a bit further, but for now, it's time for dinner. A salad and salmon, applesauce for dessert. Yum!