I’m about to be 27, which is not a big deal but I’m definitely feeling that sense of the looming “adult” set in. Maybe it’s the new apartment and the hubby’s new job, or maybe, “GASP,” my biological clock is actually tick-tocking to the point that I’ll have to face it, one way or another.
For years now I’ve felt like, bring on age 30, what’s the big deal? Bring on the mortgage payment, a screened in porch, bottle of wine, and kids asleep with my man in his recliner burping up high life and complaining about work. I’m ready! I’m sick of living paycheck to paycheck, sick of credit cards substituting savings accounts. I’m ready for the family-economy wagon, worrying about what to make for dinner instead of dropping another $20 bucks on take out, and I’m super ready to feel a sense of home outside of the physical realm that is wherever my husband and the dog are.
Life is never what you think it will be, this much I know in my nearly thirty years of life on this planet. You can plan and set goals all you want but life changes from moment to moment. It’s best to just go with the flow. 10 years ago, my view of the world was completely different. I had completely different ideas of what I wanted or needed and I certainly could’ve never guessed I’d end up where I am now.
Some days I get bummed out that I don’t have a big, grown up, high paying job. True to the Lodjic-girl way, my father raised three smart girls with hefty educations and degrees who don’t work in their field and don’t get to use that degree for more than making others feel stupid from time to time. Unlike my sisters, however, I adopted the Chriss name so at least I have that to make “the cheese stand alone.”
There is something strangely gratifying about working for a living; going into work, coming home and having a steady paycheck. There’s something even more gratifying about looking back at where my husband and I evolved from. My man literally started in a dish pit and is now a head chef, menu creator and pioneer of a brand new, hit restaurant in the Tampa Bay area. I was a spoiled brat with dreams of being an overpriced, bitch lawyer who desperately wanted to go to Pepperdine or Berkeley who ended up at University of Oregon with a Magazine Journalism degree and married to the best man she’d ever met before 30. I once vowed that I would never marry before 30 and almost asked my best friend who is gay to give me some of his genetics so we could created the most sassy child on the planet and I would be a bad-ass single mother conquering the professional world. Clearly I watch too many films of this nature, but life certainly does write its own tune and we’re just singing along!
It definitely doesn’t help that all over Facebook are friends creating families and careers that make my commission-based position look like a promotion at McDonald’s, but another thing I’ve learned is that you either work to live, or live to work and we kind of walk that line. But with that TICK, TOCK that don’t stop also comes the haunting question: Are you a Twenty-SOMETHING or a Twenty-NOTHING?
Define something and nothing? I feel like we’ve got something…at least a little something going for us. We’re certainly able to triumph over the dramatics of this life, even though more often than not we’re the creators of such things. We are able to still love each other even when we really want to scream and throw things. And, we are always able to laugh. We’ve even managed to find some amazing people to laugh at us, with us and around us along the way.
In terms of nothing, well this is certainly nothing like what we’d imagined all those years ago. My man was supposed to be a rocking drummer in a famous band and we’d occasionally meet on tour when I was covering other bands and writing for Rolling Stone magazine. After that dream was squashed we were going to put my man in a high-priced culinary school and live with family to save up for our dreams while I got a fabulous job in Miami or West Palm and a prominent publication. Then that went up in smoke we just planned a wedding, a cross-country move and said, “We’ll just figure out the rest when we get there,” and we did, and we have.
Now I’m not under and magical illusion that we didn’t need some help along the way. We certainly had a lot of support from our friends, family and loved ones but we’ve nearly mastered the art of dealing with the piles of inconvenient happenings that life creates on a regular basis. I’ve said it once before and I’ll say it again, the storm we can handle, it’s the calm that makes us uneasy.
I think that for a twenty-something couple, us Chriss’s are doing pretty well at making sure that we are more than just some twenty-nothings in debt, in doubt and in denial but certainly love embracing our cynicism and sarcastic side to make the bad days feel a little lighter.
We had our moments of nothing, our loss of loved ones in our family, saying goodbye to friends and the people we once couldn’t picture not being part of our lives. But from that nothingness came something, the stuff of which bore our amazing relationship. I still sit back in awe from time to time at how we’ve come to be us, how we’ve creating this “something.”
So yeah, our twenties may be on the down-slope and we may have days where we have no idea where we’re going but at least we’ll have each other for the ride, and that’s definitely a “something” for our twenties, rather than a nothing!
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Monday, December 26, 2011
Worth the Weight
I hope I’m not the only woman who struggles with her weight…constantly. Women really get the shit end of the stick. We already have to be pretty, proper, wear make-up and such. We’re supposed to be maternal, sweet and polite on top of it. Society has also cast a shadow upon us in the form of “The Skinny Girl.” If we don’t fit in the shadows, we don’t fit in period.
When I’m active, I’m healthy, and it shows, but a little laziness, a little extra food, and any amount of alcohol goes a LONG way for this girl’s body. I had baby fat for as long as I could remember. I was the resident chubby girl, wait…I am the resident chubby girl. Most days I like my curves, but every so often I get to feeling down and out about it all and I want it all to go away. This is a constant thing for me, and for most women. And it's a LOT easier to put on, than to take off.
In grade school I was adorably chunky with my red hair, and overlapping front teeth. They pushed me into braces, got me some acne medicine and a training bra and my body started to take shape. I played basketball and enjoyed being active. There’s something gratifying about working your body so hard you feel like you might pass out. When I hit 8th grade, the baby fat shifted into curves and I started looking feminine. With little outfits and everything, I quickly learned that my fashion sense and my body didn’t quite agree. At 13, my first pair of jeans was the size of a thicker adult, and had to be hemmed because I’m so darn short.
In high school I joined the tennis team and dropped at least 15 pounds unbeknownst to me. I was oblivious to that kind of stuff back in the day. Any excuse for new clothes and I was happy! I was a brace-faced, friendly super-dork. I was a social butterfly and was; well I still am, always talking. Now let’s make something clear: I’m an eater. I can pack away food like nobody’s business. I was raised under the rule that one was to finish their dinner before leaving the table. I was also raised to eat whatever was in front of me, even if it wasn’t my favorite, without complaint. I never had sweets around the house so any kind of junk food was a serious treat, so I ate it…compulsively. As if I may never again have it! I’m sure I do/have/did overeat. I think that’s one of the hardest things in this world: portion control.
During high school, I kind of fell into having a “figure,” and all of the sudden I wasn’t just ordinary. I did the homecoming and football dates thing, and the totally had the crushes but I stayed within the “friends’ zone.” That is, until I moved to south Florida. Going from a Catholic School to public school was something else. I could wear my cute outfits. I had matching accessories and everything. It was in public school that boys actually found me…and that’s when this whole, body type thing really became an obsession.
I lived with my mom, who freaks out if she's not a size 2 and, who doesn’t know how to cook. She could barely restock a kitchen. She mostly fed me by taking me out to eat or purchasing fast food, if not she gave me money to do both myself. I rode my bike to school all the time, staying active enough but I started to realize that certain body types attracted certain types of boys. I scored the drama geeks, and sweet, goofy nerds with no problem, but the surfer boys and jocks weren’t so into me. Sure, personalities clashed and guys can be fickle but I attracted the guys that weren’t obvious heartthrobs and fell fast for anyone who called me “pretty,” “attractive,” “beautiful,” or “hot.” This is what messes us girls up, the desire to fit into those labels.
After family drama ensued and I was literally dragged across the country to live with my dad, he actually fed me well, so I got chunky right away. I never thought about what to have, what not to have, how much I was eating or not eating. I just ate whatever I wanted. I packed on some weight here and there but when I had my appendectomy, I gained ten pounds in two weeks when I was stuck on the couch, in bed, and sucking down otter pops and three square meals prepared by my dad. He got me a membership to the YMCA, I discovered hiking and things weren’t so bad. I found a classic, cute, jock kind of guy and fell hard enough for him to break my heart. I heard once that he called me fat in front of my friend’s brother, so I started working out more and became a vegetarian. I also barely ate when I was around him. Eventually, I was cute enough for him to ask me to prom, even though he dumped me the week before for a tall, curvy, basketball player with big boobs.
Post high school, I was slightly more aware. I loved working out. It was just part of my schedule to go to step class and weights class and such. Then I found punk rock boys. One in particular had me looped. It was love at first sight. He'd been known to have called me fat a few times. After our first encounter, where he was so obviously not interested, I lost some pounds, put on a cute band shirt, of a band I knew he’d like, and put black streaks in my hair, wore full make-up with too much eyeliner and he paid attention to me all day.
Later I ended up dating two of his roommates even though he always had my eye. He constantly made me insecure. It wasn’t really his fault, but I was just so enamored of him, I never thought I could be good enough so it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I yo-yoed from a size 4-8 constantly, with all different shapes and comfort levels. I got new piercings and new hair styles, constantly reinvented my wardrobe and was a total freak about eating around him. It was either too much, or not enough. Needless to say, he didn’t stay around my strange behavior in the end.
My husband is pretty much the only man who doesn’t impose body image issues on me, well, he and my dad. That kind of stuff never registers to my dad. I remember asking him about my weight and he said he never wanted me to feel like he judged me unless I reached unhealthy levels, which, thankfully I did not. My husband is a chef, and he likes being health concious but he also likes being a foodie with me. When we do it, we do it RIGHT! We are amazing eaters, but we've had to learn to curb our appetites and expectations. It's been a long road.
When I studied in London I vowed that I wouldn’t drink, but that didn’t even last a day! Between the potatoes, the amazing Indian cuisine, the cider, wine, and amazing lunches my internship provided, I put on a good 15 pounds just living the good life in Europe. No amount of walking could counterbalance it. When I came home during the holidays it just got worse…I had work to do.
After watching too many seasons of Celebrity Fit Club I caved and bought Dr. Ian Smith’s book about weight loss. I even had the then-boyfriend, now husband’s promise to help me out. We were allowed to have 1-2 splurges per week and he even joined the gym with me. The first week he lost 9lbs and I lost 1.5lbs. We stopped weighing in together after that. So unfair!
I messed around with that diet for three months and lost 5lbs. Then I just didn’t care again and stayed steadily swollen as a chunk of a twenty-something. It was the booze. I loved me some alcohol. And like all young things, I liked the sweet stuff. Cosmopolitans, Disco Lemonades, anything fruity and preferably with vodka, were the ones that kept that tummy protruding from my pants and shirts.
Finally, after I stayed pleasantly plump for a year, drowning my sorrows in margaritas, dinners, desserts, big breakfasts, and snacks, and after watching one of my favorite people lose 40lbs on Weight Watchers, I caved and did the cool thing. I lost 10lbs pretty quick and started fitting into things I hadn’t in a very long time. I liked being healthy. I started carefully constructing my workout schedules and was even allowed to have “cheat” days. I got the man on the plan too and we did pretty well. Then I found spin class, and boy did it change my life for the better. I know it was a crazy kind of fad of a thing but I loved it. It's such an amazing workout.
By the time my man proposed, I was about 12lbs down and rocking it strong. Nothing makes a woman snap to it like an upcoming wedding. I lost another 10lbs and had an amazing friend and fitness fiend whip me into shape. I felt good, I looked good, and I made good choices. It was a great accomplishment, but much like my younger days, I stopped paying attention and here I am: ten pounds (give or take the attack of the holidays) heavier.
Nowadays I’m not so obsessed with how I look, I mean I’m married, so I have no one to impress. Kidding! What has been weighing on me lately, pun intended, is the thought of what the future holds. I’m not classified as obese, although my Wii Fit definitely guilt trips me enough, but I need to get back in shape. If not for vanity reasons and health, for one big reason: babies. NO, I AM NOT HAVING A BABY RIGHT NOW, whew! Take it down a notch people…
But it’s that time. It’s prime baby time. Losing the extra baggage will help us both when the time is really right. Other reasons: I was supposed to do a 5k on Thanksgiving to earn my turkey and people bitched out, now I’ve been challenged to another at the beginning of March and I desperately want to do this. I want to accomplish things! I want to fit into favorite clothes again. I want to feel awesome instead of just okay, and I want to be productive. So even though the holidays kicked my ass and sometimes working out is the last thing I want to do at the end of the day, I ask myself, is it worth the weight?
Is the stress worth the second or the third glass of wine? Was the day worthy of an entire BOX of Raisinettes? Do I really need to eat the whole bag of chips just to get it out of the house? Should I stop when I’m kind of full, or so full it hurts? What’s it all worth? And is the weight worth the wait? The wait for baby, health, LIFE, too much food, or the wait for sanity, is it all worth the extra pounds?
After all those years of physical and mental turmoil, maybe the comfort food is just a means to an end. Yes, all girls, big and small, are beautiful. Yes, all girls have their hang ups. Skinny girls worry about being underweight, and bony, voluptuous girls worry about being seen as fat and stress about what they eat in public, and medium girls just worry about it all, but is all that worry, worth the weight?
It’s important to find your comfort zone and mine isn’t too far down the scale. Own your curves, own your body and whatever you put into it. Ladies, we have everything going against us, but we are powerful beings so at the end of the day, big, small, short and tall, just make sure you believe and accept the weight of your decisions…in all aspects.
As for me, this curvy redhead has a lot of work to do. I gotta earn me some wine and some new clothes! Here I come 2012, and you’ll see me a’ ‘runnin’ full speed ahead. I expect this to be a great year that's been worth the wait during 2011 so I'm going to make it happen! Weight not, want not, eh?
When I’m active, I’m healthy, and it shows, but a little laziness, a little extra food, and any amount of alcohol goes a LONG way for this girl’s body. I had baby fat for as long as I could remember. I was the resident chubby girl, wait…I am the resident chubby girl. Most days I like my curves, but every so often I get to feeling down and out about it all and I want it all to go away. This is a constant thing for me, and for most women. And it's a LOT easier to put on, than to take off.
In grade school I was adorably chunky with my red hair, and overlapping front teeth. They pushed me into braces, got me some acne medicine and a training bra and my body started to take shape. I played basketball and enjoyed being active. There’s something gratifying about working your body so hard you feel like you might pass out. When I hit 8th grade, the baby fat shifted into curves and I started looking feminine. With little outfits and everything, I quickly learned that my fashion sense and my body didn’t quite agree. At 13, my first pair of jeans was the size of a thicker adult, and had to be hemmed because I’m so darn short.
In high school I joined the tennis team and dropped at least 15 pounds unbeknownst to me. I was oblivious to that kind of stuff back in the day. Any excuse for new clothes and I was happy! I was a brace-faced, friendly super-dork. I was a social butterfly and was; well I still am, always talking. Now let’s make something clear: I’m an eater. I can pack away food like nobody’s business. I was raised under the rule that one was to finish their dinner before leaving the table. I was also raised to eat whatever was in front of me, even if it wasn’t my favorite, without complaint. I never had sweets around the house so any kind of junk food was a serious treat, so I ate it…compulsively. As if I may never again have it! I’m sure I do/have/did overeat. I think that’s one of the hardest things in this world: portion control.
During high school, I kind of fell into having a “figure,” and all of the sudden I wasn’t just ordinary. I did the homecoming and football dates thing, and the totally had the crushes but I stayed within the “friends’ zone.” That is, until I moved to south Florida. Going from a Catholic School to public school was something else. I could wear my cute outfits. I had matching accessories and everything. It was in public school that boys actually found me…and that’s when this whole, body type thing really became an obsession.
I lived with my mom, who freaks out if she's not a size 2 and, who doesn’t know how to cook. She could barely restock a kitchen. She mostly fed me by taking me out to eat or purchasing fast food, if not she gave me money to do both myself. I rode my bike to school all the time, staying active enough but I started to realize that certain body types attracted certain types of boys. I scored the drama geeks, and sweet, goofy nerds with no problem, but the surfer boys and jocks weren’t so into me. Sure, personalities clashed and guys can be fickle but I attracted the guys that weren’t obvious heartthrobs and fell fast for anyone who called me “pretty,” “attractive,” “beautiful,” or “hot.” This is what messes us girls up, the desire to fit into those labels.
After family drama ensued and I was literally dragged across the country to live with my dad, he actually fed me well, so I got chunky right away. I never thought about what to have, what not to have, how much I was eating or not eating. I just ate whatever I wanted. I packed on some weight here and there but when I had my appendectomy, I gained ten pounds in two weeks when I was stuck on the couch, in bed, and sucking down otter pops and three square meals prepared by my dad. He got me a membership to the YMCA, I discovered hiking and things weren’t so bad. I found a classic, cute, jock kind of guy and fell hard enough for him to break my heart. I heard once that he called me fat in front of my friend’s brother, so I started working out more and became a vegetarian. I also barely ate when I was around him. Eventually, I was cute enough for him to ask me to prom, even though he dumped me the week before for a tall, curvy, basketball player with big boobs.
Post high school, I was slightly more aware. I loved working out. It was just part of my schedule to go to step class and weights class and such. Then I found punk rock boys. One in particular had me looped. It was love at first sight. He'd been known to have called me fat a few times. After our first encounter, where he was so obviously not interested, I lost some pounds, put on a cute band shirt, of a band I knew he’d like, and put black streaks in my hair, wore full make-up with too much eyeliner and he paid attention to me all day.
Later I ended up dating two of his roommates even though he always had my eye. He constantly made me insecure. It wasn’t really his fault, but I was just so enamored of him, I never thought I could be good enough so it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I yo-yoed from a size 4-8 constantly, with all different shapes and comfort levels. I got new piercings and new hair styles, constantly reinvented my wardrobe and was a total freak about eating around him. It was either too much, or not enough. Needless to say, he didn’t stay around my strange behavior in the end.
My husband is pretty much the only man who doesn’t impose body image issues on me, well, he and my dad. That kind of stuff never registers to my dad. I remember asking him about my weight and he said he never wanted me to feel like he judged me unless I reached unhealthy levels, which, thankfully I did not. My husband is a chef, and he likes being health concious but he also likes being a foodie with me. When we do it, we do it RIGHT! We are amazing eaters, but we've had to learn to curb our appetites and expectations. It's been a long road.
When I studied in London I vowed that I wouldn’t drink, but that didn’t even last a day! Between the potatoes, the amazing Indian cuisine, the cider, wine, and amazing lunches my internship provided, I put on a good 15 pounds just living the good life in Europe. No amount of walking could counterbalance it. When I came home during the holidays it just got worse…I had work to do.
After watching too many seasons of Celebrity Fit Club I caved and bought Dr. Ian Smith’s book about weight loss. I even had the then-boyfriend, now husband’s promise to help me out. We were allowed to have 1-2 splurges per week and he even joined the gym with me. The first week he lost 9lbs and I lost 1.5lbs. We stopped weighing in together after that. So unfair!
I messed around with that diet for three months and lost 5lbs. Then I just didn’t care again and stayed steadily swollen as a chunk of a twenty-something. It was the booze. I loved me some alcohol. And like all young things, I liked the sweet stuff. Cosmopolitans, Disco Lemonades, anything fruity and preferably with vodka, were the ones that kept that tummy protruding from my pants and shirts.
Finally, after I stayed pleasantly plump for a year, drowning my sorrows in margaritas, dinners, desserts, big breakfasts, and snacks, and after watching one of my favorite people lose 40lbs on Weight Watchers, I caved and did the cool thing. I lost 10lbs pretty quick and started fitting into things I hadn’t in a very long time. I liked being healthy. I started carefully constructing my workout schedules and was even allowed to have “cheat” days. I got the man on the plan too and we did pretty well. Then I found spin class, and boy did it change my life for the better. I know it was a crazy kind of fad of a thing but I loved it. It's such an amazing workout.
By the time my man proposed, I was about 12lbs down and rocking it strong. Nothing makes a woman snap to it like an upcoming wedding. I lost another 10lbs and had an amazing friend and fitness fiend whip me into shape. I felt good, I looked good, and I made good choices. It was a great accomplishment, but much like my younger days, I stopped paying attention and here I am: ten pounds (give or take the attack of the holidays) heavier.
Nowadays I’m not so obsessed with how I look, I mean I’m married, so I have no one to impress. Kidding! What has been weighing on me lately, pun intended, is the thought of what the future holds. I’m not classified as obese, although my Wii Fit definitely guilt trips me enough, but I need to get back in shape. If not for vanity reasons and health, for one big reason: babies. NO, I AM NOT HAVING A BABY RIGHT NOW, whew! Take it down a notch people…
But it’s that time. It’s prime baby time. Losing the extra baggage will help us both when the time is really right. Other reasons: I was supposed to do a 5k on Thanksgiving to earn my turkey and people bitched out, now I’ve been challenged to another at the beginning of March and I desperately want to do this. I want to accomplish things! I want to fit into favorite clothes again. I want to feel awesome instead of just okay, and I want to be productive. So even though the holidays kicked my ass and sometimes working out is the last thing I want to do at the end of the day, I ask myself, is it worth the weight?
Is the stress worth the second or the third glass of wine? Was the day worthy of an entire BOX of Raisinettes? Do I really need to eat the whole bag of chips just to get it out of the house? Should I stop when I’m kind of full, or so full it hurts? What’s it all worth? And is the weight worth the wait? The wait for baby, health, LIFE, too much food, or the wait for sanity, is it all worth the extra pounds?
After all those years of physical and mental turmoil, maybe the comfort food is just a means to an end. Yes, all girls, big and small, are beautiful. Yes, all girls have their hang ups. Skinny girls worry about being underweight, and bony, voluptuous girls worry about being seen as fat and stress about what they eat in public, and medium girls just worry about it all, but is all that worry, worth the weight?
It’s important to find your comfort zone and mine isn’t too far down the scale. Own your curves, own your body and whatever you put into it. Ladies, we have everything going against us, but we are powerful beings so at the end of the day, big, small, short and tall, just make sure you believe and accept the weight of your decisions…in all aspects.
As for me, this curvy redhead has a lot of work to do. I gotta earn me some wine and some new clothes! Here I come 2012, and you’ll see me a’ ‘runnin’ full speed ahead. I expect this to be a great year that's been worth the wait during 2011 so I'm going to make it happen! Weight not, want not, eh?
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Domestically Challenged
So I’ve been missing from the internet world for two months, where I have been, you ask? Well, we moved and I’ve been trying my hand at the whole domestic, wifely thing. I’m not so sure I’ve got it down, but then again I’m not so sure I’m a complete failure either.
With the husband working towards becoming the next big Chef in Tampa, I took it upon myself to step up and be a super-wife. I packed up almost the entire old apartment and unpacked nearly the entire new apartment without the help of a man. I did it in less than a month’s time. I hammered, I scrubbed, I sewed, and I laundered. I worked my part time job and took care of our toddler-esque, Pug, Brodie. I think I did pretty well. Even the husband himself, thought I did him proud.
I’ll admit I’m in a work out slump. I’ll admit it’s been a rocky road this fall but we have prevailed, and it’s only just begun. I’ve become pretty crafty with the inspiration of a new “canvas,” also known as our grand, new apartment. I made a tablecloth, a coffee table cover, another cover for a toy chest to match and have arranged it all quite nicely.
The deadline was Thanksgiving. We’d invited over some friends with no other plans just to come hang out. The man loves to cook for others and I am always the hostess. We finished the odds and ends of the apartment that very day and pulled together a dinner for 10 guests, which seemed to be a success. We were beyond exhausted on Thanksgiving night and had to peel ourselves out of bed the next morning.
My next foray into the whole domesticity thing was making a Christmas stocking for the puppy, and making some boring, 8$ stocking holders look cool. I puffy-painted them into adorableness and was feeling pretty strong. I had one more, crazy wife thing for the weekend and then I think I would have fulfilled my requirement for at least a handful of years. Two words: Pampered Chef.
Now let me explain something about myself: I’m not a very “girly” girl in many aspects. Aside from my innate ability to match outfits and my Girl-Scout fed ability to hand sew holes and simplicities; I’m not much of a homemaker. I’m the last person you want in a kitchen, unless I’m hyper-organizing and cleaning. I don’t really cook, that’s why I married a chef. I can barely use a knife, let alone do much else than peel, open and reseal.
When a co-worker’s wife asked me to host a Pampered Chef event I thought, “host,” what I do best, but the whole purchasing of kitchen items is completely foreign to me. I’m pretty sure my husband would prefer for me never to purchase kitchen items. He likes to pick those out himself. But, I thought, “Okay, I’m growing up, time to do the normal wife stuff, bring it.”
It went pretty well, and we made her some money but half the things people bought, I didn’t even know the purpose of, let alone how to use them. I’d asked the man but he said, no kitchen things were necessary. I walked away with two cooling racks for cookie-making and such and called it a night. It was definitely an experience. Having people over to let someone else in the kitchen demonstrating the many ways to create culinary masterpieces as I stayed out of the way downing wine wasn’t too far off from my nights at home with my husband in the kitchen. My job has always been to stay out of the way.
Perhaps I’m just domestically challenged, or perhaps I just don’t care, but certain areas of wifehood are beyond me. My house will always be cleaned and organized, but please don’t ask me to make a casserole. I didn’t even learn how to successfully make coffee until I was 20, but I learned how to use a debit card by 17.
It’s true I’ve inherited some scary qualities from my domestically challenged mother, who didn’t even know we had two ovens in the house until 10 years, later and considered making the salad a worthy contribution to the meal, but as my husband always says, “You CAN cook, you just don’t.” I plead the fifth.
I’m still figuring things out. It’s tough to be a domestic goddess, especially when you have to live up to all the other womanly expectations, like dressing well, not looking like a homeless person when you leave the house, and being maternal. For me it’s one step at a time, and if puffy paint, bedazzling, and sewing some patches can be my stepping stones to full on domesticity, it’s just one small step for womankind, and a huge step for me and my freakishly small feet!
With the husband working towards becoming the next big Chef in Tampa, I took it upon myself to step up and be a super-wife. I packed up almost the entire old apartment and unpacked nearly the entire new apartment without the help of a man. I did it in less than a month’s time. I hammered, I scrubbed, I sewed, and I laundered. I worked my part time job and took care of our toddler-esque, Pug, Brodie. I think I did pretty well. Even the husband himself, thought I did him proud.
I’ll admit I’m in a work out slump. I’ll admit it’s been a rocky road this fall but we have prevailed, and it’s only just begun. I’ve become pretty crafty with the inspiration of a new “canvas,” also known as our grand, new apartment. I made a tablecloth, a coffee table cover, another cover for a toy chest to match and have arranged it all quite nicely.
The deadline was Thanksgiving. We’d invited over some friends with no other plans just to come hang out. The man loves to cook for others and I am always the hostess. We finished the odds and ends of the apartment that very day and pulled together a dinner for 10 guests, which seemed to be a success. We were beyond exhausted on Thanksgiving night and had to peel ourselves out of bed the next morning.
My next foray into the whole domesticity thing was making a Christmas stocking for the puppy, and making some boring, 8$ stocking holders look cool. I puffy-painted them into adorableness and was feeling pretty strong. I had one more, crazy wife thing for the weekend and then I think I would have fulfilled my requirement for at least a handful of years. Two words: Pampered Chef.
Now let me explain something about myself: I’m not a very “girly” girl in many aspects. Aside from my innate ability to match outfits and my Girl-Scout fed ability to hand sew holes and simplicities; I’m not much of a homemaker. I’m the last person you want in a kitchen, unless I’m hyper-organizing and cleaning. I don’t really cook, that’s why I married a chef. I can barely use a knife, let alone do much else than peel, open and reseal.
When a co-worker’s wife asked me to host a Pampered Chef event I thought, “host,” what I do best, but the whole purchasing of kitchen items is completely foreign to me. I’m pretty sure my husband would prefer for me never to purchase kitchen items. He likes to pick those out himself. But, I thought, “Okay, I’m growing up, time to do the normal wife stuff, bring it.”
It went pretty well, and we made her some money but half the things people bought, I didn’t even know the purpose of, let alone how to use them. I’d asked the man but he said, no kitchen things were necessary. I walked away with two cooling racks for cookie-making and such and called it a night. It was definitely an experience. Having people over to let someone else in the kitchen demonstrating the many ways to create culinary masterpieces as I stayed out of the way downing wine wasn’t too far off from my nights at home with my husband in the kitchen. My job has always been to stay out of the way.
Perhaps I’m just domestically challenged, or perhaps I just don’t care, but certain areas of wifehood are beyond me. My house will always be cleaned and organized, but please don’t ask me to make a casserole. I didn’t even learn how to successfully make coffee until I was 20, but I learned how to use a debit card by 17.
It’s true I’ve inherited some scary qualities from my domestically challenged mother, who didn’t even know we had two ovens in the house until 10 years, later and considered making the salad a worthy contribution to the meal, but as my husband always says, “You CAN cook, you just don’t.” I plead the fifth.
I’m still figuring things out. It’s tough to be a domestic goddess, especially when you have to live up to all the other womanly expectations, like dressing well, not looking like a homeless person when you leave the house, and being maternal. For me it’s one step at a time, and if puffy paint, bedazzling, and sewing some patches can be my stepping stones to full on domesticity, it’s just one small step for womankind, and a huge step for me and my freakishly small feet!
"Chriss-Mas" Time
“Your excitement for the holidays is creeping me out a little bit,” says my husband the day after Thanksgiving, as I order a Starbucks Christmas Blend and ask which radio station is playing Christmas music for the rest of the year. I looked at him with crazy, childlike Christmas, eyes and whine, “But it’s Christmas, and this year we’re staying home!”
Don’t get me wrong, I love me some big family Christmas celebrations. For the last two years we’ve been lucky enough to fly up north, see snow and our relatives and nestle up by the fire, exchange gifts, laugh, eat too much food, drink too many festive cocktails, and even paint cookies. But this year, we are having our first, married “Chriss-Mas,” at home!
My bestie and her beau are “Grinch's.” They hate Christmas, and that’s okay but for some reason this year I’m on some strange Clark Griswold, circa “Christmas Vacation,” “You-MUST-be-cheery,” tangent. I’m making the puppy a stocking, and even making and filling stockings for the “Grinches” too. I’m trying not to go spend $50 on Christmas movies because I’m sure they’ll all be on TV and Netflix soon enough, and I’m fighting every urge in my body to just keep “Elf” on repeat, 24-7.
Perhaps I caught the Christmas spirit bug, or perhaps I’m just excited to be with the people I love, but we are planning a truly, awesome Chriss-mas. My dad was coming to visit and we were going to get a tree, I’ve been crafting things left and right. I was determined to make this year perfect.
The image was already imprinted in my mind, along with ideas for other projects: Christmas morning with coffee, a grand breakfast with mimosas, lazy in our pajamas opening presents, watching “A Christmas Story” and “Elf,” all day, later having a big dinner with the bestie and her man complete with ham, pie, carbs and everything. It just has to happen this way.
Christmas is one of those holidays that come with mixed memories and drama, but even without my dad staying through the holiday, we’ve managed to keep it pretty relaxed so far. We got the biggest tree we’ve ever had and decorated it while watching, “Christmas Vacation,” and laughing. It was the first time I’d decorated a tree with my dad in over 5 years. Those are the moments that make me want to have an epic Christmas. We made cookies and my cousins bought us Christmassy flowers, someone even bought me a poinsettia, even though I truly hate those things it certainly makes the house have a holiday feel.
I majorly cut back on Christmas shopping this year. I had some strange crisis of conscience where all of the sudden I was guilt ridden for not being able to afford gifts for everyone and their brother, sister and mailman. I had to stop myself: this is exactly how the Grinch came to be. Christmas shouldn’t make you feel bad. It’s harder and harder to get in the spirit each year. Sure when you’re around kids it’s contagious, but why feel bad when you should be concentrating on what it’s all about: the togetherness, tradition and family, not just presents, or lack thereof.
My best friend has three amazing girls all under age 10. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she’s managed to instill the idea that Santa only brings one gift. Family shares plenty of gifts but Santa only brings one. As you can see, my best friend is a genius. This makes Christmas even more special. I want that feeling; of asking for something that really means something, instead of more crap to call your own, and hoard.
My husband kept asking if I could have anything, what would it do, and I got depressed because all I could come up with was appliances but really, all I wanted is exactly what I was getting: a genuine, “Chriss-mas:” Me, the man and the pup, a tree, food, Christmas movies, a few gifts and bliss. Because as much as we miss everyone we are far away from, it’s really about this little family, and it’s about time we had our first “Married” Christmas!
Don’t get me wrong, I love me some big family Christmas celebrations. For the last two years we’ve been lucky enough to fly up north, see snow and our relatives and nestle up by the fire, exchange gifts, laugh, eat too much food, drink too many festive cocktails, and even paint cookies. But this year, we are having our first, married “Chriss-Mas,” at home!
My bestie and her beau are “Grinch's.” They hate Christmas, and that’s okay but for some reason this year I’m on some strange Clark Griswold, circa “Christmas Vacation,” “You-MUST-be-cheery,” tangent. I’m making the puppy a stocking, and even making and filling stockings for the “Grinches” too. I’m trying not to go spend $50 on Christmas movies because I’m sure they’ll all be on TV and Netflix soon enough, and I’m fighting every urge in my body to just keep “Elf” on repeat, 24-7.
Perhaps I caught the Christmas spirit bug, or perhaps I’m just excited to be with the people I love, but we are planning a truly, awesome Chriss-mas. My dad was coming to visit and we were going to get a tree, I’ve been crafting things left and right. I was determined to make this year perfect.
The image was already imprinted in my mind, along with ideas for other projects: Christmas morning with coffee, a grand breakfast with mimosas, lazy in our pajamas opening presents, watching “A Christmas Story” and “Elf,” all day, later having a big dinner with the bestie and her man complete with ham, pie, carbs and everything. It just has to happen this way.
Christmas is one of those holidays that come with mixed memories and drama, but even without my dad staying through the holiday, we’ve managed to keep it pretty relaxed so far. We got the biggest tree we’ve ever had and decorated it while watching, “Christmas Vacation,” and laughing. It was the first time I’d decorated a tree with my dad in over 5 years. Those are the moments that make me want to have an epic Christmas. We made cookies and my cousins bought us Christmassy flowers, someone even bought me a poinsettia, even though I truly hate those things it certainly makes the house have a holiday feel.
I majorly cut back on Christmas shopping this year. I had some strange crisis of conscience where all of the sudden I was guilt ridden for not being able to afford gifts for everyone and their brother, sister and mailman. I had to stop myself: this is exactly how the Grinch came to be. Christmas shouldn’t make you feel bad. It’s harder and harder to get in the spirit each year. Sure when you’re around kids it’s contagious, but why feel bad when you should be concentrating on what it’s all about: the togetherness, tradition and family, not just presents, or lack thereof.
My best friend has three amazing girls all under age 10. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she’s managed to instill the idea that Santa only brings one gift. Family shares plenty of gifts but Santa only brings one. As you can see, my best friend is a genius. This makes Christmas even more special. I want that feeling; of asking for something that really means something, instead of more crap to call your own, and hoard.
My husband kept asking if I could have anything, what would it do, and I got depressed because all I could come up with was appliances but really, all I wanted is exactly what I was getting: a genuine, “Chriss-mas:” Me, the man and the pup, a tree, food, Christmas movies, a few gifts and bliss. Because as much as we miss everyone we are far away from, it’s really about this little family, and it’s about time we had our first “Married” Christmas!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Babies on the Brain
I guess I’ve just entered that stage of life, or I’ve hit that definitive age where everyone I know seems to be getting married, having babies, buying houses and in all senses of the phrase “growing up.” Now I’ve written about how I fear that I have missed the boat in some senses. Although mentally I grew up before most, merely out of circumstance, I seem to be regressing from, or at least straddling the lines of grown up-ness.
I have no current desire to own a house. I like apartments. Freedom! Being able to pick up and go or to start something new and exciting are things that I value. I could barely commit to a dog! But now that I have a dog, he’s our whole little world. Imagine how crazy our child would be.
Now, as Destiny’s Child serenaded us in the nineties with, “Bills, Bills, Bills,” it still rings true. We still have credit card debt, we need to save for a new car and we need to be able to afford medical insurance (don’t act surprised!), BC, “Before Child.” I desperately want a new T.V. and computer, and we still haven’t had an actual vacation together. Who needs a mortgage and rugrats running around on top of it all?
I have those hormonal times where I’m desperate to reproduce and I need a baby fix, but then I think about how much I look forward to girls night and trips to visit family, and I’m snapped back into reality. It’s some unspoken law that as soon as you get married you are instantly expected to make a family, if you haven’t already begun one. I feel the question looming every time we hang out with in-laws and sisters and such: “When are you going to have a baby?”
Some of the women I admire most are mothers and friends and family alike all tell me there is no true way to “plan” baby time and you’ll never actually be ready. But lately, it’s not the “money” or the “ready.” It’s the sheer fear and lack of mothering self esteem that stops me in my fantastical tracks every time I think I want to board the baby train.
I can’t say I didn’t have a mom around; she was around but she wasn’t exactly much of a mom for most of my life. Granted, the years she was around I wasn’t very in tune with the world, I was under age 10 for most of her mothering years. My mother uses this idea as an excuse to get angry and claim that I’m accusing her of being a terrible mother but the truth is most of my early childhood memories are either pixilated amalgams of pictures and stories, or jumbled physical things associated with the latter. The one thing I remember is my mother telling me that during one of her momentary lapses in parental judgment she kicked me out of the car for kindergarten and said, “I’m so done! I don’t want to be a mother anymore!” I walked into class, promptly and matter-of-factly announced to my teacher, “My mom doesn’t want to be a mom anymore.” My teacher looked back at me with concern and horror, claiming that she’s sure my mother didn’t really mean it, and that I must have misunderstood. Later, my mother received a phone call from the school making sure she’d actually be there to pick me up that afternoon. That story has become legend. I was 5! What would you expect?
Granted, most people don’t have ideal, amazing mothers but I think those of us who get raised by the real nut-jobs or lose a parent during our early stages of life, really have no idea what a mother is supposed to be. There are so many stereotypes with it all. In essence, my dad ended up being way more of a mom. He did my laundry, hemmed my clothes, sewed patches onto wholes, fed me meals with all of the food groups, forced me to drink my water and my milk, and probably made more trips to the store for tampons than my mother ever did. She took me shopping, kept me current with fashion, and helped keep me loud, grouchy and quick on my toes with the insults and jabs that only a real mother can teach you.
My best friend lost her mother when we were in high school and she may be the greatest mother I’ve ever met. She has three little girls who all adore her. She’s kept true to herself in every sense and has raised an amazing family. So against all the stereotypes, I know that her loss hasn’t converted her into a tequila-drinking mom, who watches television all day, ignoring the screaming children, perhaps throwing them a Pringle or Swedish Fish every 20 minutes or so, while simultaneously chain-smoking Marlboro reds, which leaves me hopeful. But then again, what if I become that mother?
Most days I feel I’d shame the word “Mom.” That’s what I’m afraid of. All women strive to never end up like their mothers but I just don’t want to be one of those moms they put on Jerry Springer specials or that end up on Hoarders and Intervention. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable goal.
I was a nanny for most of my life and I love being around kids. Kids are the best friends you’ll ever find and the only little people who will tell you the unyielding truth, love you for what you are, see through any bullshit you may be bearing, and call you ridiculous names all while making you fall in love with them. Two of my best friends in this life are 9 and 17. Kids just keep it real.
I know my husband will be a great father. I have no doubt whatsoever. Even though he makes fun of the fact that I will be completely psychotic when I’m pregnant, and claims I can barely deal with the dog, I know he has faith in me, and in us. For some reason though, at the end of the day, I’m still scared shitless.
I know we made the conscious choice to move across the country from the majority of our family members, but the idea of having a baby makes me feel even farther away. Granted, people would visit, but we’d have no extra support system like most “settled” people do. Then again, we don’t really have parents who can take the kids for days at a time, or who could stay up all night and help us. I’ve got some amazing friends and sisters who could help here and there, but I would end up with just Eben and baby Chriss. Although the thought of just us three is somewhat frightening, it’s really everything I’ve ever wanted anyway, so comforting in the end.
I’m so used to depending on only a small handful of people. It’s almost liberating to think that when it’s time for an addition to the family, it will be our own creation and our own endeavor. It’s a mixed bag, really. I long for having some people physically closer, and I get bummed out and jealous when I see all these friends and family members with their aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, moms and dads as integral parts of their babies lives, but then again, I’ve never really had that kind of situation as something lasting in my life, so why should I miss something that’s never really been there?
We are lucky enough in this world to have found a grouping of friends and family that truly love being a part of our lives, and I know when the time comes, they’ll step up and make sure I’m not a mommy disaster. But, for now it feels like we’re worlds away from babyhood.
We’ve talked about it, and we talk about it all the time. I feel there’s no rush. Even though “my biological clock is ticking,” there’s always time. I’ve stayed pretty healthy to make sure things are easier when the time comes. I’ve read the literature and statistics. The bottom line is, no matter how afraid I am, or how I feel about my own mom, if I do my best, perhaps I’ll raise a kid who can do the same and surpass all other expectations.
Babies may be on the brain but I’m pretty far away from catching the baby train. Just like everything else in this life, I’ll come into it on my own terms. As crazy as I am and scared as I can be, we tend to get through it all and make it work; we always do. Introducing a ginger baby into the world and raising baby Chriss will just be another chapter in the journey!
I have no current desire to own a house. I like apartments. Freedom! Being able to pick up and go or to start something new and exciting are things that I value. I could barely commit to a dog! But now that I have a dog, he’s our whole little world. Imagine how crazy our child would be.
Now, as Destiny’s Child serenaded us in the nineties with, “Bills, Bills, Bills,” it still rings true. We still have credit card debt, we need to save for a new car and we need to be able to afford medical insurance (don’t act surprised!), BC, “Before Child.” I desperately want a new T.V. and computer, and we still haven’t had an actual vacation together. Who needs a mortgage and rugrats running around on top of it all?
I have those hormonal times where I’m desperate to reproduce and I need a baby fix, but then I think about how much I look forward to girls night and trips to visit family, and I’m snapped back into reality. It’s some unspoken law that as soon as you get married you are instantly expected to make a family, if you haven’t already begun one. I feel the question looming every time we hang out with in-laws and sisters and such: “When are you going to have a baby?”
Some of the women I admire most are mothers and friends and family alike all tell me there is no true way to “plan” baby time and you’ll never actually be ready. But lately, it’s not the “money” or the “ready.” It’s the sheer fear and lack of mothering self esteem that stops me in my fantastical tracks every time I think I want to board the baby train.
I can’t say I didn’t have a mom around; she was around but she wasn’t exactly much of a mom for most of my life. Granted, the years she was around I wasn’t very in tune with the world, I was under age 10 for most of her mothering years. My mother uses this idea as an excuse to get angry and claim that I’m accusing her of being a terrible mother but the truth is most of my early childhood memories are either pixilated amalgams of pictures and stories, or jumbled physical things associated with the latter. The one thing I remember is my mother telling me that during one of her momentary lapses in parental judgment she kicked me out of the car for kindergarten and said, “I’m so done! I don’t want to be a mother anymore!” I walked into class, promptly and matter-of-factly announced to my teacher, “My mom doesn’t want to be a mom anymore.” My teacher looked back at me with concern and horror, claiming that she’s sure my mother didn’t really mean it, and that I must have misunderstood. Later, my mother received a phone call from the school making sure she’d actually be there to pick me up that afternoon. That story has become legend. I was 5! What would you expect?
Granted, most people don’t have ideal, amazing mothers but I think those of us who get raised by the real nut-jobs or lose a parent during our early stages of life, really have no idea what a mother is supposed to be. There are so many stereotypes with it all. In essence, my dad ended up being way more of a mom. He did my laundry, hemmed my clothes, sewed patches onto wholes, fed me meals with all of the food groups, forced me to drink my water and my milk, and probably made more trips to the store for tampons than my mother ever did. She took me shopping, kept me current with fashion, and helped keep me loud, grouchy and quick on my toes with the insults and jabs that only a real mother can teach you.
My best friend lost her mother when we were in high school and she may be the greatest mother I’ve ever met. She has three little girls who all adore her. She’s kept true to herself in every sense and has raised an amazing family. So against all the stereotypes, I know that her loss hasn’t converted her into a tequila-drinking mom, who watches television all day, ignoring the screaming children, perhaps throwing them a Pringle or Swedish Fish every 20 minutes or so, while simultaneously chain-smoking Marlboro reds, which leaves me hopeful. But then again, what if I become that mother?
Most days I feel I’d shame the word “Mom.” That’s what I’m afraid of. All women strive to never end up like their mothers but I just don’t want to be one of those moms they put on Jerry Springer specials or that end up on Hoarders and Intervention. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable goal.
I was a nanny for most of my life and I love being around kids. Kids are the best friends you’ll ever find and the only little people who will tell you the unyielding truth, love you for what you are, see through any bullshit you may be bearing, and call you ridiculous names all while making you fall in love with them. Two of my best friends in this life are 9 and 17. Kids just keep it real.
I know my husband will be a great father. I have no doubt whatsoever. Even though he makes fun of the fact that I will be completely psychotic when I’m pregnant, and claims I can barely deal with the dog, I know he has faith in me, and in us. For some reason though, at the end of the day, I’m still scared shitless.
I know we made the conscious choice to move across the country from the majority of our family members, but the idea of having a baby makes me feel even farther away. Granted, people would visit, but we’d have no extra support system like most “settled” people do. Then again, we don’t really have parents who can take the kids for days at a time, or who could stay up all night and help us. I’ve got some amazing friends and sisters who could help here and there, but I would end up with just Eben and baby Chriss. Although the thought of just us three is somewhat frightening, it’s really everything I’ve ever wanted anyway, so comforting in the end.
I’m so used to depending on only a small handful of people. It’s almost liberating to think that when it’s time for an addition to the family, it will be our own creation and our own endeavor. It’s a mixed bag, really. I long for having some people physically closer, and I get bummed out and jealous when I see all these friends and family members with their aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, moms and dads as integral parts of their babies lives, but then again, I’ve never really had that kind of situation as something lasting in my life, so why should I miss something that’s never really been there?
We are lucky enough in this world to have found a grouping of friends and family that truly love being a part of our lives, and I know when the time comes, they’ll step up and make sure I’m not a mommy disaster. But, for now it feels like we’re worlds away from babyhood.
We’ve talked about it, and we talk about it all the time. I feel there’s no rush. Even though “my biological clock is ticking,” there’s always time. I’ve stayed pretty healthy to make sure things are easier when the time comes. I’ve read the literature and statistics. The bottom line is, no matter how afraid I am, or how I feel about my own mom, if I do my best, perhaps I’ll raise a kid who can do the same and surpass all other expectations.
Babies may be on the brain but I’m pretty far away from catching the baby train. Just like everything else in this life, I’ll come into it on my own terms. As crazy as I am and scared as I can be, we tend to get through it all and make it work; we always do. Introducing a ginger baby into the world and raising baby Chriss will just be another chapter in the journey!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
She Drives Me Crazy
I remember when my dad bought her. I was 16. He described her as having the same features as this new thing called a Prius, but it was more affordable and wasn’t a hybrid car. Of course he made sure she was complete with a CD player and no power windows, in case they could cause you to be trapped inside. She was forest green, which I immediately hated because they had an awesome light teal colored one I thought was way cuter.
She’s the car I learned to drive on. It was in a tiny bank parking lot in our tiny home town which seems like a whole different life ago, lately. She was a 2000 Toyota Echo, which I pronounced “Etch-O,” because I thought I was being cute and quippy. When my parents split up, the Echo accompanied my dad to Oregon. I drove my mom’s Honda or Mazda or whatever. Basic four door sedan thing, easy to drive and fairly ordinary looking. I took my driver’s test much later in a Honda CR-V, but when my dad rescued me from my mother in Florida, “Enid” the Echo as she would later be named, came down from Oregon to scoop me up.
I can’t pretend I was excited to see either one of them, Enid or my dad that is, but they were there, just like they always have been. The Echo towed a trailer with all my furniture in it, 2,500 miles up the mountains to Eugene, Oregon in 5 of the longest and most miserable days ever. Before we even got 4 hours out she took away our air conditioning capabilities because she’d overheat from towing our emotional baggage and the massive trailer. No one could believe we fit an entire bedroom set and all my other crap in just an Echo and a trailer. But we were rock stars.
As soon as we got home to Oregon, my dad and I shared the Echo. Finally he bought a truck to better suit his needs for life in the woods and Enid became my own. I had the newest car of my friends in High School. She was cute. I eventually started adorning her in stickers. If you look at my Echo and then others, you start to see how they actually just look ridiculous without being covered in bumper stickers. I had punk rock bands, offensive political statements about Bush and random other band’s names, plastered all over her. She’s very eclectic.
Her name came to me shortly after meeting some friends that had a band. All of their cars had names, like “The Faded Patch,” and such. During a phase where I was obsessed with the Barenaked Ladies, I heard this song “Enid.” And I thought…”Hmm, Enid the Etch-O. Has quite the ring to it.” And so she has become the greatest car there ever was!
Currently Enid has over 230,000 miles on her. She has been across the country 3 times. She’s been up and down the Oregon Coast, seen Washington, Idaho, and even driven down Lombard Street in San Francisco. She got to ride on a trailer when we moved to Tampa two years ago, because she’s such precious cargo but she’s a BAMF with no doubt.
My father trained me to be meticulous about taking care of her. More than most chicks would ever. So I am: Oil changes regularly, tires, general maintenance and always treating her well. This is a car that has been there for me for a decade. She’s been with me longer than I’ve known my husband!
An ex-boyfriend almost stole her once. It was just her and me on the tearful drive home. She used to help me get my favorite little ones to the park to feed the ducks. Lolly even decorated her in Dora The Explorer stickers, that are still on the rear window. Enid gave me the momentum to get my only speeding tickets. She drove all the people I loved the most around at one time or another. She got my old best friend and his sister’s to their grandparent’s final moments, got countless friends to concerts, and never let any one of us down.
She camped, she was a mountaineer and even hit the gravel roads deep in the Oregon woods to get to my dad’s off the grid cabin. She saved our lives when we spun out on the highway on black ice with barely a scrape or scratch on her. We were going 60miles per hour and easily could have flipped and crashed through the embankment but instead she just bounced and turned, halting us safely.
On our wedding night someone broke Enid’s window and stole some of our stuff before our big move to Florida. She let us patch her up with duct tape and withstood a wicked southern rainstorm until we could get her window fixed. She always takes care of us, and we’ll always take care of her.
Since we’ve been down in Florida, we’ve put a lot of miles on her. We can’t afford a new car any time soon, so we are very attentive to her needs. She’s cost us some bucks over the last two years but she’s getting old so she deserves some TLC. It was on Sunday night recently though, that she was seemingly taking a turn for the worse.
We’d just gotten her oil changed. My husband had recently made the rule that she really needs to run a few minutes after sitting for more than a couple of hours before we just take off, so she gets warmed up before every outing. One rainy morning, she seemed to be choking in some way. I could feel her jerking a bit under me. It wasn’t enough for her to not work, but it was concerning. She quit her jolts a few minutes in and got us to work. Sunday afternoon though, she wasn’t quitting. The entire drive across town, unless I hit 50miles per hour, I could feel her having a tough time.
Sundays are often my Friday so I met my husband at the bar and he fed me candy-flavored shots and a beer. Finally we left and he drove us home. It was when he felt it that he immediately said, “I’m taking her in first thing in the morning.” I was rolling my eyes about it costing money when a pained look crossed his face. He said, “Oh, no…I hope it’s not the transmission, because that’s like 2,000$ and we’d have to buy a new car.”
My buzzed emotional self lost it. I actually felt the tears running down and sobbed. “No! She’s the best car in the world! It’s not her time to go! She’s been with me forever! She’s the only car I’ve ever had!” Because my husband is a great man, he just holds my hand and says, “Honey, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s great but we need to check it out. And she’s an old girl so we’ll just see.”
At this point all I can think about is how offensive that new car smell would be. How could I be in a car with no dog hair, and without stickers? Then I pictured them smashing her in one of those giant machines and I just bit my lip and felt another tear push my mascara into my eyes. I paused a couple times admitting it was ridiculous that I was crying over a car but Enid wasn’t “a car!” SHE WAS MY CAR!
When I had no one, Enid was there to take me away. When everything in my life sucked, she was still there. She was the only piece of Pennsylvania I truly had left that wasn’t a photograph, family member or friend. She followed me everywhere. She drives me crazy in all the best ways! She’s never stranded me or would ever hurt me. As the great Queen song proclaims, “I’m in love with my car!”
I barely slept that night and as I tossed and turned I just begged the universe for it to not be the transmission or cripplingly expensive. My husband rolled out of bed and took her in. It took an hour just for the diagnostic. I felt like I was waiting for them to say she had car cancer. When he called, he asked what all people ask in those situations: “Good or bad news first?”
“Bad,” I said.
“The cylinders and the spark plugs all have to be replaced and they don’t have the parts. Good news is it’s not the transmission.”
“WHEW!” I thought, as he interjected, “But it’s still going to cost about $500 bucks.”
Ugh! Can’t we catch a break!? But I was quickly calmed at the fact that Enid was going to be okay. They sent my husband home with a newish, bright red Toyota Camry. He looked ridiculous in it. It was huge and so clean and…NEW! It felt weird. I didn’t know how soon we would get the car back and I had a crummy day at work until my co-worker buddies showed up and then one said, “I’ll see if I can see a shiny red car waiting for you.”
“Oh wait,” she said, “He’s got your car! And there’s Brodie!” I was instantly happy to see my car waiting for my with my pug hanging out the window. The family was back together: Eben, Ali, Brodie and Enid the Etch-O. I know I’ll lose it when her time comes, but for now, we have a lot of family events to do together, and even though she can drive us crazy, she can drive us everywhere!
She’s the car I learned to drive on. It was in a tiny bank parking lot in our tiny home town which seems like a whole different life ago, lately. She was a 2000 Toyota Echo, which I pronounced “Etch-O,” because I thought I was being cute and quippy. When my parents split up, the Echo accompanied my dad to Oregon. I drove my mom’s Honda or Mazda or whatever. Basic four door sedan thing, easy to drive and fairly ordinary looking. I took my driver’s test much later in a Honda CR-V, but when my dad rescued me from my mother in Florida, “Enid” the Echo as she would later be named, came down from Oregon to scoop me up.
I can’t pretend I was excited to see either one of them, Enid or my dad that is, but they were there, just like they always have been. The Echo towed a trailer with all my furniture in it, 2,500 miles up the mountains to Eugene, Oregon in 5 of the longest and most miserable days ever. Before we even got 4 hours out she took away our air conditioning capabilities because she’d overheat from towing our emotional baggage and the massive trailer. No one could believe we fit an entire bedroom set and all my other crap in just an Echo and a trailer. But we were rock stars.
As soon as we got home to Oregon, my dad and I shared the Echo. Finally he bought a truck to better suit his needs for life in the woods and Enid became my own. I had the newest car of my friends in High School. She was cute. I eventually started adorning her in stickers. If you look at my Echo and then others, you start to see how they actually just look ridiculous without being covered in bumper stickers. I had punk rock bands, offensive political statements about Bush and random other band’s names, plastered all over her. She’s very eclectic.
Her name came to me shortly after meeting some friends that had a band. All of their cars had names, like “The Faded Patch,” and such. During a phase where I was obsessed with the Barenaked Ladies, I heard this song “Enid.” And I thought…”Hmm, Enid the Etch-O. Has quite the ring to it.” And so she has become the greatest car there ever was!
Currently Enid has over 230,000 miles on her. She has been across the country 3 times. She’s been up and down the Oregon Coast, seen Washington, Idaho, and even driven down Lombard Street in San Francisco. She got to ride on a trailer when we moved to Tampa two years ago, because she’s such precious cargo but she’s a BAMF with no doubt.
My father trained me to be meticulous about taking care of her. More than most chicks would ever. So I am: Oil changes regularly, tires, general maintenance and always treating her well. This is a car that has been there for me for a decade. She’s been with me longer than I’ve known my husband!
An ex-boyfriend almost stole her once. It was just her and me on the tearful drive home. She used to help me get my favorite little ones to the park to feed the ducks. Lolly even decorated her in Dora The Explorer stickers, that are still on the rear window. Enid gave me the momentum to get my only speeding tickets. She drove all the people I loved the most around at one time or another. She got my old best friend and his sister’s to their grandparent’s final moments, got countless friends to concerts, and never let any one of us down.
She camped, she was a mountaineer and even hit the gravel roads deep in the Oregon woods to get to my dad’s off the grid cabin. She saved our lives when we spun out on the highway on black ice with barely a scrape or scratch on her. We were going 60miles per hour and easily could have flipped and crashed through the embankment but instead she just bounced and turned, halting us safely.
On our wedding night someone broke Enid’s window and stole some of our stuff before our big move to Florida. She let us patch her up with duct tape and withstood a wicked southern rainstorm until we could get her window fixed. She always takes care of us, and we’ll always take care of her.
Since we’ve been down in Florida, we’ve put a lot of miles on her. We can’t afford a new car any time soon, so we are very attentive to her needs. She’s cost us some bucks over the last two years but she’s getting old so she deserves some TLC. It was on Sunday night recently though, that she was seemingly taking a turn for the worse.
We’d just gotten her oil changed. My husband had recently made the rule that she really needs to run a few minutes after sitting for more than a couple of hours before we just take off, so she gets warmed up before every outing. One rainy morning, she seemed to be choking in some way. I could feel her jerking a bit under me. It wasn’t enough for her to not work, but it was concerning. She quit her jolts a few minutes in and got us to work. Sunday afternoon though, she wasn’t quitting. The entire drive across town, unless I hit 50miles per hour, I could feel her having a tough time.
Sundays are often my Friday so I met my husband at the bar and he fed me candy-flavored shots and a beer. Finally we left and he drove us home. It was when he felt it that he immediately said, “I’m taking her in first thing in the morning.” I was rolling my eyes about it costing money when a pained look crossed his face. He said, “Oh, no…I hope it’s not the transmission, because that’s like 2,000$ and we’d have to buy a new car.”
My buzzed emotional self lost it. I actually felt the tears running down and sobbed. “No! She’s the best car in the world! It’s not her time to go! She’s been with me forever! She’s the only car I’ve ever had!” Because my husband is a great man, he just holds my hand and says, “Honey, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s great but we need to check it out. And she’s an old girl so we’ll just see.”
At this point all I can think about is how offensive that new car smell would be. How could I be in a car with no dog hair, and without stickers? Then I pictured them smashing her in one of those giant machines and I just bit my lip and felt another tear push my mascara into my eyes. I paused a couple times admitting it was ridiculous that I was crying over a car but Enid wasn’t “a car!” SHE WAS MY CAR!
When I had no one, Enid was there to take me away. When everything in my life sucked, she was still there. She was the only piece of Pennsylvania I truly had left that wasn’t a photograph, family member or friend. She followed me everywhere. She drives me crazy in all the best ways! She’s never stranded me or would ever hurt me. As the great Queen song proclaims, “I’m in love with my car!”
I barely slept that night and as I tossed and turned I just begged the universe for it to not be the transmission or cripplingly expensive. My husband rolled out of bed and took her in. It took an hour just for the diagnostic. I felt like I was waiting for them to say she had car cancer. When he called, he asked what all people ask in those situations: “Good or bad news first?”
“Bad,” I said.
“The cylinders and the spark plugs all have to be replaced and they don’t have the parts. Good news is it’s not the transmission.”
“WHEW!” I thought, as he interjected, “But it’s still going to cost about $500 bucks.”
Ugh! Can’t we catch a break!? But I was quickly calmed at the fact that Enid was going to be okay. They sent my husband home with a newish, bright red Toyota Camry. He looked ridiculous in it. It was huge and so clean and…NEW! It felt weird. I didn’t know how soon we would get the car back and I had a crummy day at work until my co-worker buddies showed up and then one said, “I’ll see if I can see a shiny red car waiting for you.”
“Oh wait,” she said, “He’s got your car! And there’s Brodie!” I was instantly happy to see my car waiting for my with my pug hanging out the window. The family was back together: Eben, Ali, Brodie and Enid the Etch-O. I know I’ll lose it when her time comes, but for now, we have a lot of family events to do together, and even though she can drive us crazy, she can drive us everywhere!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Run, Fat Girl, RUN!
It’s been a rough summer…We started with this awesome vacation to see the family on the West Coast. And vacation, is vacation. There’s no calorie counting and no cares. We hiked, I went to a friend’s step class, we walked a lot but we were there to relax and not care! Drama hit afterward and I was just so exhausted from dealing with it all, working out wasn’t a high priority.
Three years ago before we even got engaged I was pushing maximum density. Between being a food lover, being in love with a chef, and my cocktail enthusiast side, even working out wasn’t really balancing out my intake. A family member joined Weight Watchers and although I’d originally scoffed, she was kicking some major ass, so I fell on that bandwagon. I got back into my workouts. I do love working out. It makes me feel so much better! I got some personal counseling and I made myself lose the weight.
By the time Eben proposed, I was 10lbs down. They say nothing kicks you into gear like an impending wedding. They were so right. I had a gorgeous blonde bombshell of a friend who was also a personal trainer. With Weight Watchers, a strict routine, and the help of Alicia, by the end of it I’d lost 20lbs and fit into a size 4 for the first time since high school. And I didn’t loathe my body much anymore. Success!
For the past two years I’d managed to maintain that figure within about a 5lb range. Ladies, who are we kidding? We can gain 5lbs in a day if the mood is right. Women’s bodies are bitches, just like we end up being because we are trapped into them! I went to spin class a few times a week, hit yoga and body sculpting classes, the elliptical and stair master. I didn’t indulge too hard core and I kept tabs on it all.
In March after a crazy stretch of time where I was working so much that food became a far off dream between naps, and I was lucky if I could grab a granola bar, let alone a fulfilling meal, I’d actually squeezed into the skinny jeans for a week or so but I didn’t feel the need to be skinny really, just healthy.
I come from a long line of petite women who can stay petite but can also balloon up into something of a lumpy pear with compulsive eating habits and alcoholic tendencies. I’ve straddled both the skinny and chunky for most of my life. When I’m active my body shows it, and when I’m inactive, it really shows it.
Before the big vacation this June I cancelled my gym membership because between the puppy, work and everything else, we didn’t need the added expense, and I didn’t have enough time to make it worthwhile. I had a Wii Fit, Wii Active and a decent elliptical at our crummy apartment complex gym to keep me going. I also discovered the dog liked to jog, so I should indulge with him.
I guess six months of “Whatever, I don’t care, I’ll have a gym membership this fall to make up for it,” bit me in my ever expanding ass, after all. When they say it’s easier to put it on than it is to take it off, they aren’t joking! I shouldn’t have justified it when the pants started to get tight. I shouldn’t have spent so much time sucking it in. I should have gotten my ass out of the chair…shoulda, coulda, woulda!
So I made the mistake of getting on the evil square known as the scale, and it may as well have just read “Fat Bitch.” The number amount pretty much said that perfectly! And then the water works started! I, all of the sudden, wished there was some strange way of my being pregnant and the damn baby was making me chunky, but all of the alcohol units wouldn’t have made that possible, so then I stood there getting on and off of the damn scale, sucking it in and willing it to drop down two measly numbers just so I could endure more justifications.
I forced my husband into caring even though he did the obligatory, “You’re beautiful no matter what,” song and dance complete with a “Who cares babe?” and “We’ll do whatever you want to make you feel better about it,” chorus and encore performance. I text my new Bestie feverishly, and she confessed the evil scale had done the same to her! I’d paused thinking there may be some kind of terrible conspiracy and my pants weren’t 6’s and 8’s but really 0’s and 2’s, rebelling against the confines of their size-ist makers, but was shocked back into the reality that I’m just chunky when she told me she’d caved and joined Weight Watchers. We vowed to kick ass together.
Peeling myself out of bed to go to work, where the pretty ones would parade around me all day, I managed to look decent and get my fat ass going. I blamed the dog about my weight and he just whined and snuffed at me as if to say, “Bullshit!” When I got to work my gorgeous and athletic co-worker arrived in a kind of funky mood. I knew she LOVED to talk fitness, so I instantly attacked!
Trying desperately to not just blurt out, “Please inject me with whatever it is you take that makes you perfect and makes you like to run and race and everything in between,” I let her use me as a sponge. I forced my Bestie into the conversation and before you knew it, some strange hope had brewed in me, that maybe one day soon I wouldn’t just be another fat girl that the rail-skinny perfect ones make fun of.
I thought my athletic goddess of a co-worker had pretty much finished her pep talk with me about how we’d train together and help each other out when she emerged with a daring idea: “Let’s work up to the Turkey Trott on Thanksgiving in Clearwater! It’s a 10k!” She felt me wince and responded, “They have a 5k too!”
I pictured running that morning with her and my Bestie, and later to come home to an amazing bath amidst the smells of the feast my husband would be preparing, and how after two months of behaving I’d just pig out on my favorite day and I blurted out, “YES! Let’s do it!” Uh oh, there was no turning back now. I’d put it into the universe. It’d set it in motion. Before I knew it, the Bestie was more excited than I and we’d even recruited another co-worker…this was happening!
I told my husband and he was just like, “That’s great, babe!” I was expecting more of a response. I’d imagined more of a, “Wow babe, you are going to kick that race’s ass! You will be able to go so fast and impress everyone! We should buy you a cute outfit. Of course I’ll cook you a feast and be waiting to massage your feet when you get home,” kind of response but, I’d take what I could get.
This is a big deal! The diet’s on! I’m not a big diet girl most of the time but I do know how to scale things back. I do believe that all women should just be perfect, pretty and comfortable while eating buckets of KFC and out-drinking men in Beer and Liquor contests, without even gaining an ounce, but that is SO not the world we live in. I hate how the weight thing will always haunt me. It will follow me around forever like the sound of my mother sighing when the size 4 jeans she just bought me didn’t quite zip, or when I chose to wear fashionable sweat pants instead of quote, unquote “slacks,” for which I might add are inadequately titled because they NEVER provide any “slack!”
I’ve started on a good note so far. I do enjoy eating healthy but who doesn’t love ice cream, cookies and wine? Especially all in the same day! I do have a fat girl mentality for sure, I just hate when she shows up physically, making a muffin top appear out of my pants that used to be “roomy.” My sister once accused me of being bulimic because I lost weight and toned my body, so I replied “No, I like food too much.” She curtly replied, “Which is why you would be bulimic!” How stupid of me!
I wish I could be bulimic, or anorexic, or just smoke a bunch of cigarettes and crack and become one of those cold women who make it all look so easy but can’t even deal with how many calories are in a Tic Tac! No, if I’m wishing, I wish I were like my goddess coworker who runs 10 miles for a warm up and can bike out of the state and back with only 8 ounces of water! Yes, I’m idolizing her, but why not? We all know and sigh at one of these women every time they burst through the door with perfect sunlight providing them a runway! I’m lucky if I don’t fall on a daily basis!
Sometimes I like being curvy. I own it. Also, I’m married so there’s really no one left to impress, but one of the groomsmen told me I shouldn’t be another fat wife and I totally agree. Even though I desperately want to eat an entire container of cheese balls while watching hours of chick flicks, I know I should go for a run and eat celery instead. At least when I weigh less and I’m still curvy, I can be proud.
Of course once I started figuring out how to enroll in the Turkey Trott, all I could envision was a montage from that movie “Run, Fatboy, Run,” and of me hitting the “Runner’s Wall,” or just tripping less than a mile in and ruining the entire effort. But, regardless, I’m going to do it. I’m not much of a runner or a jogger but this is a commitment to an accomplishment I so desperately want to achieve. I have EVERYTHING to lose. The tummy, the ass, the thighs, and the ambivalence that’s literally been weighing me down!
So this fat chick is going to run! I’m going to run like the wind on Thanksgiving! But if you think about it, it’s really just so I can stuff my face afterwards…so if that’s not motivation enough, what is!? I guess you’ll hear about it all afterwards, and if I could even stomach all the food I’m already fantasizing about. Run, fat girl, run!
Three years ago before we even got engaged I was pushing maximum density. Between being a food lover, being in love with a chef, and my cocktail enthusiast side, even working out wasn’t really balancing out my intake. A family member joined Weight Watchers and although I’d originally scoffed, she was kicking some major ass, so I fell on that bandwagon. I got back into my workouts. I do love working out. It makes me feel so much better! I got some personal counseling and I made myself lose the weight.
By the time Eben proposed, I was 10lbs down. They say nothing kicks you into gear like an impending wedding. They were so right. I had a gorgeous blonde bombshell of a friend who was also a personal trainer. With Weight Watchers, a strict routine, and the help of Alicia, by the end of it I’d lost 20lbs and fit into a size 4 for the first time since high school. And I didn’t loathe my body much anymore. Success!
For the past two years I’d managed to maintain that figure within about a 5lb range. Ladies, who are we kidding? We can gain 5lbs in a day if the mood is right. Women’s bodies are bitches, just like we end up being because we are trapped into them! I went to spin class a few times a week, hit yoga and body sculpting classes, the elliptical and stair master. I didn’t indulge too hard core and I kept tabs on it all.
In March after a crazy stretch of time where I was working so much that food became a far off dream between naps, and I was lucky if I could grab a granola bar, let alone a fulfilling meal, I’d actually squeezed into the skinny jeans for a week or so but I didn’t feel the need to be skinny really, just healthy.
I come from a long line of petite women who can stay petite but can also balloon up into something of a lumpy pear with compulsive eating habits and alcoholic tendencies. I’ve straddled both the skinny and chunky for most of my life. When I’m active my body shows it, and when I’m inactive, it really shows it.
Before the big vacation this June I cancelled my gym membership because between the puppy, work and everything else, we didn’t need the added expense, and I didn’t have enough time to make it worthwhile. I had a Wii Fit, Wii Active and a decent elliptical at our crummy apartment complex gym to keep me going. I also discovered the dog liked to jog, so I should indulge with him.
I guess six months of “Whatever, I don’t care, I’ll have a gym membership this fall to make up for it,” bit me in my ever expanding ass, after all. When they say it’s easier to put it on than it is to take it off, they aren’t joking! I shouldn’t have justified it when the pants started to get tight. I shouldn’t have spent so much time sucking it in. I should have gotten my ass out of the chair…shoulda, coulda, woulda!
So I made the mistake of getting on the evil square known as the scale, and it may as well have just read “Fat Bitch.” The number amount pretty much said that perfectly! And then the water works started! I, all of the sudden, wished there was some strange way of my being pregnant and the damn baby was making me chunky, but all of the alcohol units wouldn’t have made that possible, so then I stood there getting on and off of the damn scale, sucking it in and willing it to drop down two measly numbers just so I could endure more justifications.
I forced my husband into caring even though he did the obligatory, “You’re beautiful no matter what,” song and dance complete with a “Who cares babe?” and “We’ll do whatever you want to make you feel better about it,” chorus and encore performance. I text my new Bestie feverishly, and she confessed the evil scale had done the same to her! I’d paused thinking there may be some kind of terrible conspiracy and my pants weren’t 6’s and 8’s but really 0’s and 2’s, rebelling against the confines of their size-ist makers, but was shocked back into the reality that I’m just chunky when she told me she’d caved and joined Weight Watchers. We vowed to kick ass together.
Peeling myself out of bed to go to work, where the pretty ones would parade around me all day, I managed to look decent and get my fat ass going. I blamed the dog about my weight and he just whined and snuffed at me as if to say, “Bullshit!” When I got to work my gorgeous and athletic co-worker arrived in a kind of funky mood. I knew she LOVED to talk fitness, so I instantly attacked!
Trying desperately to not just blurt out, “Please inject me with whatever it is you take that makes you perfect and makes you like to run and race and everything in between,” I let her use me as a sponge. I forced my Bestie into the conversation and before you knew it, some strange hope had brewed in me, that maybe one day soon I wouldn’t just be another fat girl that the rail-skinny perfect ones make fun of.
I thought my athletic goddess of a co-worker had pretty much finished her pep talk with me about how we’d train together and help each other out when she emerged with a daring idea: “Let’s work up to the Turkey Trott on Thanksgiving in Clearwater! It’s a 10k!” She felt me wince and responded, “They have a 5k too!”
I pictured running that morning with her and my Bestie, and later to come home to an amazing bath amidst the smells of the feast my husband would be preparing, and how after two months of behaving I’d just pig out on my favorite day and I blurted out, “YES! Let’s do it!” Uh oh, there was no turning back now. I’d put it into the universe. It’d set it in motion. Before I knew it, the Bestie was more excited than I and we’d even recruited another co-worker…this was happening!
I told my husband and he was just like, “That’s great, babe!” I was expecting more of a response. I’d imagined more of a, “Wow babe, you are going to kick that race’s ass! You will be able to go so fast and impress everyone! We should buy you a cute outfit. Of course I’ll cook you a feast and be waiting to massage your feet when you get home,” kind of response but, I’d take what I could get.
This is a big deal! The diet’s on! I’m not a big diet girl most of the time but I do know how to scale things back. I do believe that all women should just be perfect, pretty and comfortable while eating buckets of KFC and out-drinking men in Beer and Liquor contests, without even gaining an ounce, but that is SO not the world we live in. I hate how the weight thing will always haunt me. It will follow me around forever like the sound of my mother sighing when the size 4 jeans she just bought me didn’t quite zip, or when I chose to wear fashionable sweat pants instead of quote, unquote “slacks,” for which I might add are inadequately titled because they NEVER provide any “slack!”
I’ve started on a good note so far. I do enjoy eating healthy but who doesn’t love ice cream, cookies and wine? Especially all in the same day! I do have a fat girl mentality for sure, I just hate when she shows up physically, making a muffin top appear out of my pants that used to be “roomy.” My sister once accused me of being bulimic because I lost weight and toned my body, so I replied “No, I like food too much.” She curtly replied, “Which is why you would be bulimic!” How stupid of me!
I wish I could be bulimic, or anorexic, or just smoke a bunch of cigarettes and crack and become one of those cold women who make it all look so easy but can’t even deal with how many calories are in a Tic Tac! No, if I’m wishing, I wish I were like my goddess coworker who runs 10 miles for a warm up and can bike out of the state and back with only 8 ounces of water! Yes, I’m idolizing her, but why not? We all know and sigh at one of these women every time they burst through the door with perfect sunlight providing them a runway! I’m lucky if I don’t fall on a daily basis!
Sometimes I like being curvy. I own it. Also, I’m married so there’s really no one left to impress, but one of the groomsmen told me I shouldn’t be another fat wife and I totally agree. Even though I desperately want to eat an entire container of cheese balls while watching hours of chick flicks, I know I should go for a run and eat celery instead. At least when I weigh less and I’m still curvy, I can be proud.
Of course once I started figuring out how to enroll in the Turkey Trott, all I could envision was a montage from that movie “Run, Fatboy, Run,” and of me hitting the “Runner’s Wall,” or just tripping less than a mile in and ruining the entire effort. But, regardless, I’m going to do it. I’m not much of a runner or a jogger but this is a commitment to an accomplishment I so desperately want to achieve. I have EVERYTHING to lose. The tummy, the ass, the thighs, and the ambivalence that’s literally been weighing me down!
So this fat chick is going to run! I’m going to run like the wind on Thanksgiving! But if you think about it, it’s really just so I can stuff my face afterwards…so if that’s not motivation enough, what is!? I guess you’ll hear about it all afterwards, and if I could even stomach all the food I’m already fantasizing about. Run, fat girl, run!
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