Sharing this post from my friend, Jennifer, about her 5k this weekend. Read below and join in the fun!
Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to challenge you! That’s right, YOU! I want you to get out your phone, pull your planner from your purse, go to the calendar on the wall of your office. Now, pull out a pencil, a pen, a marker or poise your finger over your screen to mark June 11 […]
via Makeshift 5k: My Challenge For You — Stellar Fashion & Fitness
Working in computers for the last two decades, I know this question all too well. It’s the first one we’re taught to ask a user any time they are having an issue with their computer, smart phone, etc. If I know this is the FIRST question to ask in technology situations, why did it take me so long to ask it in other situations?
It’s no secret that I’ve gained a good bit of weight in the last year – anyone who sees me can tell. My face is fuller, especially my neck, and I’m starting to look like Mama June (not that there’s anything wrong with the way she looks, I just don’t want to look like her…I want to look like ME!) I want to feel better, more energized, and just be healthier for my family and myself!
So when the husband and I had a long talk recently about our health, we both asked ourselves, “Have we tried restarting?” We were both in agreement that we needed a hard reboot of our eating, fitness, and mindset toward both if we were going to get healthier. The talk was long overdue, but it was so good. We decided on clean eating as much as possible for the next 30 days, as close to Paleo as we could get.
We went through the pantry and fridge and threw out everything that wasn’t in line with plan. We discussed breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and snacks for the next 30 days, creating a meal plan for the week. He went shopping and got everything we needed to SUCCEED this week, with plans to continue for the next three weeks (at least). He cooked crustless quiches (basically eggs and meat or veggies) for us to have each morning for breakfast during the week, fixed his lunches (my Lunch Lady Revolution gal got me all set up), and we’ve got good, healthy dinners covered each night when we’re ready to make them.
I can’t tell you how excited I am about this restart and that we’re doing it together. He always does so well when he’s focused and keeps me in line when I want to get off track. He has no problem sticking to the plan when he takes it on and I am inspired by his determination and success. I could not do this without him and I hope he understands how grateful I am to him for the team support, the cooking, and the love. I can’t wait to see what changes happen for us over the next month and then on. We both weighed in on Monday, our first day, and I’ll be sure to keep you posted on our journey…good or bad!
It’s an odd and scary thing…getting older. Seeing the changes in your body – some subtle, some drastic. One day I’m looking at the smooth, unblemished hands of a 20-year-old and the next I’m noticing how the skin isn’t as taut as it used to be….and how I can see my father’s hands in mine.
I’ve long been afraid of dying. I’ve sought religious counsel, gone to therapy, talked to God and tried to reconcile my feelings, but they’re still there. Granted, since I’ve started therapy, started praying and relying on God more, and found a nice balance with medication (there is NO shame in my game), I have found more peace with it. The mere thought of passing away, of no longer “existing” as I know it, used to bring on a full panic attack complete with gasping, head pounding, blood rushing, nausea, and near fainting. This fear has(had) kept me from flying in airplanes a lot and other things that would enhance LIVING. Like the old cliche goes, I was so scared of dying that I wasn’t living.
Now that things are somewhat better, I can see the effects of aging and think about the future – even the unknown – without breaking into a cold sweat. The lines under my eyes that weren’t there two years ago. The cracks and aches that swing by when they’re feeling lonely. The lines and breaks on the back of my hands that are outlining the years as I go along. I often looked at my father’s hands growing up and thought about all the jobs he’s worked to provide for me, all the hugs he wrapped me in, and the spankings I received (deserved!). I can picture myself as a tiny, tow-headed girl with my little hand completely lost in his as we walked through Six Flags or the World’s Fair. I can remember him throwing me through the air into the hotel pool, holding me tight on rides, and working hard around the house to make sure everything was done that needed to be.
His hands tell a thousand stories, many I don’t even know. My hands have their own stories. But as I watch mine change each day, noticing more and more lines and similarities in skin to my father’s tan, tough hands, I’m grateful that they’re following the same path. I love my father’s hands because they were my swing, my horsey, my crib, my blanket, my security and my comfort whenever I needed. Even if I never have children of my own I hope my hands have – and are – giving someone else that same comfort.
Yes, I know that’s going to make a lot of people angry. So be it. You’ll get over it. Don’t get me wrong – I LOVE most mothers. I have had strong, amazing mother figures throughout my life showing me how it *should* be done and I am grateful they took me under their wings. Virgie, Brenda, Sandra, even Carolyn and Barbara – all had a part in molding me and helping me in those formative years. And I love them so much for the mothering they gave me, especially Virgie. Virgie was definitely my surrogate growing up – and still is. She took me everywhere with her family – weekly skating jaunts, tons of trips to the beaches and to state parks in the camper, anywhere the Todds went, I was welcome and invited. She also watched over me with an eagle eye and when Jennifer got in trouble for something we were both doing, so did I. I cried in her arms more times than I can count and ate more of her chocolate chip pancakes than I care to admit.
I am truly happy for all my friends out there who are mothers and who are doing it right. Yes, I know there’s “no right or wrong” when it comes to parenting since everyone is learning, but come on…there IS a wrong way. I’m glad for all you lovely ladies who are raising children to respect their elders, work hard for what they get, and live honestly. I am thankful for my friends who realize that motherhood isn’t for them for one reason or another and are abstaining from it. I’m happy there are fur baby mamas, like myself, who are focusing their attention on raising critters, rather than humans, because that’s what they can handle or want to do. I’ve often wondered if I didn’t have children because I was afraid I would hurt them like she did me.
I try to put on a brave face and smile with the rest of the world and enjoy the endless stream of mommy pictures on my Facebook feed, whether the mothers are still here or not, but I really just want to throw my device out the window. This should be a happy day for me, for my mother, for so many others. But for friends who mothers have dearly departed, it brings a myriad of emotions that leaves them feeling lonely and numb for a day. For others, like me, whose mothers are still here but not really, I want to just blare some really mean chick music and curse like a sailor. It’s been so long and I have tried so hard, but I’m still angry. There is no closure. I have never said to her all the ways she hurt me, how much I’ve cried and been sad, and how awful I think she is. I gave her a choice – alcohol or me. She made her decision. I know it’s a disease and I know that alcoholics don’t necessarily have a choice, but she’s tried to get better and goes back every time. Fine, have it your way. Drink yourself to death and do whatever you want. Don’t write me asking me for a truce – we’re not fighting. We’re not anything. Because you can’t stop drinking. So thank you. Thank you for giving me life. I really DO appreciate that and am so thankful you did. I love you for that. But that’s where it ends. Until you get help and until you stop drinking, Mother’s Day will be an annual reminder of how you hurt me, how you abandoned me, and how you chose liquor over your family. I hope you enjoyed it. I hope it brought you flowers.
Screw Mother’s Day.
Thank you to Javacia for the writing prompt in her blog post today. Here is my poem:
Where I’m From
I am first from my mother
I am from blank space and lost time
I’m from the projects and welfare
I’m from from stealing and spankings
I’m from abandonment and alcohol
I’m from anger and ashes
I’m from hell and heaven
I’m from heartbreak and goodbye
I am from my father second
I am from discipline and ambition
I am from perfection and love
I am from understanding and gifts
I am from the world third
I am from abuse and invasion
I am from sex and lies
I am from tragedy and recovery
I am from myself last
I am from unicorns and rainbows
I am from smiles and laughter with champagne and cheers
I am from happiness and hope with gratitude and grace.
I am from myself most.