Subourbon Mom


The “Plane” Truth on Mindful Thinking

There are too many people in this world, and most of them found ways to annoy me last weekend while I was traveling by air from Texas–especially the fake cowboy who walked through the Houston airport with his jeans tucked into his boots (the Marlborough Man would have been so ashamed). There were the usual delays and morons who couldn’t figure out how to go through security on the first try.  But one bright spot? Airport food has gotten surprisingly healthier.

On one of the longer flights, I was offered a Mediterranean tapas-style snack to purchase that cost more than I make per hour; I splurged. Added bonus: I was pretty sure no one would sit next to me on the next flight if I ate the olives and fancy, garlicky cheese.

Since I’d lately been reading about mindfulness (the act of being present in the moment, and focusing entirely on one thing at a time), and I had LOTS of time on my hands, I decided to try to bring down my stress levels by savoring each cracker smeared with garlicky cheese. I chewed slowly, letting the crumbs dissolve in my mouth, trying to identify each herb as it hit my palate (garlic was at the top of the list—the other passengers LOVED me).  I felt the way the cracker pieces gummed up between my teeth and resisted the urge to start picking at them; instead, I made those weird faces people make when they run their tongue over their teeth to dislodge an article of food.  I’m pretty sure my lips looked like there was a gerbil running around under there.

I pressed another glob of cheese onto a cracker with the teeny-tiny spoon they provided that looked like it had been stolen from a Polly Pocket set.

Then, the next cracker shattered. Not into a few pieces I could cup in my hand or pick out of my lap, but into a billion tiny specks that hurtled themselves across the cabin and behind me in a hail of Focaccia shrapnel. I didn’t look up, but I could hear people mumbling and shifting around, brushing crackers off of their laptops and phones.

In an instant, I had gone from being mindful, and feeling somewhat superior as I did it, to being mortified and wondering if the lady next to me knew she had cracker crumbs on her cheek (she didn’t—it stayed there the rest of the flight).  I didn’t have the nerve to tell her.

So, I fell back t playing my favorite flying game: Who on this flight would survive on an island if we crashed? Who would be the hero and open the emergency exits? Most of the passengers were elderly (South Texas is like Steven Spielberg’s Cocoon in the winter), so not much help there.  Maybe the ex-football player with the Baptist bible camp shirt on—at the very least, he might be able to put in a good word.  The old biker dude with the mutton chops? Not likely, but based on his tattoos he might be handy with a needle if I needed stitches.  People with kids—forget it. They’d be useless, instinctively protecting their spawn.  My best bet was the pudgy guy wearing cammo, who looked like he would be on the rescue squad, and the skinny lady who looked like a doctor or pharmaceutical rep; either way, one would have training, or one would have good drugs.

Scouting out my fellow passengers may not have exactly been “mindful thinking,” but it did give me a mind full of other things to think about.

 



Atlantis: The Fountain of Youth Needs Some Chlorine

Ahhh…the human mating ritual, commonly known as Spring Break, has begun. For those high school seniors lucky enough to be able to flee the cold and go somewhere warm, bathing suits are agonized over, spray tans are purchased, and cheesy, I-think-this-is-what-grown-ups-wear-at-night-in-bars-clothing is packed.

I recently spent a week at the Atlantis Resort for my teenaged daughters’ Spring Break. While my kids are not even close to being eighteen and they weren’t eligible to drink, I saw many who were, and it made me realize one very, very important thing:

There is NO WAY my kids are going to a resort for Spring Break when they’re eighteen, at least not without my being there.

I also learned several other things:

  1. Spring Break at a beach resort is a Victoria’s Secret marketer’s Nirvana.  Everywhere we looked during the day, there were bathing suits and cover-ups from the catalog, as well as the requisite Aviators and Ray Bans. At night, herds of 18-20 year-olds wandered through the casino wearing in-style shorty-shorts with super-high heeled wedges, looking like preschoolers playing dress-up. However, unlike the models in the catalogs, most of the teenage girls were not an emaciated 5’8”; they were pasty white (or white with red sunburn blotches), and lurched around like giraffes in those ridiculous shoes.
  2. I have no desire to wear anything from the Victoria’s Secret catalog ever again.
  3. I am proud of my ability to manage a buzz (after years of practice). In years past, I would have watched with perverse admiration as a guy upended a Grey Goose bottle and chugged away. This time, all I could think was, “Dude, you’re just gonna hurl on the next girl you dance with. Good luck with that.”
  4. I enjoy the fact that I can walk into a casino and out of it again without blowing a ton of money on the tables, or my dinner on the carpet.
  5. The amount of material that passes for a bikini these days could be purchased in the Band-Aid section of a pharmacy. Before we left, I spent some time outside the Target dressing rooms, waiting for my girls to find something we could agree on.  I eventually buried my hypocrisy, realized there aren’t any bottoms that cover enough to make me happy, and choked back a “Hell no, you’re not going out like that!” I shouldn’t have worried. Compared to many of the girls I saw at the resort, my daughters and their friends looked like nuns.
  6. I have new appreciation for the tankini, especially when riding in a tube in the Lazy River. Those who are brave enough to wear a bikini top risk becoming the newest super hero: UnderBoob, as the top tends to ride up unexpectedly. There is also less risk of leaving a layer of sunburned skin on the tube when you’ve been in it for as while.
  7. Hip-hop music is addicting, no matter how old you are.
  8. Bourbon is a great lubricant for dancing–however, 40-year-old knees don’t bend as much as 20-year-old knees, and it IS possible to get stuck.
  9.  I am not the cougar I thought I was.  I used to say I wanted a guy with a 40-year-old brain in a 20-year-old body.  But there’s a reason a 40-year-old brain is the way it is–we’ve learned all the things 20-year-olds are still toddling through, and it makes us more interesting.  Ok, that was a load of crap. The truth is, any 40-year-old who has a 20-year-old’s body spends WAY too much time in the gym, and wouldn’t have any time left for me.

10. I don’t want to be eighteen again.  Twenty-five? Now that I could do, at least for a weekend.

 

 

 



UnderBoob and other Spring Break Super Heroes
March 22, 2013, 2:15 pm
Filed under: Spring Break | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Spring Break at a resort in the Bahamas—what a great place to people-watch!  And, like anywhere else, there are stereotypes galore.  Here are a few I enjoyed watching as I sat by the pool, turning my skin into leather and racking up more dermatologist bills:

UnderBoob:  The woman who wears her bikini top on the water rides, and unbeknownst to her, it rides up

Aqua-Velva Man:  Sixty-year-old men who consistently try to pick up 20-year-olds in the casino

Flash More-Mom:  Mom whose bathing suit is too small for her augmented breasts

SliderMan: The guy who slides his way in front of you at the bar and gets served first

Fatman & The Toy Wonder:  The fat, Eurotrash guy who has a trophy wife/girlfriend on his arm; the toy is usually blond and significantly younger.

EnvironMan:  The granola tree-hugger who walks around the resort in recycled flip-flops and a t-shirt that says “Save the (fill in the blank),” but drinks from a Styrofoam cup

Narrow:  Named for the narrow strip of banana-hammock (man-thong) occasionally seen on European men, which only makes other men and women narrow their eyes to reduce the sight as much as possible, without looking openly grossed out.

Dumber Woman:  Can be pretty or not, often has a high-pitched squeal of laughter, orders champagne because it’s the only drink she can remember, and wonders why other women avoid her like the plague

The Incredible Bulk: The fat, pasty-white guy/girl who sweats all over the lounge chairs by the pool, and leaves a film of sunscreen in the water

Octopus Prime:  Club dancer whose hands roam so much it’s like there are eight of them

Selektra:  The teenage girl who, like, must agonize over which, like, lounge chair to sit on, which, like sunscreen to use, and, like, which frozen drink to order;

Green Banter:  The jealous men and women who viciously make comments about the others at the resort; when it’s not about you, it can be funny