Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age | Tags: adulthood, Beauty, Botox, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, plastic surgery
Like many women, I have toyed with the idea of “getting some work done.” There are so many options available! You can inject things into your face to get rid of the wrinkles. You can make your lips fatter, your bottom rounder and your thighs skinnier. You can even take fat from one part of your body and put it somewhere else. But none of those things has ever really appealed to me. I have found a much cheaper way to make myself feel better about the toll time has taken on my face and body.
I recently heard a speech/performance by Canadian poet Shane Koyczan, about bullying (you can watch it by following the link at the end of the post.) There were many phrases and ideas of his that resonated with me, but the one I want to share is…
“If you can’t find something beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror.”
So I did.
My new mirror isn’t anything special. I got it at the Dollar Store for, well, a dollar. It has a white plastic rim, and for the moment, doesn’t have any water or toothpaste splotches. The glass doesn’t really magnify anything, but it did show me some things in a much different light.
The crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of squinting at diamonds on turquoise seas and Virginia mountain sunrises, and from searching for the Daughters #1 & #2 as they shot a goal or cantered over a jump.
The bump on my nose that makes my glasses lopsided is a reminder of my love of sports, although playing soccer might not have been one of my better choices (I broke my nose by kicking the ball into my own face. Try it at home—I dare you). Running, jumping, kicking and throwing—what a way to celebrate the body I was given!
The wrinkles on my forehead are the marks of a mother who worries about her family—are they doing okay in school? Will we have enough money for college? Do I still make Hubby happy? It is a miracle to have those things to worry about. Why would I erase them?
Even the wrinkles on my upper lip are testimony to the years of clamping my mouth shut in twenty years of marriage. I finally learned that not every opinion needs to be voiced—even though mine is usually better.
The freckles and age spots on my hands come from hours of driving my children to and from school as we talked about our day, from driving across country with Hubby, and riding horses as often as I could. Sure, I could get them lasered off, but why? I don’t want to look like I never had any adventures.
My hips and stomach are no longer flat or small. They shifted and made room for two daughters. No, I don’t have the body of a twenty-year-old anymore—I have the body of a mother, of someone who has survived my babies’ colic, teething, first steps, tantrums, first day of school, and first dates.
None of this is to say I’ve totally accepted this body I’m living in. I still highlight my hair every two months to cover up the gray, and I struggle to fit into jeans that I probably shouldn’t. But when the mirror on the wall in my bathroom isn’t making me happy, I try to remember to get the other one out, the one that says “You’re beautiful because of those lines, and wrinkles and sagging parts. They are the result of living your life, of all the things that have made you who you are.”
The erosion of the walls of the Colorado River could have been viewed as a tragic invasion of pristine countryside—instead, we now see the Grand Canyon as a wonder of the world. Why can’t our bodies be the same?
To see Shane’s performance, go to www.ShaneKoyczan.com.
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Parenting, Sports | Tags: anxiety, family, kids, mom, parenting, parents, soccer, south, southern, teenagers, teens
There’s the old saying that you shouldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve. There’s another one that says teens wear their hearts on InstaGram (#need40likes). My heart has been running around in either a pair of soccer shorts or a pair of horseback riding breeches for the last several years, and in diapers and training pants before that.
A year or so ago, I watched from across the soccer field as Daughter #1 desperately tried to suck in air during an asthma attack. It was a terrible feeling, knowing what was happening, but unable to help. My heart was lying on that field, and there was nothing I could do to make her stop being scared or keep her from hurting. Now, we know to watch for the telltale signs, and even her coaches say, “Go take a puff so you can get back in here.” But this past weekend, after the pollen cloud descended upon us that could have come straight out of a Stephen King movie (think “The Fog”), I listened to Daughter #1 reach a new height of coughing and hacking. After a couple of long nights, we went to the local kids’ Doc-in-a-Box.
When Daughter #1 asked why she still had to go to the pediatric doctor, I said, “I think it’s cleaner, and we’ve probably had most of the germs floating around in there anyway.”
Daughter #1 was not thrilled with that explanation.
Her opinion sank even farther as we walked in and stood in the full waiting room, watching toddlers and preschoolers run around with green noses and tired parents clutching smeared wads of tissues and half-eaten bags of Cheerios.
“I’ll stand,” she muttered.
Only at the end of the visit did I manage to find the “hanitizer” as someone called it.
While we waited to be seen, I theorized to myself what a brilliant business model these places are. They perpetuate their business by opening on off-hours (when most kids do stupid things like shove raisins up their noses); they charge outrageously (I assume to attract doctors willing to work off-hours) and parents are willing to pay in order to get some relief for their child; and they are such a Petri dish of fluid, germs and general grossness that you are bound to return in a few days with new symptoms.
Four prescriptions and one breathing treatment later, I was marveling at the wonder that is better living through chemistry.
Last week, my heart was on the soccer field again, racing around in the form of Daughter #2. A fearless goalie, she took a hard shot to the face with a few minutes left in the game. Her head snapped back and she dropped like a stone. By the time I got on the field she was up and saying she was fine. In fact, she made two more saves, wiping away a nosebleed in between. But something wasn’t right. She was shifting from foot to foot and looking “off.”
After the game, she was evaluated by her trainer, who said she could have a concussion (using the proper disclaimer that he isn’t a doctor). The evaluation was disturbing: Daughter #2 answered everything in a monotone, had little balance, was dizzy, and couldn’t repeat numbers back. She didn’t remember the hit. Again, there was nothing I could do except watch and trust in the people there to help. The next day, feeling like there had to be something I could do, I took her to the eye doctor to make sure it was ok (it was). Beyond that, there was nothing to do but rest and wait.
No “better living through chemistry” with this one.
Anyway, we got through the weekend, everyone is coherent, breathing normally, and getting back on track.
Everyone except me.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, lying in bed with my heart racing and every muscle tensed like I was walking on a tightrope.
It took me a while, but I finally realized that my heart had been so busy running around the soccer fields, getting banged up and bruised, that it didn’t know what to do when it could finally settle back inside where it belonged, if only for the night. In the morning it would be outside again, racing toward the goal, fending off balls, riding horses, walking to and from class, or even driving to work (Hubby has a piece out there, too).
So I did what any mom having an anxiety attack at 2:00AM would do—I grabbed a couple of PMS pills (the symptoms are eerily similar) and read my book until my heart relaxed enough for me to fall asleep.
No one told me that parents wear their hearts on their children. (They also didn’t tell me that children can take their diapers off and play with their own poo, but that’s another story.) Would I have done anything differently had I known? Of course not; but now I know where the phrase “mother’s little helper” comes from. For some of us it’s pills, for some it’s meditation, and for others it’s prayer. For the rest, it’s probably that great anesthetizer of the southern masses, bourbon.
PS–this is in no way a solicitation of parental advice. I’m a firm believer in making my own mistakes, which are as many as the chiggers Hubby attracts every summer.
Filed under: Exercise | Tags: Exercise, gym, humor, Middle-Age, mom, southern, sports, workouts
In my quest to keep myself occupied at the gym, I have started playing the game, “What animal does he/she look like?” Most of the time the people look like what they are—overweight homo sapiens. Occasionally, though, some stand out. Here are a few:
The Gerbil (this would be me): I didn’t realize I look like one until a guy walked by grinning and making gerbil hand motions at me as I powered through on the I-limp-and-drool. There are a lot of us doing this, so I didn’t feel too bad, but it did cross my mind that if Obama is looking for alternative energy sources, he could just hook something up to the gym machines in America. Of course, there would have to be tax incentives.
The Sloth: These people trudge into the gym, wearing the same expression one has when sitting down in a chair to read a book, which is what the Gym Sloths do. They bring a book/magazine/iPad to a recumbent machine and proceed to slowly pedal for a good 45 minutes. They rarely break a sweat and are in zero danger of causing undo stress on their heart or joints. But hey—they’re not sitting on the couch.
The Peacock: These members are usually dressed in some form of spandex or lycra, and deserve to wear it. They preen and pose and flex as they work out, glancing around to see who is watching. (In the gym I go to, these folks don’t show up until after 5:00 p.m., when happy hour is fueled by exercise endorphins, instead of cheap alcohol.) What’s fun is watching one peacock show off for another, only to have the one they are trying to attract start preening for someone else. Not much different than a club, or a henhouse, I suspect.
The Magpies: These are the moms who show up in groups or meet there for some much-needed adult chat. They frequently climb on the treadmills or the I-limp-and-drools and chirp away, moving at a pace fast enough to justify being there but not so fast they gasp as they gossip. While they exercise, their bodies pop up and down, heads bobbing, looking like birds in a nest (or whack-a-mole).
The Chameleon: (me again) This person begins their workout with a normal skin tone, probably a little pale from pecking away in a cube all day. However, as their cardio workout progresses, their face and body language undergo some changes. First, their cheeks get pink, then red, until their faces turn into something resembling a rare tuna steak. At this stage, blood vessels burst and sweat drips onto the machinery. Controlled movements become a weak flailing, and their breathing sounds like a locomotive, or the puffing one hears during Lamaze class. While their appearance isn’t intended to serve as a form of camouflage, their ability to change appearance is remarkable.
The Cat: These women come to the gym dressed in sleek, black spandex yoga pants and fitted tops. There is not a panty line in sight. They are generally long and lean, and attract the envy of the other women, and the lust of everybody else. Men actually stop what they are doing to watch as these cat-like creatures slink through their routines. They slowly bend and stretch, demonstrating their flexibility and toned musculature. Having the grace of a hippopotamus, I’m totally jealous. Meow.
The Chicken: These male gym creatures come in all ages. They spend most of their time doing upper body work, and have the bulging pecs, biceps and triceps to prove it. However, they neglect the lower half of their bodies. Below their workout shorts emerge two spindly legs, looking remarkably like two pieces of kindling, or chicken legs.
Who knew the gym was such a wealth of entertainment? It’s my own personal version of Animal Planet.
Filed under: Exercise, Parenting, Sports | Tags: cheering, family, humor, kids, love, mom, parenting, soccer, sports
It’s the end of soccer season, at least the outdoor variety. Thanksgiving is over, and with it our three-day respite from two-hour practices, smelly cleats and hairbands strewn about the house. So, to honor the occasion, I wrote this poem to let Daughters #1 & 2 know that I GET IT. I just can’t help being their biggest (and loudest) cheerleader. If they’ve learned nothing from living with me all these years, it’s that I do everything with enthusiasm (just look at the circle of food around my plate when we go to a nice restaurant—waiters LOVE me).
A Soccer Player’s Prayer
I huddle in the corner, away from other players.
Please, don’t cheer for me, I think, please answer a soccer prayer.
I’m not afraid of getting hurt when the ball is kicked my way.
I’d love to score the winning goal and brag I saved the day.
But there’s one thing I can’t stand—it has me quaking in my cleats.
I shake inside my shin guards, the laces tremble on my feet.
What was that? Did someone call my name?
I’d know that voice on any field. Oh no! My mom is here—she came!
I break into a clammy sweat whenever she looks my way.
Please don’t pass it to me, she’ll just yell while I’m trying to play.
The ball whizzes past me as she plunks down her chair.
Someone trips on my frozen toes while I can only stop and stare.
How will I live it down? Oh, the Horror, oh the shame!
How can I prevent her from screaming out my name?
I hate it when she does that–it’s obnoxious, rude and loud.
It’s humiliating and debilitating, and it bugs the soccer crowd.
But how do I tell her? It will only make her sad.
After all, she loves to watch me, though her screaming makes me mad.
So I slouch here on the sideline, desperate to disappear.
Maybe someday she’ll stop her shouting, and like a normal mom, just cheer.
Someday, girls, your mom might just make it through “Silent Saturday….”
Filed under: Exercise | Tags: Garlic Man, gym, humor, southern, The Sprinkler, workouts
Everyone knows that going to the gym will make you happier, healthier and less stressed. Everyone also knows that when you go to the gym there’s a certain amount of grossness you have to put up with. And because gyms are so full of random body fluids, they’re a great way to build up your immune system. I know that when I go, I most likely haven’t showered yet, and I was probably melting in a soccer-mom chair the day before watching Daughter #1 elbow, trip and push other girls for 90 minutes, or I was at a barn with Daughter #2 getting horse sweat all over me. So God only knows what comes off of me as I hit high gear on the elliptical (a.k.a. the “I-limp-and-drool machine”). But nothing at the gym can compete with Garlic Man and The Sprinkler.
Garlic Man is there everyday for at least an hour. He wears Middle-Age-Man’s uniform: too-long shorts with the wife-beater-that-looks-professional-so-it-must-be-workout attire-shirt. The wife-beater shows off arms that look like duck pin balls have been stuffed under his skin. Out of the too-long shorts poke hairy little toothpicks. His legs have been ignore, I assume, because the gym mirrors only go to knee-height. With skinny chicken-legs and a massive upper body, Garlic Man resembles Sponge Bob, minus the tie and the irritating laugh that goes straight through your spinal cord.
But the worst aspect of Garlic Man, as you can guess, is that he REEKS. No matter when I go, he is there, and he always manages to get on the I-limp-and-drool next to me. Ten minutes later, I am annoyed. The acrid smell of recycled garlic wafts across the eighteen inches of space separating us. After twenty minutes, Garlic Man has a miasma of funk surrounding him. My eyes water, my nose involuntarily wrinkles up, and I do a double check just to make sure it’s not me. Eventually, I am forced to hold my breath and retreat, leaving numerous casualties behind flailing at the arm-thingies on their I-limp-and-drools as they gasp for air.
Second only to Garlic Man is The Sprinkler. He looks innocuous enough: a mid-fifties, Flashdance-headband-wearing guy who probably works a lot from home. I give him that polite elevator smile as he climbs onto the machine beside me, then tune him out. At first I try to convince myself it’s someone using the disinfectant spray (and by the way, no one in the world is going to convince me that leaving ionized water on sweat-soaked hand thingies for 10 seconds is going to disinfect them!), but a quick glance shows no one is wiping anything down.
That can only mean one thing: The Sprinkler is beside me.
I look over and see sweat droplets pop off of his body, landing on my arms, the floor, his equipment, and the people in surrounding counties. If we could make all The Sprinklers from all the local gyms exercise in Lake Chesdin each summer, there would no longer be pontoon boats mired in the droughty mud–just a new brackish ecosystem.
Gagging, I leap from the I-limp-and-drool, hastily spray the useless disinfectant all over myself and the machine and huff over to the mats. I add my nastiness to several other layers of sweat and fluid that only a 10th of the population ever bothers to wipe off. The same for the arm and leg machines. After the last set of reps (that’s gym-speak for doing a few, getting tired and pretending you meant to stop for a minute “to rest your muscles”), I grab my keys and stalk out the door.
The endorphins have kicked in, and I am definitely happier, less stressed, and ready to face the world. Yep, nothing is healthier than going to the gym.
Subourbon Mom 