Keep Going, Mama

I saw a young mom pushing a stroller yesterday morning. The skies were cloudy and I’m guessing she was trying to beat the rain, getting in a little outside time before she and her almost-toddler would be cooped up in the house. She looked tired, this mama–like she’d probably been up for hours, doing laundry and dishes and feeding the mouth that had most likely woken her. No doubt her To-Do list was long, and the day was just getting started. ”How much longer ’til naptime?” she seemed to be thinking.

I wish she could have seen the smile on the face of her little boy sitting forward in the stroller. That kid was living his best life, grinning ear to ear, eyes wide at everything around him. ”This is amazing!” he silently shouted from his cozy gray hoodie. “I’ve won the lottery–whatever that means. BEST. DAY. EVER!”

You’re doing better than you think, mama. Believe it.

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Beer-Drinking Girl

I’d like to be a beer-drinking girl.  Not the loud, foul-mouthed, red Solo cup kind, but the cool, quiet kind who takes a carefree swig out of a solid, sturdy bottle then defeats a cocky guy in a round of darts.  Sign me up!

At least once every summer when the temps hit 100, I try it.  I think, “Maybe this will be the year I like beer.”  So I buy a six-pack, bring it home, pop it in the fridge, then pull out a cold one all calm and casual like I do it every day.  I pop the top and a puff of chilly fog wafts out as I grab the bottle.  There’s something about the bottle that reels me in and makes me want to try a little harder.  I wrap my hand around the cold, dark brown glass with confidence, because I’m certain that’s how beer-drinking girls would do it:  strong, independent, calling the shots.  And I have to admit, it feels good.  It feels cool and refreshing but it also feels powerful and a teensy bit rebellious…and I like it.

But, sadly, I don’t like beer.  The first taste is always okay because almost anything cold tastes good on a hot day; but by the third or fourth sip, I’m over it.  I can’t get past the bitterness—or whatever it is—and I start searching for snacks to help kill the aftertaste.  I look disappointedly at my 2/3-full bottle and think about his five 12-ounce brothers waiting in the fridge. 

And I know. 
This won’t be the year after all.

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I Don’t Dance

You would think a self-proclaimed dork like me would have no qualms about dancing.  It seems like I would jump at the chance to get up and do the Hokie Pokie with everyone.  If it was really the Hokie Pokie that would be fine–put your left foot in, put your left out, put your left foot in, and you shake it all about–yes, absolutely, sign me up!

It’s the grownup dancing with hip, cool music and hip, cool people that sends me searching for a dark, dark corner in which to hide.

Although I can’t catch a ball to save my life, I am fairly coordinated.  If the lead singer in our church worship band starts to clap I can usually stay on beat with her, but if I’m near someone who’s clapping out of time I can’t block them out and I have to stop.  So I’m not Pee-wee Herman, but I’m not exactly Fred Astaire either.

My concern is that I’m Elaine.  In that classic episode of Seinfeld, Elaine argues with Jerry about what a great dancer she is, then she hits the dance floor to prove it.  Her body jerks around in the least rhythmic, most contorted ways and her thumbs–oh my gosh, her thumbs–they’re thrusting all over the place.  Everyone in the room looks on with horrified stares while she cluelessly convulses around.

What if I’m Elaine?  What if I’m out there thinking I’m killing it as people watch and wonder if I’m having a seizure?

For the most part, I like me.  I don’t get riled up too easily.  I appreciate simple pleasures.  People say I’m easy to be around…and I hope that’s true.  I also know, however, that I am not hip and/or cool and nowhere is that more obvious to me than in a roomful of people with music blasting.

Therein lies the real problem:  the loud music.  If no one can hear anything but music, I can’t ask questions, I can’t crack jokes, and I can’t offer a listening ear.  The parts of me that I know I can lean on are suddenly not available, and without words to hide behind, I’m basically naked…which is not a good look for me.

One of the great things about becoming a woman of a certain age, though, is that we start to care less if we’re Elaine.  We pick those shoes because they’re comfortable.  We avoid that person because they’re negative.  And (maybe) we decide to dance just because it’s fun.

That being said, my mantra for the new year is “Hide less.  Dance more.”  To kick it off, I’m going dancing with a few friends this month.  I’ve been assured that there are not a bunch of tables situated around this particular dance floor, so people won’t be camping out and watching.  I’ve also been told that the venue is quite dark; bright lights shining all over the place would be a definite deal breaker:  “You guys go ahead.  I’ll wait in the car.”

Really, though, what’s the worst that could happen?
I trip and fall?
People laugh?
I end up in the emergency room?
Wait, where was I going with this?

No, the worst that could happen is that whether I’m terrible or not, my friends and I get to hang out and laugh and possibly even do the Hokie Pokie if the band happens to read minds.

Sooo…

Deep breath…

I’m going for it.

No turning back.

Put your left foot in.

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Note:  This is an excerpt from Women of a Certain Age  (Spring 2021)

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Third Wheel

             

I hate being the third wheel.
That extra friend who hangs out with the cute, happy couple?
And if the cute, happy couple happens to be in the beginning stages of their relationship?
Ugh, kill me now.

Invariably, the newly enamored friend says, “Come hang out with us.  It’ll be great!”
But it’s not great.  It’s a whole different dynamic, and it’s nothing even close to great.

And it’s not like a movie plot where I’m pining away for the guy who likes her more than me, and the audience and I are just waiting for him to wake up and realize that I’m actually the more fabulous one.  I’m not pining away for anyone; I just hate this part…this transition part.

About a year ago, I posted this as my perspective on the matter:

And although I still love it, I can’t help but notice that either way, the “third wheel” is isolated.  Granted, in the second shot, she’s isolated by choice.  She’s showing us that she’s strong, she’s healthy, she’s doing it her way (plus, she has really nice abs), which are all great things.

But she’s not exactly smiling, though, either.  She’s concentrating so hard on maintaining her awesome solo-ness that I’m not so sure she’s enjoying herself.

Some days it takes a lot of effort to be awesomely solo.
And to convince yourself and others that you are perfectly fine and happy–never been better as a matter of fact!
And to sit tall while you keep on pedaling…and pedaling…and pedaling.

And although pedaling can get tiring, the cool chick is hesitant to risk being anything but awesomely solo at this point.  That’s one of the trickiest things about “third wheelness”: watching two people hang out comfortably, cozily together and thinking (ironically) that it just looks scary.  Scary to be open…and to trust.  Ugh…to trust.

So even though her abs are amazing, I have a hunch the cool chick on the unicycle would really just love to take a break and slouch for a bit.
And eat some ice cream.
And pout.

But only for a day or two.

After a day or two, she’ll get her second wind.
She’ll shake it off.
Hop back on.
Sit tall.
And pedal.

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But this time,

This time,

She’s gonna smile.

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Well, it’s a start…

For a long time (we’re talking years), I’ve thought about running a 5k.  It’s one of those goals that comes and goes with the seasons–and often with the excitement of the Summer Olympics.  I used to watch the Olympic marathon runners and convince myself I could absolutely run 26 miles if I really wanted to.

No.

No, I could not.

And although I haven’t even done a 5k yet, I have my eyes set on a 10k race along the beach coming up in May.  That would be just over 6 miles.  It’s currently February.  February to March, March to April, April to May.  That gives me three months to get ready.  Totally doable, right?

Did I mention that I don’t run at all right now?
Technically, I probably haven’t run since the 4-man, 400-relay in eighth grade, in which I–for some inexplicable reason–was given the anchor leg and almost popped a lung just to finish dead last.  I do have some jogging in my adult history, but that was easily over 15 years ago.

Nevertheless, the beach race beckons, so this morning I decided today was the day.  I’d do my usual morning walk but I’d jog the long stretch in the middle then walk the rest of the way, guilt-free and victorious!

I suited up, tightened my tennies, and headed out, full of hope.  I was thankful for the cold, foggy weather–fewer witnesses likely to be out and about.  I walked with my usual peppy pace, throwing in some arm stretches every now and then, psyching myself up, getting ready, eyeing the end of the street where I would turn to the right and start jogging.

Ten more steps.

Then five.

And one.

Let’s go!

I breeze past a couple of houses, taking inventory of my body.

Wow.
That’s a lot of jiggling.
Especially from the back end.
It’s almost painful.
That can’t be right.

Never mind, never mind.  Just keep going.

Past a few more houses.

Hey, I’m doing it!

I’m jogging!
Well, trotting briskly anyway.

And it’s not that bad.
Granted, I’ve only gone 100 yards, but I feel pretty good.
6 miles on the beach?  No problem.

Then I hear my heavy feet clomping on the pavement.
And my calves are tightening up.
And I could really go for some oxygen.
But the end of the street is in sight and I’m totally going to make it.

And I did.
I made it down the long stretch (maybe 1/4 mile?) and walked the rest of the way back home as planned.

While I walked, I decided my plan for tomorrow would be to do the same exact thing and to do that every day this week as well.  My goal by the end of the week is to run it without sounding like a club-footed elephant with asthma.  Then we’ll go from there.

Day 1:  1/4 mile.
24 of those = 6 miles

76 more days to get there.

Totally doable, right?

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May 11…Think good thoughts.

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EPIPHANY!

You may recall that I mentioned a friend of mine was breaking up with chocolate.  After hearing about it, a co-worker friend of mine decided she needed to do the same.  She’d sensed this day would come and was feeling that indeed it had arrived.

But she was having a tough time saying good-bye.

She’d been especially stressed out lately:  so many kids’ activities and work responsibilities and a never-ending list of things to do, and to top it off, her in-laws were visiting.  Maybe tomorrow she’d break up with chocolate, she’d say with a sigh.  Then maybe tomorrow…

But this morning she bubbled through the door at work, exclaiming, “I had an epiphany!”

She was smiling ear to ear as she proceeded to tell me that while driving her 4-year-old son to school this morning, they were listening to music.  “Mom, look!  Look!” he shouted from the back seat.

She took a glance in the rear view mirror.

“Mom, look!  My feet and my legs are dancing!  And it makes me happy!”

My friend says to me, “Here he is strapped in his car seat, and he’s dancing–and it makes him happy!”

“That’s awesome!” I said.

“Now this next part might be a bit of a stretch,” she continued, “but I don’t need to break up with chocolate.  Chocolate makes me happy!”

“And why would you break up with something that makes you happy?”

“Exactly!”

So we discussed it and agreed that some boundaries were clearly needed, but there was no reason to completely end the relationship.

“I think we’re good together.”

“You do make a very cute couple.”

“Right?”

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I’m happy to report that she and chocolate have reconciled their differences and things are going well.  Sure there will be struggles along the way, good days and bad days, highs and lows; but in the end they just need to remember that at the heart of it…they make each other happy.

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“Mom, look!  My feet and my legs are dancing!”

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Breaking Up With Chocolate

I miss you already…

In an effort to undo some of the damage done during the holidays, my friend has given up chocolate.

It’s not going well.

Yesterday at 8pm she texted me:
Day 1 of no chocolate…survived.  Sooooooo hard!

Today at 4:50pm:
Day 2 no chocolate.
I’m starting to break.

Although I sent encouraging replies, I’m half expecting a text by noon tomorrow confessing that she has a mouthful of M&Ms.

I think part of the problem may be the “cold turkey” approach.  There was no warning, no easing into it.  It was just a hasty good-bye, no looking back.

Maybe she should have had a talk with Chocolate beforehand.

Her: Look, I really like you.
Chocolate: I like you, too.
H: Um…anyway, what I’m trying to say is…
C: Yes?
H: I can’t see you anymore.
C: Excuse me?
H: I can’t see you anymore.
C: I don’t understand.  I thought things were going so well.
H: I know, I know.  They were.  They really were.
C: Then what’s the problem?
H: My underwear doesn’t fit.
(pause)
C: I’m not following you.
H: Look, it’s not you.  It’s me.  I don’t like who I am when I’m with you.
C: But you always look so happy when we’re together.
H: I know, I know.  It’s complicated.  I just think we need a break.
C: A break?  For how long?
H: I’m not sure.
C: But where will I go?
H: Anywhere out of my sight–and reach.  I’m sorry it has to be like this, but it’s for the best…really.
C:  I’ll always be here for you.
H: You always have been…
(An embrace seems in order, but I wouldn’t recommend it.)

After all the years and good times, it seems only fair.  Level with each other.  Wish each other well.  Move on–with high hopes for a fresh start.

Yes, a fresh start.

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Chocolate: What’s so great about underwear anyway?
Her: You make a good point…

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Why Holding Hands Beats a 3-Legged Race

I love holding hands.

It is the one action that allows you to be both connected to and free of someone at the same time.  While one hand is being lovingly grasped, the other hand is available to wave hello or scratch an itch or reach in a pocket or grab a sandwich (well, a small sandwich).  Holding hands also allows for a range of options regarding body space; you can be side by side or double arm’s length apart.  Or you can be somewhere in between and swing your arms playfully back and forth like little kids do because it’s fun–and it’s good to have fun.

In addition, holding hands is cozy but casual.  It’s much less formal than walking arm in arm, for example, where one person’s arm weaves through and links to the crook of another person’s elbow.  On the occasions that I’ve done this, it felt as if I was being ushered to my seat at a big movie premiere, which was okay but I was terribly underdressed.

By far the most difficult walking style for couples is the side-by-side embrace.  Here each member of the couple extends the adjacent arm around the other’s back as they walk hip to hip.  This maneuver requires a lot of teamwork, much like running a three-legged race.  Steps must be carefully synchronized, which is why you’ll usually see these couples inching along at a snail’s pace.  Although they’re trying to pull off the illusion that they’re dizzy with love, they’re really just trying to keep from falling over.

Not surprisingly, this technique is most often seen among young dreamy-faced couples who have the agility and energy to attempt it.  My friend and I enjoy sitting on the beach and observing these lovebirds strolling by, sides pressed together, making slow but steady progress.  We like to place bets on how long they’ll be able to keep it up.  “I give them 15 minutes.”  “Nah, they’re pretty young.  I say 30.”  Sure enough, within the hour, the adorable pair strolls back by, arm’s length apart, with only a pinkie lock holding them together.  My friend and I giggle and mentally high five each other.

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I say keep it simple.

And holding hands creates a lovely Venn diagram of simplicity.
The left circle is you and all of your you-ness.
The right circle is me and all of my me-ness.
And the overlap in the middle is our hands enjoying the combo of you-me-ness.

Aww…

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Plus I can still hold my sandwich.

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Remodeling

Target is remodeling…again.

The dog food is where the school supplies used to be.  The school supplies are where the baby clothes used to be.  The baby clothes are…so dang cute, aren’t they?  I would totally wear some of those cozy onesie animal jammies if they came in my size.

Anyway, nothing is where it usually is.  I had a dozen things on my shopping list when I walked into the store, but after wandering around for five minutes I cut the list to bare essentials:  hair goop.

My hair is really frizzy; if I don’t coat it in goop, it’s terrifying.  Goop doesn’t make it perfect, but it helps.

I meandered through the store in search of the hair products.  Hmm…not next to cosmetics…not by toothpaste and deodorant…  Ah ha!  With the sporting goods, of course!

Gray tube, purple writing.
Gray tube, purple writing.
Where are you, gray tube, purple writing?

I see gray bottle, purple writing.  And gray jar, purple writing; but not gray tube.  Apparently, they were out of my hair goop.  I didn’t see an empty space where it should be, though, so it’s possible that they discontinued it–but I don’t want to jump to conclusions.

Meanwhile, I can hear my hair starting to spring.

I cannot gamble on the hope that Target will finish its remodel in the next 24 hours, so I start scanning the shelves for a substitute.  I have used gray tube, purple writing for several years, so I’m at a loss for a replacement.  I look for reassuring key words like smooths and controls and frizz assassin.  I narrow it down to a couple of choices and irrationally decide on a purple tube with white writing because the colors look closest to what I’m used to.  Plus it’s less expensive than my usual brand, so I feel okay about risking it.  Let’s do this!

Now, where did they put that checkout area?

The next morning, I squeeze a little dollop of new goop in my hand and give it a sniff.  Not bad.  I rub my hands together and work it through my hair, watching skeptically.

It seems okay.
Very similar to the regular goop, but it’s early; let’s see how it holds up after a full day.

Can you guess?
Do you totally see it coming?
It was fine.
And not just fine–better.
I actually like it better!
And it’s cheaper!
Good-bye, gray tube, purple writing.  Hellooooo, purple tube, white writing!

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Change is so tricky, isn’t it?
Even silly little change like hair goop.
Oh how we fight it!
We whine!
We grumble and groan!
We throw up our hands and plead to the heavens, “Why?  Why, oh why?”
(insert sad pouty face here)

But sometimes it’s better.
Not always.
But sometimes.
And sometimes is way better than never.

(insert happy hopeful face here)

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And please let me know if you have any leads on cozy animal jammies for grown-ups.

Help!

My friend has a three-year-old.  She also has children who are considerably older and are pretty independent and self-sufficient.  They are constantly on the go, running to sporting events and friends’ houses and school functions.  You may think that means the “baby” gets left out and ignored.  Au contraire!

My friend reports that if her youngest child needs something he’ll go stand in the hallway (the hub of activity) and proclaim:  “I need help!  Somebody help me!  Help!”

Nope, no need to worry about this kid.

My friend and I were discussing this direct approach of asking for help.  Not disguising it.  Not apologizing for it.  Not bargaining for it.  Not being ashamed of it.  Just facing facts:  I need help.  And not only asking for it, but fully expecting that somebody will help you if you need it and even should help you if you need it.

We just giggled and shook our heads at the genius of a three-year-old, the boldness, the simplicity.

We acknowledged that we hardly ever ask for help and certainly not with such ease.  Rather, asking for help only comes after weighing every option and ruling out all possible alternatives.  It’s a desperation move made only when we can see no other way.

But why?
Why don’t we just ask?
Not yell in the hallway, perhaps, but ask nonetheless.
Ask AND fully expect that someone will help…gladly.

Maybe it has something to do with pride.
Or self-reliance.
Or responsibility.
Or judgment.
Or worthiness.

Maybe it has to do with expectations and previous disappointments.
Maybe it has to do with confidence–too much in ourselves, not enough in others.

For me, I know part of it is not wanting to be a bother.  Don’t make waves.  Don’t interrupt.  Glide around quietly so as not to disturb anyone.

Whatever it is, my friend and I decided we’re going to embrace this straight up-no apology approach of asking for help.  Not that we’re suddenly going to seek help at every turn, but that we’re going to stop wringing our hands about asking for help when needed.  We’re going to take the approach that it’s actually rather lovely to share our need with another person.  To not be “perfect” in front of them.  To show that we trust them.  To be grateful for them.

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Inhale…

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Exhale…

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Would you please help me?

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(Gee, that wasn’t so bad)