Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: Food, health, self-care, stress, winter
Morning Me (and by morning, I mean 6:00am) is half-asleep, full of optimism, lists and plans to eat fruits and vegetables all day. I’ve scheduled my water and stretching breaks from the computer. Sometimes I even decide to skip a shower so I can have some extra time to write my stories before the real world starts intruding. In my mind, I’m sitting by the window, calmly sipping a cup of coffee, musing about what my latest characters are doing, or what the next blog topic will be.
I’m also feeling pretty superior to, well, everyone because I have control of my life. I’m ready for anything.
And then one or all of these things happen:
- I realize it’s winter, and I still have the upstairs thermometer set to FRIGID because I’m 50. I know I’ll have to sprint to the bathroom to take a shower to warm up, or put on my new Comfy (a Snuggie on steroids) that I got for Christmas and hope I don’t have any zoom calls later. I am not molting back into human form once the Comfy is on.
- I make the mistake of reading the news on my phone. Then, because I’m disgusted by the partisan slant, I read the BBC news to get a more balanced view. This is followed by a quick check of what’s new on FaceBook Marketplace, because who doesn’t love thrifting from their bed? Suddenly it’s 8:00 and there’s no way I’m taking a shower now because… I’m adulting.
- I step out of bed and realize I didn’t do my stretches the day before and my feet are acting up again. There’s no way I’m going for that early morning walk. Now I have to take a shower to loosen up my feet and leg muscles, but by the time I’m done with the shower, I’ve already had two freak-outs about work or something else in my life, and that picture of coffee sipping by the window isn’t even a distant memory anymore.
Afternoon Me, or Monster Me, is like Dr. Jekyll to my morning Mr. Hyde (or is it the other way around?). Afternoon Me has changed into sweats. Afternoon Me’s styled morning hair has been yanked back into a ponytail with a scrunchy from 1988, because I realized on a video call that I need a haircut and a dye job. There are three half-empty cups of coffee on the windowsill and zero glasses of water. I’ve eaten a bologna sandwich at my desk with a side of cookies. Afternoon Me has gone from planning to sip coffee by the window to planning to drink a (large) glass of wine and declare it’s Cereal Night. Again.
I don’t know about you, but despite Afternoon Me’s ragged appearance and snarky mood, I still have hope. All is not lost because, if it was, I wouldn’t be Morning Me at all.
So, here’s to all the Morning Me’s out there and all they represent for us. May your Morning Me always be there for you.
Filed under: Exercise, Misc. Humor | Tags: 2020, confidence, Holidays, humore, New Year's, orange theory, resolutions, self-esteem, stress, success
The New Year is often touted as a time for reflection on the past, making plans for a better tomorrow, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah…
F*#* that.
My reflections on the past come at two or three o’clock in the morning after being awakened by especially searing hot flashes. And, since my hot flashes appear as often as Trump recklessly tweets on foreign policy, I think I’ve reflected a lot over the last 365 days. When I wake up like that, the world seems like a dark place and everything I ever said was wrong…I What was I thinking? That was the worst parenting decision I’ve ever made…Please God, let that email not have been Reply All…My hair does not look like Farrah Fawcett, I don’t care what they said at work…
My plans for the New Year are what they should always have been – just do your best. Note to self: be happy being a 70-percenter. C’s get degrees, and average lives deserve high-fives. Quit freaking out that your list isn’t done, you over-achiever – at least you have a list. In fact, at least you have a pen and paper and you were allowed to learn how to read and write.
Some days, doing your best may mean cranking out that detailed, raise-inspiring report for work, driving your child to a specialist appointment and hearing bad news but giving them a reassuring smile, or helping a friend who’s parent has passed away by organizing the wake. Other days, doing your best may be as simple as remembering to undo the seat best BEFORE you try and get out of the car (yes, I forgot).
Doing your best is relative. One of the things the Orange Theory Fitness program has taught me (besides that I HATE riding the bike and most lunges are worse for me than burpees) is that everyone’s “best” is relative. You probably don’t know that the man next to you on the rower had heart surgery a year ago, and he’s struggling to make his heart stronger so he can play with his grandkids; or that the woman two spots down who can’t plank for more than 10 seconds has shoulders that dislocate habitually and she’s willing them to stay in place so she doesn’t have surgery again; or that the girl on the treadmill who’s walking flat when everyone else is running on a hill is just trying to get through one class without using her inhaler (that’s usually me).
Just do your best, even if that means wearing slippers on your feet to work because you forgot to change your shoes (yep, did that too). You got there, didn’t you? You clearly were not meant to be there, so you’re already over-achieving, right? Way to go!
But for the record, your best better include using your freaking turn signals when you’re driving. Seriously – the 30% that’s not my best will make an appearance if you make me guess what you’re going to do at a stoplight, or why you’re randomly slowing down for no apparent reason.
So…just do your best.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, Build-A-Bear, decorating, family, home decor, home decorating, humor, Middle-Age, mom, moving, packing, real estate, realtors, south, southern, stagers, stress, subourbonmom
There comes a time when every suburbanite needs a change, so they turn their lives upside down, become instant HGTV experts and get the overwhelming urge to purge.
Since there’s no good time to have kids and there’s no good time to move, we decided to add the challenge of doing it in the fall of Daughter #1’s senior year. I mean, really, there isn’t much going on except SAT Tests, college visits every weekend, college applications and Senioritis.
Once the decision was made, we realized we had to get our stuff out of the house (all 15 years and two children of it), and try to make it look like no one ever lived there except June Cleaver and a decorator from Crate & Barrel.
It quickly became clear that we needed a Stager. For those of you unfamiliar with this term, a Stager is someone you pay to come to your house and tell you what you need to get rid of or change so your house will sell. What no one tells you is that having a Stager come into your house is a lesson in humiliation.
Oh, don’t get me wrong – our Stager is a seriously nice lady with good decorating sense who was trying really hard not to be too critical when she was talking about my decorating.
Apparently, there are decorating rules.
I decorate by seeing a picture in Southern Living or Coastal Living, buying one piece of furniture to start the look, then covering that piece of furniture with stuff until you can’t see it anymore. Then I start the process all over again. After walking around the house with my Stager, she said in an exasperated but kind voice, “Are these also the same curtains that were here when you moved in?” When I nodded, chewed her lip and asked hesitantly, “So, do you like shopping?”
I looked around and said, “Um, does it look like I like shopping?”
She just nodded to herself, like a therapist would after hearing some whackadoo story that confirmed their theory that the client is definitely…skewed.
After realizing my serious decorating deficiency, I decided I would channel all of my pent up anxiety at having my world (voluntarily) turned upside down onto the Stager.
And Build-A-Bear.
I now despise Build-A-Bear. Not only did they raise the stuffed animal bar so high you spend half a paycheck picking out fake roller skates and a tutu for a leopard, but they did something even worse – they created memories for the children.
Oh, it was great when my sweet baby girls’ faces lit up on a Build-A-Bear day. I loved watching them pick out the outfits and “adopt” their animal at the kid-friendly computers. Fast forward 10 years when we are trying to fit everything into a pod and there are two more trash bags filled with stuffed Build-A-Bear creatures that just won’t go in. Can I give them away? Of course not – each bear is a memory. They say you can’t put a price tag on memories – well I call bulls#*&t. The price tag is $25-$35 dollars, if you’re lucky and get the basic model without the fancy clothes.
So in went the Build-A-Bear bags (yes, I kept them, damn you, Build-A-Bear) and all of the syrupy memories, and out went two trailer loads of junk to the dump. In went boxes of schoolwork from kindergarten on, and out went my jean skirt from 1989. The closer we got to the show date, in went a lot of bourbon, and out went sentimentality.
Now that the Stager is no longer in our lives and the Build-A-Bears are packed away, I’ll have to find something new to channel all of this self-inflicted anxiety onto.
I’m thinking it will be the person who decided the NFL should play football on Thursdays. I’ve already missed my picks for Week 1 – maybe I’ll go get a football bear.
Subourbon Mom 