What was I thinking? That I had time to write a blog?

So, it has been a ridiculous amount of time since I last wrote on this blog.  It was right before the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays and my life became a mad dash to complete crochet projects before Dec. 25th.  And then the holidays were over, but work kicked into high gear and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in front of this computer and type up a thesis on how and why I want to be a better person than I am now.  And then people started inviting me to play Words with Friends (I blame you BF) and suddenly perfectly good blog time is spent trying to figure out how to put a freaking Z on a TL space and now it is March.  How is that for becoming a better person?

It has been spring break here and that meant pretty much nothing as far as my day to day life was concerned, but Miss A did have break from preschool this week. Of course, spring break started last Friday with her emotionally stating, "I don't want to go to spring break!" like it was a place. Of course, at four years old, school is the place you want to be and break is the thing that separates you from your friends for a week.  She survived and was as silly and creative and fun as ever, with suprisingly few emotional swings (from her or from me...). We took walks around the neighborhood when I got home from work and she practiced riding her bicycle. Pretty mundane stuff, unless you are four. She looked at everything as such an adventure and each little step as an accomplishment.  I wish I did that more.

I wish I remembered around each corner is something new and interesting. I wish I looked at each new day as a fresh beginning.

She loves to "role play."  At any point in time, I am Barbie to her Skipper or Queen Clarion to her Tinker Bell.  It is hard to stay in character sometimes (for me, not for her). She will remind me that I am not Mom right now, I am someone else. It's nice to be someone else. I wish I could do it more often.  But it isn't realistic. I am not a method actor.  Even in plays in school, I never tried to "become" the role. I just tried to find the best timing and inflection to get the biggest laugh. These days, my acting method involves asking Miss A "Can I be Queen Clarion doing the dishes?" I feel like I am cheating her on play time that way, but one day she will thank me that she doesn't live in a house from "Hoarders."

I think as I am teaching her to be a grown up, she is teaching me to be a kid. I rode a bicycle for the first time in twenty years last week. It was just up and down the block, but it was a start. She cheered me on the way I cheer her on when she rides her small bike.  I plan on getting on that bike as much as I can this summer.  By the way, the saying, "It's just like riding a bicycle" may be true, but note the saying isn't "It's just like taking the first push off the ground on a bicycle" because I am not kidding, I wasn't sure how to start. I felt the same trepidation and excitement I know she feels when she is pedaling.

But in that moment after I started pedaling, when I was once again using my own momentum to move forward and figuring out how to keep my balance and round corners? That was AWESOME.

Oh calves of jelly how you taunt me!

So, my husband said to me last week after a doctor's appointment that he weighed a weight he said he would never weigh.  I will not disclose that number, but just know that it is a number that he never wanted to weigh.  I sighed, understanding his grief, because I not only weigh a number that I never wanted to weigh, but I probably weigh the same number that he weighs.  And I am seven inches shorter.

So, he and I agreed to do something about it.  I am not sure what he is doing about it, because so far his daily pattern appears to be the same.  But what I did about it this week was a real leap out of my comfort zone (comfort zone = couch).  I attended not one, not two, but THREE different classes at the Y this week.  I completed all three of the classes without passing out, having a heart attack or breaking a bone, all of which were entirely possible. 

First, I attended a "pump" class, which is not a training class for gestating mothers, but, as it turns out, is a class where a woman who was not in perfect shape went through a forty-five minute weight training routine with the class.  Her not perfect figure gave me some hope that I would not die during the class.  I enjoyed it as much as I can enjoy anything that I force myself to do at 5:00 am.  (Did I mention it was at 5:00 am?)  Yeah.  I normally avoid any sort of reality at 5:00 am.  The only time I have actually enjoyed being up that early was when I was 38 weeks pregnant and couldn't sleep and found that Noggin played "Dawson's Creek" reruns at 4 am.  To this day, I don't think my husband knew that when I couldn't sleep in the early hours of the morning with a boulder sitting on my pelvic bone, I was relishing in the guilty pleasure of Pacey and Joey.  Where was I? Oh yes, the pump class.  So, I survived it.  I highlighted it on the Y schedule in my cube at work and plan to return again.

But pump classes alone will not provide the cardiac arrest-ehem-cardiac exercise that any healthy body needs.  That was provided in two classes led by women with much more perfect bodies.  The first, a step class, was led by a perky blonde woman who was probably my age and height, but with the body of a sophomore cheerleader.  She was genuinely interested in making sure I felt comfortable in the class and encouraged me to come back.  She commented at the end that she was so glad I made it through the whole class.  It hadn't occurred to me that my calves would be surprised by stepping up and down for 45 minutes straight.  I made it through, depsite my complete lack of rhythm and ocassional confusion about what the heck was going on.  It wasn't until two days later when I realized that my calves were never going to feel normal again that perhaps the instructor was surprised I had made it through the whole class because I shouldn't have made it through the whole class.

Nevertheless, I soldiered on.  Two days later, calves still smarting, I attended what is called Zumba, but should really be called "So you want to be a back up dancer for Shakira".  I LOVED this class.  It was the outlet that I had been needing all along.  I am far too old, too married, too much a mother to hit my local dance clubs on a Friday night to shake it.  But this was my element!  An entire roomful of women at 6:00 in the evening rotating their hips to Black Eyed Peas while dressed in yoga pants and t-shirts.  Sign me up! If only they served plastic cups of rum and coke...

So, it has been a week of experiments.  I will be attending all of these classes again next week.  I just hope one day, my calves forgive me.

700 Gardetto's calories!

That's what you eat when you are completely stressed and decide that you need something to take your mind off of how far behind you are at work.  It worked, I must say, as I then switched my focus to why on Earth I thought eating five servings of Gardetto's would help the situation.  The work didn't get done any faster and any interest I had in eating supper this evening was completely gone.

What I really wish I had been doing (instead of eating my weight in rye chips and trying to get two days worth of work done in one) is finding a way to support the Occupy Wall Street movement from my perch in middle America.  There have been some protests at my local state capital, which I could somehow join, I suppose.  But since I barely find the time to get done what needs done anyway, taking time out to stand with a sign seems like the least important way for me to spend the weekend.  And yet I look at this situation, which is the sign of hope I have been seeking for so long, and I know that I need to give it my support somehow. 

 I have this lovely, developing human being right here in my house and I need to show her that this is something her mom and dad see as important and necessary.  I tried to explain in a way her four year old brain can understand, as we listened to public radio on the way to the library, that it is our right as people in the United States to peaceably protest our government when we feel it is the right thing to do. That was a first step.  But how do I show her what it means to be involved in something bigger than herself?

One thing she seems to like is making things for others--especially food things (she is, after all, my child).  When I have made cookies or soup to give to others, she is always quite interested.  She seems to understand the concept of taking care of others by providing them nourishment.  So what about providing some cookies for the protestors? Or maybe carrot sticks and string cheese? If you were spending your day on the cement, maybe that would give you the energy to keep going for a few more hours of sign holding and chanting.

It's only Tuesday.  Maybe I'll come up with something more before the weekend is here.  But for now, I am thinking, that come this Saturday, if there are protestors downtown, they may just have a few cookies coming their way.

Road trip musings

As I write this, I am sitting in the last row of a Grand Caravan, along with four female co-workers as we make our way to one of our company’s offices to provide a training session.  The two women in the second row of seats are each perusing magazines.  To the left, we have Bon Appétit.  To the right, Fitness.  Isn’t that the ultimate struggle, really?  Food and our bodies?  To eat the way we desire and still look and feel our best?

I have battled this demon since I hit puberty.  In high school, despite my mother’s best intentions, I supplemented my diet with Funyuns, strawberry Twizzlers, and Dr. Pepper.  It was not a good idea.  I also spent those years rebelling against the idea of organized sports.  Who wouldn’t, when she had spent her junior high years picked last for kick ball?  I had found my niche—music and drama  (neither of these burn many calories).  I was setting myself up for a lifetime of clothing sizes with more than one digit.

I’ve lost weight once in awhile—just enough to buy a smaller set of clothes here or there.  Never enough to transform me completely and never for long enough to declare the battle over.  I also discovered that really working up a sweat on an elliptical or on a gym floor can be extremely fulfilling—nothing like the days of forced physical education.  When I make time to do it, that is.  It’s always been pretty easy to exercise for awhile--make that sweeping proclamation that I will always make time to do it, buy new shoes, get a gym membership… and then get easily sidelined by a head cold, a business trip, a load of laundry.

Of course, these days, my diet is very rarely Twizzlers and even more rarely Dr. Pepper and Funyuns.  The culprits are more likely to be some great crusty bread, prosciutto, and a glass of sauvignon blanc. Alright, two glasses. And throw in some smoked almonds and dark chocolate while we’re at it.  See?  Pretty easy to let a couple of pounds get tacked on here or there and the next thing you know you are no longer shopping in the “normal” clothes section.

So, one big goal for this “Fifteen to 40” is to reach a weight that is healthy, attractive, and makes for easier shopping.  Which brings me back to my current road trip. Gummy bears are being passed around. Wish me luck!

The Final Countdown

(Cue awesome image of GOB from Arrested Development as you read this title, which is what I did, when I wrote it).

So, this is the beginning of what I have decided to call "Fifteen to 40", which will chronicle the next fifteen months of my life until I turn 40 years old.  Forty has always been one of those giant looming numbers for people as they age, and I am no exception.  The closer I get, the more I think about the things I have done or haven't done with the first forty years.  If you were to go back and talk to twenty year old me, she would be pretty disappointed in 38 year old me.  But, if I were to go back and talk to her, I would have quite a few words of advice---she didn't always make decisions that were in the best interest of 38 year old me.

I have some big plans for the next fifteen months. I want to live my forties with a better body mass index than I lived my thirties.  I want to spend a little less and save a lot more.  I want to be a good example to my daughter.  I want to build my career into something that makes me want to jump out of bed in the morning.  I want to avoid the urge to order pizza for dinner.

So that's where the blog comes in.  I read more magazines and blogs than I care to admit to and it is frequently mentioned in "self help" articles that blogging about your plans will help you accomplish them. So here it goes.

Welcome, if anyone is reading, to my countdown.  Here's hoping life begins at 40...I'm due to be born in fifteen months...