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Monday, February 14, 2011
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I am not a quitter
Leading up to today's race - the Amica 19.7 triathlon in Lake Pleasant - I felt confident. I'd been in Bartlett Lake a couple weeks ago and swam 300 or so yards easily, without stopping for breath. I felt calm, confident and like a swimmer.
This morning, I took that confidence with me right up to the start.
As we walked down the boat ramp into the water, I was smiling and talking with other female athletes. "Is this your first?" That's a common conversation opener at these events.
I waded into the water and noted that it was, in fact, still quite warm. I'd held my bladder for an hour by then, in anticipation of using it to warm myself up in my wetsuit. Ew, I know, but don't knock it until you try it.
Within 5 minutes, we were off, splashing our way to the first buoy. I had problems immediately. My wetsuit was tight and restricting my breathing. Never a problem before, but today it's a problem. I can't breathe, and the water is incredibly choppy. Not only that, but there are arms and legs everywhere. Each time I lift my head to breathe and sight to the buoy, I take in gulps of water. My heart starts racing, and I find myself gulping for air. I roll onto my back and I'm fighting back tears.
I try a few backstrokes and get tossed around in the water. I'm now feeling sea sick and dizzy. I turn back around, tread water and see that the sea of lime green swim caps has left me way behind.
Shit.
I don't want to be last.
Even more shit.
I don't want to be in this friggin' water.
A lifeguard paddles over and asks if I'm ok.
No, I'm not. I want out. She suggests that I loosen my wetsuit and tells me she'll paddle along side me to the end. Really? OK. Don't give up, she tells me. Her name is Rachel.
I do a few arm strokes calmly, then suddenly my heart rate is racing again. I flip on my back and little angel Rachel is gone.
I try a few more strokes and realize that I'm in way over my head. Literally. I doggy paddle to a guy in a kayak and tell him I want out.
I wasn't ready for this today. I have more work to do.
I was OK with my decision until I got back to my transition spot and saw a text message from my son. That brought up a flood of tears in anticipation of telling him I'd quit. I don't want him to think it's OK to quit just because something is too hard. But I also can't lie.
When I got home today, I looked at my heart rate monitor and learned that my heart rate got as high as 211 in the water today. My max heart rate when I bike is usually around 155-160; when I run it's in the 170s. When I swim, it barely breaks 120s. Except today. Today, I was in a zone I thought I'd swam out of months ago.
I have work to do.
This morning, I took that confidence with me right up to the start.
As we walked down the boat ramp into the water, I was smiling and talking with other female athletes. "Is this your first?" That's a common conversation opener at these events.
I waded into the water and noted that it was, in fact, still quite warm. I'd held my bladder for an hour by then, in anticipation of using it to warm myself up in my wetsuit. Ew, I know, but don't knock it until you try it.
Within 5 minutes, we were off, splashing our way to the first buoy. I had problems immediately. My wetsuit was tight and restricting my breathing. Never a problem before, but today it's a problem. I can't breathe, and the water is incredibly choppy. Not only that, but there are arms and legs everywhere. Each time I lift my head to breathe and sight to the buoy, I take in gulps of water. My heart starts racing, and I find myself gulping for air. I roll onto my back and I'm fighting back tears.
I try a few backstrokes and get tossed around in the water. I'm now feeling sea sick and dizzy. I turn back around, tread water and see that the sea of lime green swim caps has left me way behind.
Shit.
I don't want to be last.
Even more shit.
I don't want to be in this friggin' water.
A lifeguard paddles over and asks if I'm ok.
No, I'm not. I want out. She suggests that I loosen my wetsuit and tells me she'll paddle along side me to the end. Really? OK. Don't give up, she tells me. Her name is Rachel.
I do a few arm strokes calmly, then suddenly my heart rate is racing again. I flip on my back and little angel Rachel is gone.
I try a few more strokes and realize that I'm in way over my head. Literally. I doggy paddle to a guy in a kayak and tell him I want out.
I wasn't ready for this today. I have more work to do.
I was OK with my decision until I got back to my transition spot and saw a text message from my son. That brought up a flood of tears in anticipation of telling him I'd quit. I don't want him to think it's OK to quit just because something is too hard. But I also can't lie.
When I got home today, I looked at my heart rate monitor and learned that my heart rate got as high as 211 in the water today. My max heart rate when I bike is usually around 155-160; when I run it's in the 170s. When I swim, it barely breaks 120s. Except today. Today, I was in a zone I thought I'd swam out of months ago.
I have work to do.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
As my son cruises through puberty and becomes a man, I find myself challenged to keep up with his many personalities.
Some days, he is my sweet-faced little boy who comes up with great ideas for fun things for us to do. A couple of weeks ago, he chided me for slacking on leisure reading.
"You need to read more," he said. "When was the last time you read a book?"
I couldn't remember. So he came up with a plan where each night that he is with me, we read from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m. He even offered to help me find a book. He was adamant about it, in a role-reversal kind of way. I appreciated his concern and was up for the weekly reading assignment though concerned about my ability to stay awake long enough to read one chapter. (First night, I made it 20 minutes; this week I made it four chapters!)
Last night, I told him it was 8 p.m. and we should start our reading.
"Mom, we're not doing that," he said, as if it was the stupidist idea he'd ever heard.
Suddenly, sweet-faced boy was gone and replaced with pimply surly teenager. And the next chapter begins ...
Some days, he is my sweet-faced little boy who comes up with great ideas for fun things for us to do. A couple of weeks ago, he chided me for slacking on leisure reading.
"You need to read more," he said. "When was the last time you read a book?"
I couldn't remember. So he came up with a plan where each night that he is with me, we read from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m. He even offered to help me find a book. He was adamant about it, in a role-reversal kind of way. I appreciated his concern and was up for the weekly reading assignment though concerned about my ability to stay awake long enough to read one chapter. (First night, I made it 20 minutes; this week I made it four chapters!)
Last night, I told him it was 8 p.m. and we should start our reading.
"Mom, we're not doing that," he said, as if it was the stupidist idea he'd ever heard.
Suddenly, sweet-faced boy was gone and replaced with pimply surly teenager. And the next chapter begins ...
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Say, "Cheese!"
John and I decided to treat ourselves to a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese over some healthy dish we concocted - I can't remember what it was, but I remember the cheese. I looked up the caloric and fat content of a tablespoon of Parmesan and found that it contains only 22 calories and 1.4g fat (.9g saturated fat). We were stoked. Dairy is not normally part of our diet, and I'm lactose intolerant; however, a small amount of Parmesan won't hurt.
On the day of our Parmesan-dusted dinner, I came home to find my beloved mid-preparation for our meal (is there anything sweeter?). Spying what looked like a small pile of dust on a plate, I asked, "What is that?"
Our cheese, he said.
"That's it?!"
That's a tablespoon each, he said.
And here is an area where he and I differ. A tablespoon to him means a level tablespoon, just like your home economics teacher taught you as she scraped the spoon level with the flat side of a butter knife to measure EXACTLY one tablespoon. (Do they teach home ec anymore?)
A tablespoon to me means as much as you can heap onto the spoon without spilling as you go from cheese container to bowl. THAT'S a tablespoon. Half the time, I don't even use a tablespoon; I eyeball it. (One tablespoon of olive oil equals a one-one-thousand count, right?)
I know what you're thinking: "Are you kidding me? Twenty-two calories?"
No, I'm not kidding. I quickly outgrew my super-fast metabolism that carried me through the first 17 years of my skinny life. As soon as adulthood hit, my waist, bust, face and arms started carrying a nice layer of fat that expanded and contracted with every diet and exercise routine I'd pick up between stints of eating Wendy's Big Classics, smoking Marlboros and hitting happy hours. Then I had my son, shed my post-baby weight, became a stay-at-home mom, took gourmet cooking classes and put it right back on. It's been up and down since.
I try to look at frittering away calories like I do frittering away money. That change that accumulates in the bottom of my purse? It can add up to a nice lunch out. Without cheese, sugar and sour-dough rolls smothered in butter, of course.
On the day of our Parmesan-dusted dinner, I came home to find my beloved mid-preparation for our meal (is there anything sweeter?). Spying what looked like a small pile of dust on a plate, I asked, "What is that?"
Our cheese, he said.
"That's it?!"
That's a tablespoon each, he said.
And here is an area where he and I differ. A tablespoon to him means a level tablespoon, just like your home economics teacher taught you as she scraped the spoon level with the flat side of a butter knife to measure EXACTLY one tablespoon. (Do they teach home ec anymore?)
A tablespoon to me means as much as you can heap onto the spoon without spilling as you go from cheese container to bowl. THAT'S a tablespoon. Half the time, I don't even use a tablespoon; I eyeball it. (One tablespoon of olive oil equals a one-one-thousand count, right?)
I know what you're thinking: "Are you kidding me? Twenty-two calories?"
No, I'm not kidding. I quickly outgrew my super-fast metabolism that carried me through the first 17 years of my skinny life. As soon as adulthood hit, my waist, bust, face and arms started carrying a nice layer of fat that expanded and contracted with every diet and exercise routine I'd pick up between stints of eating Wendy's Big Classics, smoking Marlboros and hitting happy hours. Then I had my son, shed my post-baby weight, became a stay-at-home mom, took gourmet cooking classes and put it right back on. It's been up and down since.
I try to look at frittering away calories like I do frittering away money. That change that accumulates in the bottom of my purse? It can add up to a nice lunch out. Without cheese, sugar and sour-dough rolls smothered in butter, of course.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Eat me.
My job requires me to attend client meetings with the sales teams because I help them get the creative juices going, as well as explain our production process.
Lately, one of our sales managers has started a tradition of bringing cookies to these meetings. Not just store-bought boxed cookies, but some of the best baked goods a buck can buy.
A recent meeting in Sun City was accompanied by a dozen mixed-variety little sweeties from Paradise Bakery. For those of unfamiliar with the chain, PB stores appear in malls and shopping centers and serve sandwiches, bagels, salads and the most delicious cookies that have ever passed these lips. Ever.
For me, these cookies bring a level of noise to meetings that distract me from doing my job. The noise sounds like this: "Eat one. Just one. It would be rude not to. No, you aren't going to eat one, because if you eat one, you'll have to eat another, and then you'll feel sick. Look, she's eating one and she's just chipping away at it, eating it bit by bit. I bet you could break off a piece of her cookie and just eat that. Take just half a cookie and leave the other in the box ..."
It goes on and on.
For some people, a box of cookies on the meeting table is just another tool to be used or discarded during the meeting. They either take a cookie or they don't. No big deal. My son is one of these people. He loves chocolate, but if he's not hungry, he doesn't eat it. And if he wants half a cookie, he'll enjoy half and walk away from the plate.
For others for whom food has an emotional and habitual attachment, a plate of any favorite food comes with a big cartoon bubble that reads "Eat me. Love me. Obsess about me." We can't eat just one cookie - we have to eat all of them, and we never leave crumbs.
It's like any addiction - a moment of euphoria followed by misery and regret. My brain tells me that I need that cookie and I'll feel better if I eat it. ALL of it. Tucked too far away in the file drawers of my mind are the memories of the stomach upset, nasty gas, headaches, self-loathing and just plain over-sugared feeling that cookies bring.
Just the other day, we met with a client in the atrium of a beautiful hotel lobby, which is adorned with water features and high ceilings. The acoustics were terrible (who picked THAT place), but nothing was louder than the designer cookies in a paint can in the middle of the table. "Isn't someone going to OPEN these?!" I kept hearing in my head. My eyes were drawn to them like my boyfriend's are to a TV that's showing a sporting event.
In both meetings, although I was distracted and more than tempted to eat the cookies, I did not. The second time, I was able to resist because no one opened the friggin' can.
I'm a work in progress. I'm pushing to the front of my brain that filing cabinet packed full of memories of how cookies look on my abs. I look forward to the days when I will be able to sit at a table and choose not to eat a cookie or choose to eat half of one and not let it be an obsession. I'm also going to make sure I never go to a client meeting with an empty stomach.
Lately, one of our sales managers has started a tradition of bringing cookies to these meetings. Not just store-bought boxed cookies, but some of the best baked goods a buck can buy.
A recent meeting in Sun City was accompanied by a dozen mixed-variety little sweeties from Paradise Bakery. For those of unfamiliar with the chain, PB stores appear in malls and shopping centers and serve sandwiches, bagels, salads and the most delicious cookies that have ever passed these lips. Ever.
For me, these cookies bring a level of noise to meetings that distract me from doing my job. The noise sounds like this: "Eat one. Just one. It would be rude not to. No, you aren't going to eat one, because if you eat one, you'll have to eat another, and then you'll feel sick. Look, she's eating one and she's just chipping away at it, eating it bit by bit. I bet you could break off a piece of her cookie and just eat that. Take just half a cookie and leave the other in the box ..."
It goes on and on.
For some people, a box of cookies on the meeting table is just another tool to be used or discarded during the meeting. They either take a cookie or they don't. No big deal. My son is one of these people. He loves chocolate, but if he's not hungry, he doesn't eat it. And if he wants half a cookie, he'll enjoy half and walk away from the plate.
For others for whom food has an emotional and habitual attachment, a plate of any favorite food comes with a big cartoon bubble that reads "Eat me. Love me. Obsess about me." We can't eat just one cookie - we have to eat all of them, and we never leave crumbs.
It's like any addiction - a moment of euphoria followed by misery and regret. My brain tells me that I need that cookie and I'll feel better if I eat it. ALL of it. Tucked too far away in the file drawers of my mind are the memories of the stomach upset, nasty gas, headaches, self-loathing and just plain over-sugared feeling that cookies bring.
Just the other day, we met with a client in the atrium of a beautiful hotel lobby, which is adorned with water features and high ceilings. The acoustics were terrible (who picked THAT place), but nothing was louder than the designer cookies in a paint can in the middle of the table. "Isn't someone going to OPEN these?!" I kept hearing in my head. My eyes were drawn to them like my boyfriend's are to a TV that's showing a sporting event.
In both meetings, although I was distracted and more than tempted to eat the cookies, I did not. The second time, I was able to resist because no one opened the friggin' can.
I'm a work in progress. I'm pushing to the front of my brain that filing cabinet packed full of memories of how cookies look on my abs. I look forward to the days when I will be able to sit at a table and choose not to eat a cookie or choose to eat half of one and not let it be an obsession. I'm also going to make sure I never go to a client meeting with an empty stomach.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
More on rules ...
A good friend read my post "My Rules for Dating" from 9/27/10. Within minutes of seeing each other last week, he said, "I read your blog about rules ..." Then he paused and prepped himself for what he was about to say, and I got nervous because I'd possibly offended him.
"If I should be so lucky as to some day find myself in a situation where I get to experience a first kiss, I don't care if it's in front of a car or where it is! I'll just be so grateful to be there," he said.
Therein lies the problem of writing an opinion piece. Even seasoned and talented columnists from the former Scottsdale Tribune forget that an opinion is "a belief or judgment that rests on grounds insufficient to produce complete certainty." (Dictionary.com)
Another male friend posted a comment, "You have too many rules."
People.
Consider that my "rules" come from somewhere. Consider that I've had enough experiences with something that I raised my bar. Two more rules: (If were still single) no smokers and no drug addicts.
I never said that my rules for dating made sense. I never said that everyone should adopt my rules. I never even said that my rules were right.
They're mine. Not yours. Get your own.
"If I should be so lucky as to some day find myself in a situation where I get to experience a first kiss, I don't care if it's in front of a car or where it is! I'll just be so grateful to be there," he said.
Therein lies the problem of writing an opinion piece. Even seasoned and talented columnists from the former Scottsdale Tribune forget that an opinion is "a belief or judgment that rests on grounds insufficient to produce complete certainty." (Dictionary.com)
Another male friend posted a comment, "You have too many rules."
People.
Consider that my "rules" come from somewhere. Consider that I've had enough experiences with something that I raised my bar. Two more rules: (If were still single) no smokers and no drug addicts.
I never said that my rules for dating made sense. I never said that everyone should adopt my rules. I never even said that my rules were right.
They're mine. Not yours. Get your own.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
"Girl I date"
My mom calls me and tells me that an ex has changed his Facebook relationship status to "in a relationship."
I'd defriended the ex, but she didn't. In all fairness, I'm FB friends with his mom, too, and have no intentions of de-friending her. Outside of FB, I'll likely never see her again, nor will he ever see my mom again, yet we hold onto these people as digital friends. What can I say? I like his mom, and once in a while she sends me a message that is full of wisdom and insight. I wouldn't want to miss that.
The whole FB relationship status thing seems silly. Apprently, we're not in a relationship until we declare it on FB.
I suppose there is something validating about expressing yourself that way. Like, when you see in writing that your significant other claims you, there's a permanence ... or commitment ... in that.
Another ex - from many, many years ago - recently found me on FB. Our romance was short-lived, but we have had fun remembering those times. We really dug each other, but he wasn't ready for a commitment, which resulted in a lot of silly drama. That showed up when he received a cordless phone for Christmas (this was pre-cell phone days, so that tells you how long ago this was) and happily programmed in his friends' numbers in the 10 speed dial positions.
"I'm not on here," I said.
"Yes you are, you're in position 1," he said. Position 1 was blank. He'd programmed in all of his friends numbers and wrote their names, but he didn't write my name in position 1.
Needless to say, that led to a major discussion about commitment, validation and permanence. (The next time I was alone in his house, I wrote "Girl I date" in position #1 ... :o) ... )
I don't know if declaring your relationship status on FB or a cordless phone makes it any more real or not, and I certainly wouldn't let the absence or presence of either of those define my relationship ... but it does take me back to junior high school ... maybe I'll write "I love John" on my tennis shoes ... I'm feeling silly ...
I'd defriended the ex, but she didn't. In all fairness, I'm FB friends with his mom, too, and have no intentions of de-friending her. Outside of FB, I'll likely never see her again, nor will he ever see my mom again, yet we hold onto these people as digital friends. What can I say? I like his mom, and once in a while she sends me a message that is full of wisdom and insight. I wouldn't want to miss that.
The whole FB relationship status thing seems silly. Apprently, we're not in a relationship until we declare it on FB.
I suppose there is something validating about expressing yourself that way. Like, when you see in writing that your significant other claims you, there's a permanence ... or commitment ... in that.
Another ex - from many, many years ago - recently found me on FB. Our romance was short-lived, but we have had fun remembering those times. We really dug each other, but he wasn't ready for a commitment, which resulted in a lot of silly drama. That showed up when he received a cordless phone for Christmas (this was pre-cell phone days, so that tells you how long ago this was) and happily programmed in his friends' numbers in the 10 speed dial positions.
"I'm not on here," I said.
"Yes you are, you're in position 1," he said. Position 1 was blank. He'd programmed in all of his friends numbers and wrote their names, but he didn't write my name in position 1.
Needless to say, that led to a major discussion about commitment, validation and permanence. (The next time I was alone in his house, I wrote "Girl I date" in position #1 ... :o) ... )
I don't know if declaring your relationship status on FB or a cordless phone makes it any more real or not, and I certainly wouldn't let the absence or presence of either of those define my relationship ... but it does take me back to junior high school ... maybe I'll write "I love John" on my tennis shoes ... I'm feeling silly ...
Friday, September 17, 2010
My rules for dating
Soon after we started dating, John asked me, "Do you have any rules?"
I knew what he meant. Chick rules. The question surprised me. I mean, guys aren't really supposed to know we have rules, which is silly because we know you know them, but we don't want you to let us know that you know them. We like to think we are smart and running the show and you are silly boys who do everything we say.
But, since he asked, and we're building a relationship based on trust and honesty, I answered him.
I told him my first rule: The first time a guy kisses a girl, it cannot be in a parking lot. If he turns out to be The One, I don't want my memory of our first kiss to be one of me buffing my car with my backside.
Second rule: All other firsts should be performed completely sober. You want them to be memorable. You know what I'm talking about. Wink. Wink.
Third rule: Do not let the first time you say "I love you" to happen during the heat of passion.
Fourth rule: The guy should say "I love you" first. Here's why. We women usually know we love you before you guys know you love us. In fact, we women usually know you love us before you know you love us. To avoid potential freaking outage followed by hasty exits, hold your tongue until he says it to you. Be patient.
A couple other rules ...
Fifth rule: Don't ask her on a date via text message or e-mail. Pick up the phone, dial her digits. Ask. Vulnerability is sooooo attractive.
Six: Speaking of texting ... let's not use that as a forum to discuss our relationships, mmmmmkay? If something's wrong, get face time. If you can't do face time, pick up the phone.
Seven: Farting isn't funny. 'Nuff said.
I'm looking for more rules. What rules to you live by when it comes to dating?
I knew what he meant. Chick rules. The question surprised me. I mean, guys aren't really supposed to know we have rules, which is silly because we know you know them, but we don't want you to let us know that you know them. We like to think we are smart and running the show and you are silly boys who do everything we say.
But, since he asked, and we're building a relationship based on trust and honesty, I answered him.
I told him my first rule: The first time a guy kisses a girl, it cannot be in a parking lot. If he turns out to be The One, I don't want my memory of our first kiss to be one of me buffing my car with my backside.
Second rule: All other firsts should be performed completely sober. You want them to be memorable. You know what I'm talking about. Wink. Wink.
Third rule: Do not let the first time you say "I love you" to happen during the heat of passion.
Fourth rule: The guy should say "I love you" first. Here's why. We women usually know we love you before you guys know you love us. In fact, we women usually know you love us before you know you love us. To avoid potential freaking outage followed by hasty exits, hold your tongue until he says it to you. Be patient.
A couple other rules ...
Fifth rule: Don't ask her on a date via text message or e-mail. Pick up the phone, dial her digits. Ask. Vulnerability is sooooo attractive.
Six: Speaking of texting ... let's not use that as a forum to discuss our relationships, mmmmmkay? If something's wrong, get face time. If you can't do face time, pick up the phone.
Seven: Farting isn't funny. 'Nuff said.
I'm looking for more rules. What rules to you live by when it comes to dating?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
My first day on the job
I'm working on this project at work that celebrates and recognizes women business owners. These women are entrepreneurs. They serve on boards of nonprofits, raise families, run businesses and win all kinds of awards. They show up at networking events with their nails manicured, clothes perfectly tailored. You never see their gray roots, and you never see them fidget in their chairs because they can't stay awake during a meeting. Nuh-uh.
One year ago, I was stretched so thin that I suffered from chronic tension headaches that lasted well over a month without relief. At one point, it got so bad that vertigo kicked in, and when I walked, I had to stare at the ground and follow an imaginary line so I didn't bump into walls or coworkers.
I took inventory of my commitments and relieved myself of a few and told myself I'd practice saying "no" when people asked me to do something. So far so good. I have full range of motion in my neck and I haven't had a headache in 10 months.
How do these women do it?
I imagine these women as superheroes whose children never leave socks in the cracks in the sofa ... who stay up late to watch Letterman and wake at 4 a.m. feeling fully rested as they hit their treadmills ... who never snap at their coworkers, family or friends ... who show up 10 minutes early for every appointment.
I'm deluding myself, I know. No one is perfect.
But it's made me take a look at how I show up for other people. I'm tired of apologizing for being late and forgetting commitments. I get times screwed up all the time because I still think I can remember on my own.
I'm getting on my own nerves.
I'm a low-level employee whose income hovers around the middle five figures, a single parent, Big Sister and fledgling triathlete. I'm someone's girlfriend, someone's daughter, someone's sister, niece and cousin. I'm friend to more than 300 (according to Facebook). I should be able to handle all of this.
Yet, I forget commitments, forget birthdays, show up late and let you down.
Just this weekend, I had a conversation with a good friend about my problem with commitments. We devised a way for me to break through the problem.
My first day "on the job," I let down my friend Mark. I was supposed to deliver some brochures to him yesterday afternoon. I didn't forget the appointment, but I forgot the brochures and let him down.
So, here it is, in black and white, my commitment: If I tell you I will do something and I forget or show up late, you have my permission to let me know that I disappointed you. I need to hear it.
One year ago, I was stretched so thin that I suffered from chronic tension headaches that lasted well over a month without relief. At one point, it got so bad that vertigo kicked in, and when I walked, I had to stare at the ground and follow an imaginary line so I didn't bump into walls or coworkers.
I took inventory of my commitments and relieved myself of a few and told myself I'd practice saying "no" when people asked me to do something. So far so good. I have full range of motion in my neck and I haven't had a headache in 10 months.
How do these women do it?
I imagine these women as superheroes whose children never leave socks in the cracks in the sofa ... who stay up late to watch Letterman and wake at 4 a.m. feeling fully rested as they hit their treadmills ... who never snap at their coworkers, family or friends ... who show up 10 minutes early for every appointment.
I'm deluding myself, I know. No one is perfect.
But it's made me take a look at how I show up for other people. I'm tired of apologizing for being late and forgetting commitments. I get times screwed up all the time because I still think I can remember on my own.
I'm getting on my own nerves.
I'm a low-level employee whose income hovers around the middle five figures, a single parent, Big Sister and fledgling triathlete. I'm someone's girlfriend, someone's daughter, someone's sister, niece and cousin. I'm friend to more than 300 (according to Facebook). I should be able to handle all of this.
Yet, I forget commitments, forget birthdays, show up late and let you down.
Just this weekend, I had a conversation with a good friend about my problem with commitments. We devised a way for me to break through the problem.
My first day "on the job," I let down my friend Mark. I was supposed to deliver some brochures to him yesterday afternoon. I didn't forget the appointment, but I forgot the brochures and let him down.
So, here it is, in black and white, my commitment: If I tell you I will do something and I forget or show up late, you have my permission to let me know that I disappointed you. I need to hear it.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
You just gotta push through that.
I swam about a mile this weekend, which consisted of six 300-ish-meter (or yards ... whatever) legs. My first half mile was weak. I continue to struggle during the first 300 meters (or yards ... whatever). The second half mile felt strong.
In talking to a guy at work who has been doing triathlons for a while now - he's even completed a few Iron Mans - I told him I still struggle with that first leg. I stop several times to roll onto my back and catch my breath.
"You gotta just push through that," he said.
Duh.
Why didn't I think of that?
Seriously. Why didn't I think of that?
I push myself through so many other physical endeavors, so why don't I push myself through that first 300 meters (or yards ... whatever)?
Each time I enter the water, I know that I will struggle through the first half of my swim. Then I know that I will find my stride, relax and enjoy it.
I've been swimming now for nine months. I thought I'd ridden myself of the water anxiety. I no longer use my wetsuit as a crutch, and I look forward to swimming, especially the weekly lake swims.
Yet I continue to allow myself to feel anxiety for the first 10 minutes of my swim.
This morning, for my pool swim, I tried something different. I told myself I was going to push through the anxiety.
After all, when I'm doing my track workouts, I push through running the stairs as my heart rate spikes in the low 180s. Talk about pain! And, I push myself to maintain 10 mph when I hit big hills on my bike and my heart rate hits record highs. Shoot, when I'm in the pool and I experience that initial anxiety, my heart rate hasn't left the 130s! I'm no where near running out of breath.
This morning I pushed through the first 300 meters (or yards ... whatever) and did just fine. Isn't it funny how something so simply stated by someone else is like a thump on the forehead to you?
Now, if someone could simply tell me the difference between meters and yards (whatever).
In talking to a guy at work who has been doing triathlons for a while now - he's even completed a few Iron Mans - I told him I still struggle with that first leg. I stop several times to roll onto my back and catch my breath.
"You gotta just push through that," he said.
Duh.
Why didn't I think of that?
Seriously. Why didn't I think of that?
I push myself through so many other physical endeavors, so why don't I push myself through that first 300 meters (or yards ... whatever)?
Each time I enter the water, I know that I will struggle through the first half of my swim. Then I know that I will find my stride, relax and enjoy it.
I've been swimming now for nine months. I thought I'd ridden myself of the water anxiety. I no longer use my wetsuit as a crutch, and I look forward to swimming, especially the weekly lake swims.
Yet I continue to allow myself to feel anxiety for the first 10 minutes of my swim.
This morning, for my pool swim, I tried something different. I told myself I was going to push through the anxiety.
After all, when I'm doing my track workouts, I push through running the stairs as my heart rate spikes in the low 180s. Talk about pain! And, I push myself to maintain 10 mph when I hit big hills on my bike and my heart rate hits record highs. Shoot, when I'm in the pool and I experience that initial anxiety, my heart rate hasn't left the 130s! I'm no where near running out of breath.
This morning I pushed through the first 300 meters (or yards ... whatever) and did just fine. Isn't it funny how something so simply stated by someone else is like a thump on the forehead to you?
Now, if someone could simply tell me the difference between meters and yards (whatever).
Sunday, August 8, 2010
GET OFF MY PORCH!!
I was walking in downtown Phoenix to meet a good friend for lunch recently, when a woman crossed paths with me and handed me a small tome. "Would you like a New Testament with Psalms and Proverbs?" she asked.
"Sure, thanks," I said, and I really meant it. I tucked the light-blue pocket-size book into my purse, and since then have moved it from purse to purse, bag to bag. I haven't opened it and read it, but I like having it with me.
I thought about what my reaction might have been as recent as a year ago, had I been "accosted" by a "religious zealot."
Several years ago, when my son was a first grader and I was married to his dad, we were living in a tree-lined street in Holt, Mich., when two women knocked on our door.
"We have an important message to deliver," one of them said. "Are you happy with the way the world seems to be moving these days?"
I glanced down at their name tags and saw they were there on behalf of their church, the Latter Day Saints. Our street seemed to be a favorite route of Jehovah's Witnesses and members of the Church of LDS.
"I'm not interested," I said firmly.
"But, ma'am, don't you care about the world?"
"I'm not interested in what you have to say," I said.
"Our message is really important," she insisted.
This time, I raised my voice and said, "I'm not interested in what you have to say, and I want you off my porch immediately."
"But, ma'am ..."
"GET OFF MY PORCH!"
I closed the door, slid the lock in place and turned around to see my sweet-faced son staring up at me.
"Mommy, what did those ladies DO?" he asked. I'd used my angry mommy voice with those women, and he assumed they'd done something REALLY bad.
In those few seconds between sliding the lock in place and turning around to see my son's innocent concern, I went from feeling violated and angry to feeling like a complete asshole.
"They didn't do anything wrong," I said. "They believe in something so strongly that they want to tell the world about it because it makes them happy and they want everyone to feel that happiness. I didn't handle that very well."
"No, you were good! You were really good!" my son said.
I still don't like it when someone knocks at my door and pushes their agendas on me, whether they are political, religious or business-related - and whether I agree with them or not. That's my home!
But I've softened my defenses because, one, I respect their beliefs; two, I believe we cross paths with each other for reasons; three, I actually admire someone who can embrace any cause or issue enough to take it door to door (thought I still prefer they'd skip my door); and four, I feel better about myself when I handle something with grace and class, versus being a complete asshole about it.
"Sure, thanks," I said, and I really meant it. I tucked the light-blue pocket-size book into my purse, and since then have moved it from purse to purse, bag to bag. I haven't opened it and read it, but I like having it with me.
I thought about what my reaction might have been as recent as a year ago, had I been "accosted" by a "religious zealot."
Several years ago, when my son was a first grader and I was married to his dad, we were living in a tree-lined street in Holt, Mich., when two women knocked on our door.
"We have an important message to deliver," one of them said. "Are you happy with the way the world seems to be moving these days?"
I glanced down at their name tags and saw they were there on behalf of their church, the Latter Day Saints. Our street seemed to be a favorite route of Jehovah's Witnesses and members of the Church of LDS.
"I'm not interested," I said firmly.
"But, ma'am, don't you care about the world?"
"I'm not interested in what you have to say," I said.
"Our message is really important," she insisted.
This time, I raised my voice and said, "I'm not interested in what you have to say, and I want you off my porch immediately."
"But, ma'am ..."
"GET OFF MY PORCH!"
I closed the door, slid the lock in place and turned around to see my sweet-faced son staring up at me.
"Mommy, what did those ladies DO?" he asked. I'd used my angry mommy voice with those women, and he assumed they'd done something REALLY bad.
In those few seconds between sliding the lock in place and turning around to see my son's innocent concern, I went from feeling violated and angry to feeling like a complete asshole.
"They didn't do anything wrong," I said. "They believe in something so strongly that they want to tell the world about it because it makes them happy and they want everyone to feel that happiness. I didn't handle that very well."
"No, you were good! You were really good!" my son said.
I still don't like it when someone knocks at my door and pushes their agendas on me, whether they are political, religious or business-related - and whether I agree with them or not. That's my home!
But I've softened my defenses because, one, I respect their beliefs; two, I believe we cross paths with each other for reasons; three, I actually admire someone who can embrace any cause or issue enough to take it door to door (thought I still prefer they'd skip my door); and four, I feel better about myself when I handle something with grace and class, versus being a complete asshole about it.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Ducking sucker punches
A couple of weeks ago, a group of us traveled to California for an ocean-swim clinic in San Diego. Another first for me - swimming in the ocean - despite having lived in West Palm Beach, Fla., for nine years.
I spent plenty of time on Florida's beaches, but my purpose was more of a bikinied decoration in the sand. Yes, I went INTO the ocean, but my feet always touched the ground. My most athletic experiences then were trudging through the sand to the tiki bar to order another rum runner.
The woman who's been teaching me to swim, Anne Wilson, led the clinic. Eight of the 18 people in attendance were from my fitness community here in Phoenix, and all of us are novice triathletes of varying abilities looking to improve our skills. For many of us, this was a first ocean swim.
The clinic was divided into two parts, a morning swim at La Jolla Cove and an afternoon swim in Carlsbad at the beach.
California's mild temperatures were a welcome relief from the triple digits we've been experiencing here in Phoenix, but 60-something-degree water was less inviting than the Atlantic temperatures I knew in south Florida.
We began our morning in La Jolla Cove, a popular spot for scuba divers, swimmers and seals. We suited up in our wetsuits and after everyone introduced themselves, Anne talked to us about what to expect when we hit the water.
The wetsuit was wonderful. Not only does it add buoyancy, but it really does insulate your body. As the water fills the space between your skin and the wetsuit, your body quickly warms it. If you want a little added warmth, release your bladder. Sounds disgusting until you're standing in 60-degree water, teeth chattering, lips blue and toes numb. Yep, I thought, sounds good to me. It took a few tries, but once I was able to relax, I filled my wetsuit and tried not to think about it as the warm liquid worked its way down my legs and up my torso.
Anne divided us into groups - advanced, experienced and novice. I hung back, thinking for sure I'd be in the novice group. "Noelle, why don't you go with them," she said, pointing to the experienced group.
Eh?
If Anne has confidence that I can swim a half mile in the cove, then she must know what she's talking about. I joined the group and slowly made my way, trailing behind everyone, to the .25-mile buoy. The cove is packed with sea and plant life, which makes for an interesting swim as you watch bright orange fish dart around the leafy plants. I stopped a couple of times to catch my breath and found myself getting a little seasick, which surprised me. Though the cove has no waves, the water steadily undulates, which threw off my equilibrium. Keep swimming, I told myself. You will not barf in the ocean.
Our afternoon swim was at the beaches of Carlsbad, which is very popular for surfers. So, the waves are rougher. With Anne's coaching and the comfort of having seven friends with me, I was dolphin diving under the waves. Diving under the waves was like cheating them from knocking me off my feet. Ducking sucker punches!
With knowledge comes power. Learning how the water shifts and how to position my body in the ocean took away the fear I've carried with me my whole life. As much as I've loved the ocean, I've always feared its vastness and strength. I have never had so much fun in the ocean, and I can't wait to go back.
I spent plenty of time on Florida's beaches, but my purpose was more of a bikinied decoration in the sand. Yes, I went INTO the ocean, but my feet always touched the ground. My most athletic experiences then were trudging through the sand to the tiki bar to order another rum runner.
The woman who's been teaching me to swim, Anne Wilson, led the clinic. Eight of the 18 people in attendance were from my fitness community here in Phoenix, and all of us are novice triathletes of varying abilities looking to improve our skills. For many of us, this was a first ocean swim.
The clinic was divided into two parts, a morning swim at La Jolla Cove and an afternoon swim in Carlsbad at the beach.
California's mild temperatures were a welcome relief from the triple digits we've been experiencing here in Phoenix, but 60-something-degree water was less inviting than the Atlantic temperatures I knew in south Florida.
We began our morning in La Jolla Cove, a popular spot for scuba divers, swimmers and seals. We suited up in our wetsuits and after everyone introduced themselves, Anne talked to us about what to expect when we hit the water.
The wetsuit was wonderful. Not only does it add buoyancy, but it really does insulate your body. As the water fills the space between your skin and the wetsuit, your body quickly warms it. If you want a little added warmth, release your bladder. Sounds disgusting until you're standing in 60-degree water, teeth chattering, lips blue and toes numb. Yep, I thought, sounds good to me. It took a few tries, but once I was able to relax, I filled my wetsuit and tried not to think about it as the warm liquid worked its way down my legs and up my torso.
Anne divided us into groups - advanced, experienced and novice. I hung back, thinking for sure I'd be in the novice group. "Noelle, why don't you go with them," she said, pointing to the experienced group.
Eh?
If Anne has confidence that I can swim a half mile in the cove, then she must know what she's talking about. I joined the group and slowly made my way, trailing behind everyone, to the .25-mile buoy. The cove is packed with sea and plant life, which makes for an interesting swim as you watch bright orange fish dart around the leafy plants. I stopped a couple of times to catch my breath and found myself getting a little seasick, which surprised me. Though the cove has no waves, the water steadily undulates, which threw off my equilibrium. Keep swimming, I told myself. You will not barf in the ocean.
Our afternoon swim was at the beaches of Carlsbad, which is very popular for surfers. So, the waves are rougher. With Anne's coaching and the comfort of having seven friends with me, I was dolphin diving under the waves. Diving under the waves was like cheating them from knocking me off my feet. Ducking sucker punches!
With knowledge comes power. Learning how the water shifts and how to position my body in the ocean took away the fear I've carried with me my whole life. As much as I've loved the ocean, I've always feared its vastness and strength. I have never had so much fun in the ocean, and I can't wait to go back.
Monday, June 28, 2010
You shouldn't be doing that. You're FORTY!
I find myself surrounded by people who are either going through a break-up or going through a divorce. Maybe it's a heightened awareness, as I have just gone through my own break-up.
Same thing happened when I first became pregnant with my son. I suddenly found myself surrounded by crying babies and out-of-control toddlers. I remember walking through the bookstore in search of information about being pregnant, and everywhere I looked, I found strollers, expectant parents and screaming children.
We go through times in our lives when we are going to weddings every weekend, then baby showers, graduations, funerals. Guess it's my season of the break-up.
As my son has witnessed a couple break-ups since I divorced his dad, he has declared that he will never date, never have a girlfriend, never get married. Because he's only 13, I'm not fighting this too much. If he's not thinking of girlfriends, then he's not thinking about sex, which I'm totally cool with.
But it does present a challenge. He doesn't want to see me date again because he doesn't want to see me hurt again. He sees relationships as something that end painfully.
"Why would you put yourself through that again?" he asks.
I point out all the people we know who are in long-term relationships and happy. And happy. That's the key.
"Because I believe in love," I tell him. And I explain that relationships take time and hard work, and they are beautiful when they are right.
I remind him that on the other side of sadness is joy, and I will be OK. I already am OK; I'm more than OK, in fact. And I will continue to be OK whether I meet someone or not, though I hold out hope that I find that lifelong fling.
He and I have a tradition of watching "The Bachelor" series on Monday nights. Bear with me. The show is NOT a good example of solid relationships, but I find it to be a good way to stimulate conversations about how to be and how not to be when one is wooing members of the opposite sex.
(Plus those reality TV show people are free fodder for scrutiny.)
One recent episode sparked a conversation about sex, which makes my son's skin crawl. I'm not allowed to utter the word in his presence. I said something - a general remark - about spending the night with a guy - no one in particular, just a general remark about sleeping with someone you care about.
"Mom, you shouldn't be doing that! You're FORTY," he said with serious disgust.
I wanted to tell him that 40 is when it gets good, but I didn't want to traumatize him further. Found my censorship button; pushed it.
Anyway ... I look for ways to encourage my son not to seal off his heart ... when he's much older, of course ... and be open to heartbreak. After all, heartbreak lasts as long as you choose to make it last. You get something out of every person who comes and goes from your life. What I got for my most recent experience is a respect for people who suffer from addiction. Lesson Two: I know addiction is not something I want in my world. Lesson Three: I have become a more compassionate person - or, I have become aware of my lack of compassion and I'm working to be consistently more compassionate.
I like who I am on the other side of heartbreak. And now I'm over this heartbreak. Lived through it, learned from it, moving along.
Same thing happened when I first became pregnant with my son. I suddenly found myself surrounded by crying babies and out-of-control toddlers. I remember walking through the bookstore in search of information about being pregnant, and everywhere I looked, I found strollers, expectant parents and screaming children.
We go through times in our lives when we are going to weddings every weekend, then baby showers, graduations, funerals. Guess it's my season of the break-up.
As my son has witnessed a couple break-ups since I divorced his dad, he has declared that he will never date, never have a girlfriend, never get married. Because he's only 13, I'm not fighting this too much. If he's not thinking of girlfriends, then he's not thinking about sex, which I'm totally cool with.
But it does present a challenge. He doesn't want to see me date again because he doesn't want to see me hurt again. He sees relationships as something that end painfully.
"Why would you put yourself through that again?" he asks.
I point out all the people we know who are in long-term relationships and happy. And happy. That's the key.
"Because I believe in love," I tell him. And I explain that relationships take time and hard work, and they are beautiful when they are right.
I remind him that on the other side of sadness is joy, and I will be OK. I already am OK; I'm more than OK, in fact. And I will continue to be OK whether I meet someone or not, though I hold out hope that I find that lifelong fling.
He and I have a tradition of watching "The Bachelor" series on Monday nights. Bear with me. The show is NOT a good example of solid relationships, but I find it to be a good way to stimulate conversations about how to be and how not to be when one is wooing members of the opposite sex.
(Plus those reality TV show people are free fodder for scrutiny.)
One recent episode sparked a conversation about sex, which makes my son's skin crawl. I'm not allowed to utter the word in his presence. I said something - a general remark - about spending the night with a guy - no one in particular, just a general remark about sleeping with someone you care about.
"Mom, you shouldn't be doing that! You're FORTY," he said with serious disgust.
I wanted to tell him that 40 is when it gets good, but I didn't want to traumatize him further. Found my censorship button; pushed it.
Anyway ... I look for ways to encourage my son not to seal off his heart ... when he's much older, of course ... and be open to heartbreak. After all, heartbreak lasts as long as you choose to make it last. You get something out of every person who comes and goes from your life. What I got for my most recent experience is a respect for people who suffer from addiction. Lesson Two: I know addiction is not something I want in my world. Lesson Three: I have become a more compassionate person - or, I have become aware of my lack of compassion and I'm working to be consistently more compassionate.
I like who I am on the other side of heartbreak. And now I'm over this heartbreak. Lived through it, learned from it, moving along.
Friday, June 11, 2010
What I want
I want someone who will fight whatever demons come his way just to be with me. I want someone who will never let any substance, person, place, thing, job or friend come between him and me. I want someone who doesn't have to be reminded to ask me how I am and who is really interested in my answer. I want someone who will take an interest in my son and remember his birthday and be his friend. I want someone who will cheer for me from the sidelines when I struggle with swimming, and I'll cheer for him in whatever endeavor he takes on. I want someone who will massage my feet at the end of the day, and I'll do the same for him. I want someone who will take out my garbage ... but I won't do the same. I want a relationship built on trust - mutual trust - and respect and love and passion. I want a best friend. I want to talk on the phone for hours and, at the end of the conversation, I want to realize that we covered more topics than the newspaper covers, and it wasn't all about him. I want him to have his own interests and friends. I want some space once in a while. I want to have my circle of friends and he has his circle of friends, and sometimes we make big circles together. I want someone who doesn't fart and think it's funny. I want someone who can afford to travel and go to dinner. I want someone who's over having drama in relationships. I want to laugh with him. I want him to see what a great, smart, funny and wise kid I have, even though he performs like an under-achiever. I want him to say, "Those people are horrible," when I vent about my family, and he'll make me realize I'm being ridiculous. I want someone who likes cats. I want him to take an interest in my work and ask to see my projects after they publish. I want to listen to his tales of his job and daily work dramas, and I promise to tsk tsk at the appropriate moments. I want someone who is honest with himself, even about his shortcomings, and who is, therefore, honest with me and the other people in his life. I want someone to tell me I look pretty. I want someone who will read this and not think it's all about him ...
Is this too much to ask?
Is this too much to ask?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Swimming in pea soup
Last Saturday, I did my first open-water swim. Remember, I've been swimming for only seven months. Prior to November, I was a lifelong closeted non-swimmer.
The lake swim was intimidating. Distances are difficult to measure and perceive. Swimming in the lake was a little like swimming in pea soup. Little fishes nipped at my ankle bracelet. ::Shivers::
I did a few drills parallel to the shore just to warm up. A few times, I stopped, realized I couldn't touch bottom and panicked only slightly.
This treading water thing eludes me. I work my ass off to keep my head above water, even when it's not that deep. Friends tell me it's my comfort level, but I don't get it. I'm fine floating on my back or stroking through the waves. My mom tells me it's because I don't have enough body fat. I'm gonna go with her answer.
Anyway, my friend, Keith, told me to swim out 16 strokes. I did, no problem. Flipped on my back, counted to five, flipped back over and then flailed my way back to shore. My heart raced as my arms stroked like a windmill back to shore. Trying to keep him in sight was a challenge, because in the pool, we're taught to keep our chins tucked, heads down. Now we have to lift a little, to avoid drifting. Keith told me to slow down next time.
Using the tempo trainer set at a slow stroke - 1.4 seconds - Keith sent me back out. Much calmer on the return. The swim out tends to be calmer. The swim back to shore becomes urgent because I know I'm returning home and my feet will be on sand again.
Last night, at the pool, I swam a 400 set at 1.4 just to see how it feels. I did it with no problem, and could have kept going for another 400.
As I swam last night, I thought to myself that I couldn't believe I had such a hard time with a 400 in April at the Tri for the Cure.
This Saturday, my friends want me to try a 600 in the lake. Think I can get one of them to paddle alongside me on a raft?
If I can keep the pace at 1.4, I'll make it through the 700 in July at the Flagstaff tri, no problem. I look forward to the day I swim a mile in the ocean and look back at this struggle and think, "I can't believe I whined about that."
The lake swim was intimidating. Distances are difficult to measure and perceive. Swimming in the lake was a little like swimming in pea soup. Little fishes nipped at my ankle bracelet. ::Shivers::
I did a few drills parallel to the shore just to warm up. A few times, I stopped, realized I couldn't touch bottom and panicked only slightly.
This treading water thing eludes me. I work my ass off to keep my head above water, even when it's not that deep. Friends tell me it's my comfort level, but I don't get it. I'm fine floating on my back or stroking through the waves. My mom tells me it's because I don't have enough body fat. I'm gonna go with her answer.
Anyway, my friend, Keith, told me to swim out 16 strokes. I did, no problem. Flipped on my back, counted to five, flipped back over and then flailed my way back to shore. My heart raced as my arms stroked like a windmill back to shore. Trying to keep him in sight was a challenge, because in the pool, we're taught to keep our chins tucked, heads down. Now we have to lift a little, to avoid drifting. Keith told me to slow down next time.
Using the tempo trainer set at a slow stroke - 1.4 seconds - Keith sent me back out. Much calmer on the return. The swim out tends to be calmer. The swim back to shore becomes urgent because I know I'm returning home and my feet will be on sand again.
Last night, at the pool, I swam a 400 set at 1.4 just to see how it feels. I did it with no problem, and could have kept going for another 400.
As I swam last night, I thought to myself that I couldn't believe I had such a hard time with a 400 in April at the Tri for the Cure.
This Saturday, my friends want me to try a 600 in the lake. Think I can get one of them to paddle alongside me on a raft?
If I can keep the pace at 1.4, I'll make it through the 700 in July at the Flagstaff tri, no problem. I look forward to the day I swim a mile in the ocean and look back at this struggle and think, "I can't believe I whined about that."
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Every strand shimmers with 3X highlights
I am shocked at how gray my hair is. For 20 years I've had the random single wiry gray that pops out like a jack-in-the-box, and in the last three years, the grayness has spread like an infectious disease, starting with great anger at my temples and tempering out as it reaches the back of my head.
My temples are solid white. Did you hear me? My temples are solid white, and I'm only 43. What the hell?
Yes, there are far larger problems in the world, and I'm all about sympathizing with the tornado victims in my home state of Ohio, being outraged by the oil in the Gulf of Mexico, wondering if the fighting in Israel, Afghanistan and Iraq will ever end ... but at the moment, I want to whine about my hair.
Before my gray days, I could stretch trips to the hair dresser to four times a year for highlights. Now that I'm living in Arizona, the growth rate of my hair seems to have doubled, and my roots demand attention every two months, and $60 to $80 every two months gets expensive.
Last weekend, someone I know said she has been coloring her own hair for years. "Really?" I said. "How long does it last?" Eight weeks, she said.
For three days, I've been thinking about her words. I can cleverly part my hair only so many ways and only for so long to disguise my gray temples. Eventually, they win, and I can't hide them.
I have no idea which formula to buy. Maybe the one that Sara Jessica Parker hawks? Garnier something? She's a Midwest girl; she wouldn't speak for something she didn't believe in, right?
At Walgreens, I am overwhelmed by the choices: Clairol, Garnier, L'Oreal. And within those brands, more choices: ammonia-free, 10-minute formula, cream, foam. The prices range from $3.99 to $14.99. I dismiss the low-price figuring you get what you pay for. The Sara Jessica Parker brand is near the low-end of the price spectrum, so I dismiss that too, remembering an interview I read where she spoke of her frugality. Not that that matters. But, I'm NOT spending $60 to professionally color my hair, so let's not go overboard with this living lean thing, I tell myself. I dismiss the most expensive brand because it comes with some confusing looking combination basting brush/hair pick.
I decide to use the same technique I used when I used to drink wine: look for cool labels, catchy names and pretty bottles.
I settle on L'Oreal's Feria Hair Color Gel, because I liked the name, and the art on the box doesn't look outdated. Feria. I have no idea what it means, but it sounds so stylish. And "every strand shimmers with 3X highlights."
Oooooo.
If my hair-coloring adventure turns into disaster, I have a plan: I'll wear a hat tomorrow, call in sick and book myself with a professional. I look good in hats.
I follow the instructions to the letter, and I am happy to say, my first attempt at self-coloring my hair was a success. I am amazed at not only how easy it was, but also how quick and inexpensive!
I had a similar experience a few weeks ago when I bought Sally Hansen's wax strips to remove unwanted facial hair. Easy and cheap, cheap, cheap!
Maybe next I'll take on learning to change the oil in my car ...
My temples are solid white. Did you hear me? My temples are solid white, and I'm only 43. What the hell?
Yes, there are far larger problems in the world, and I'm all about sympathizing with the tornado victims in my home state of Ohio, being outraged by the oil in the Gulf of Mexico, wondering if the fighting in Israel, Afghanistan and Iraq will ever end ... but at the moment, I want to whine about my hair.
Before my gray days, I could stretch trips to the hair dresser to four times a year for highlights. Now that I'm living in Arizona, the growth rate of my hair seems to have doubled, and my roots demand attention every two months, and $60 to $80 every two months gets expensive.
Last weekend, someone I know said she has been coloring her own hair for years. "Really?" I said. "How long does it last?" Eight weeks, she said.
For three days, I've been thinking about her words. I can cleverly part my hair only so many ways and only for so long to disguise my gray temples. Eventually, they win, and I can't hide them.
I have no idea which formula to buy. Maybe the one that Sara Jessica Parker hawks? Garnier something? She's a Midwest girl; she wouldn't speak for something she didn't believe in, right?
At Walgreens, I am overwhelmed by the choices: Clairol, Garnier, L'Oreal. And within those brands, more choices: ammonia-free, 10-minute formula, cream, foam. The prices range from $3.99 to $14.99. I dismiss the low-price figuring you get what you pay for. The Sara Jessica Parker brand is near the low-end of the price spectrum, so I dismiss that too, remembering an interview I read where she spoke of her frugality. Not that that matters. But, I'm NOT spending $60 to professionally color my hair, so let's not go overboard with this living lean thing, I tell myself. I dismiss the most expensive brand because it comes with some confusing looking combination basting brush/hair pick.
I decide to use the same technique I used when I used to drink wine: look for cool labels, catchy names and pretty bottles.
I settle on L'Oreal's Feria Hair Color Gel, because I liked the name, and the art on the box doesn't look outdated. Feria. I have no idea what it means, but it sounds so stylish. And "every strand shimmers with 3X highlights."
Oooooo.
If my hair-coloring adventure turns into disaster, I have a plan: I'll wear a hat tomorrow, call in sick and book myself with a professional. I look good in hats.
I follow the instructions to the letter, and I am happy to say, my first attempt at self-coloring my hair was a success. I am amazed at not only how easy it was, but also how quick and inexpensive!
I had a similar experience a few weeks ago when I bought Sally Hansen's wax strips to remove unwanted facial hair. Easy and cheap, cheap, cheap!
Maybe next I'll take on learning to change the oil in my car ...
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I thought there was no crying in baseball.
Baseball isn't one of my favorite games. It's near the bottom of my list of favorite pastimes. Ok, honestly ... it's not even on my list.
I do enjoy going to the ballpark and catching a game or two during the season, but I've never made it to the end of a game, and, really, I'm just there for the socializing and to look at athletes in tight pants.
So last week when the Cleveland Indians, my home team, played in Detroit against the Tigers, my Facebook page was filled with outrage at Jim Joyce's blown call. I had to know more. Ninth inning, and Cleveland was not only scoreless (no shocker there), but it hadn't put a man on base. Detroit was looking at a perfect game - the first in its history. Though "perfect game" conjures yawns from me, it's a big deal to the cute guys in tight pants and their true fans.
Outrage. Fury. Name-calling. Fans and players were pissed off!
Joyce, who could have fought for his call, "manned up" and admitted his mistake, apologized for it and, get this, even CRIED publicly.
(I thought there was no crying in baseball?)
This got me thinking about another news item that has grabbed headlines lately - that BP oil disaster in the Gulf.
The oil company has become The One To Hate for not only the spill but the way its executives have handled the disaster. I initially thought, "Boy, those BP execs could learn a thing or two from Joyce." Then I realized I was kinda off-base. BP did take responsibility for the oil spill right away, even though it pointed fingers at Transocean, the company that owns the rig, and Halliburton, the contractor that works on the rig. Those companies pointed fingers right back.
BP's stock has been on a decline since the end of April, when the oil rig exploded and killed 11 people. Its PR folks and Tony Hayward launched an apology campaign last week in newspapers, Facebook and on TV, though the apology is framed like this: "BP takes full responsibility for the clean-up in the Gulf." It doesn't take responsibility for its role in the spill. And Hayward says, "I'm sorry," which sounds like "I"m sorry this has happened to you," as I'd say to a girlfriend whose man just walked out on her.
The apology comes about six weeks into the debacle, after angry Americans began boycotting the company and staging protests. Too little too late? Mmmmm hmmmm. BP must have some sleepless PR and legal teams.
I realize that comparing a baseball umpire's error doesn't compare to the error that cost 11 human lives and is polluting our waters with 210,000 gallons of oil a day (according to a McClathy News report).
Joyce became a hero for his immediate, sincere, tearful apology. Baseball's outraged fans were silenced; who could stay angry at an umpire who offers a tearful apology publicly?
BP became The One To Hate while it shifted blame and Hayward put his foot in his mouth ("I'd like my life back," he is quoted as saying and later apologized for). There's a lesson here to be learned about apologies, timing and sincerity, me thinks.
I do enjoy going to the ballpark and catching a game or two during the season, but I've never made it to the end of a game, and, really, I'm just there for the socializing and to look at athletes in tight pants.
So last week when the Cleveland Indians, my home team, played in Detroit against the Tigers, my Facebook page was filled with outrage at Jim Joyce's blown call. I had to know more. Ninth inning, and Cleveland was not only scoreless (no shocker there), but it hadn't put a man on base. Detroit was looking at a perfect game - the first in its history. Though "perfect game" conjures yawns from me, it's a big deal to the cute guys in tight pants and their true fans.
Outrage. Fury. Name-calling. Fans and players were pissed off!
Joyce, who could have fought for his call, "manned up" and admitted his mistake, apologized for it and, get this, even CRIED publicly.
(I thought there was no crying in baseball?)
This got me thinking about another news item that has grabbed headlines lately - that BP oil disaster in the Gulf.
The oil company has become The One To Hate for not only the spill but the way its executives have handled the disaster. I initially thought, "Boy, those BP execs could learn a thing or two from Joyce." Then I realized I was kinda off-base. BP did take responsibility for the oil spill right away, even though it pointed fingers at Transocean, the company that owns the rig, and Halliburton, the contractor that works on the rig. Those companies pointed fingers right back.
BP's stock has been on a decline since the end of April, when the oil rig exploded and killed 11 people. Its PR folks and Tony Hayward launched an apology campaign last week in newspapers, Facebook and on TV, though the apology is framed like this: "BP takes full responsibility for the clean-up in the Gulf." It doesn't take responsibility for its role in the spill. And Hayward says, "I'm sorry," which sounds like "I"m sorry this has happened to you," as I'd say to a girlfriend whose man just walked out on her.
The apology comes about six weeks into the debacle, after angry Americans began boycotting the company and staging protests. Too little too late? Mmmmm hmmmm. BP must have some sleepless PR and legal teams.
I realize that comparing a baseball umpire's error doesn't compare to the error that cost 11 human lives and is polluting our waters with 210,000 gallons of oil a day (according to a McClathy News report).
Joyce became a hero for his immediate, sincere, tearful apology. Baseball's outraged fans were silenced; who could stay angry at an umpire who offers a tearful apology publicly?
BP became The One To Hate while it shifted blame and Hayward put his foot in his mouth ("I'd like my life back," he is quoted as saying and later apologized for). There's a lesson here to be learned about apologies, timing and sincerity, me thinks.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Living leanly
Last week, I toured a printing facility, which is one of the best in the Phoenix area, if not the state. The firm does high-end printing at nearly photographic quality, using some amazing technology (which I won't bore you with). It prints Arizona Highways magazine, which is known for its breathtaking photography.
I also won't bore you with the details of the types of printing processes that we saw, but the experience shed light on a few mysteries, such as when our general manager tells us that a magazine page is due earlier than we thought because it falls on a "signature." Our other printer in California uses a 32-page signature, which means it is a HUGE piece of paper with 16 panels, double-sided, that is then folded and trimmed to individual pages into our magazine. As many times as she explained it, I didn't understand it until I saw it. If we have a 64-page magazine, that has two signatures. My GM was happy to disappear several blank stares when she refers to "signatures" in the future.
Anyway, in the binding area of our tour, the printer was working on programs for the Diamondbacks that are given out at every game. We noted barrels of spoilage along the assembly line.
"That's a lot of scrap," someone said.
"It all gets recycled," our tour guide replied.
I thought about that as we completed our tour and I saw what seemed to be as many spoils as there were good copies. It made me wonder if recycling has become justification for waste.
In the end, doesn't spoilage cost the company money in paper, ink, gloss, man-power and other variable expenses? The ink doesn't get recycled. The labor doesn't get recycled. The power used to fire up the machines doesn't get recycled.
Two nights later, I attended a Diamondbacks game and was handed the same program I assume I'd seen printed two mornings earlier. Everyone who walked through the turnstiles was handed a program, stacks of them lay in the suites, and some were scattered on empty seats (and there were A LOT of empty seats, though it's early in the season).
The post-game waste didn't bother me as much as the post-press waste. "We Recycle" has become this badge of honor that individuals and businesses wear to boast of their efforts to shrink carbon footprints, and kudos to all of us who do recycle.
I'm trying to think of a new mantra for the next phase of living green:
"Living Lean," "We Minimize Waste," "We Reduce Spoilage" ...
I also won't bore you with the details of the types of printing processes that we saw, but the experience shed light on a few mysteries, such as when our general manager tells us that a magazine page is due earlier than we thought because it falls on a "signature." Our other printer in California uses a 32-page signature, which means it is a HUGE piece of paper with 16 panels, double-sided, that is then folded and trimmed to individual pages into our magazine. As many times as she explained it, I didn't understand it until I saw it. If we have a 64-page magazine, that has two signatures. My GM was happy to disappear several blank stares when she refers to "signatures" in the future.
Anyway, in the binding area of our tour, the printer was working on programs for the Diamondbacks that are given out at every game. We noted barrels of spoilage along the assembly line.
"That's a lot of scrap," someone said.
"It all gets recycled," our tour guide replied.
I thought about that as we completed our tour and I saw what seemed to be as many spoils as there were good copies. It made me wonder if recycling has become justification for waste.
In the end, doesn't spoilage cost the company money in paper, ink, gloss, man-power and other variable expenses? The ink doesn't get recycled. The labor doesn't get recycled. The power used to fire up the machines doesn't get recycled.
Two nights later, I attended a Diamondbacks game and was handed the same program I assume I'd seen printed two mornings earlier. Everyone who walked through the turnstiles was handed a program, stacks of them lay in the suites, and some were scattered on empty seats (and there were A LOT of empty seats, though it's early in the season).
The post-game waste didn't bother me as much as the post-press waste. "We Recycle" has become this badge of honor that individuals and businesses wear to boast of their efforts to shrink carbon footprints, and kudos to all of us who do recycle.
I'm trying to think of a new mantra for the next phase of living green:
"Living Lean," "We Minimize Waste," "We Reduce Spoilage" ...
Friday, May 21, 2010
Move like a ninja
Every Friday morning, I lead a spin class at 4:30. Because the gym opens at 4:30, we start late, but that's to be expected. I'm the leader of the class, so I have a little set-up to do before I crank the music. I turn on the lights, turn on the de-humidifier, move my bike to the center of the room, connect my iPod, turn on the speakers and adjust the volume, fill my water bottle, put on my cycling shoes and adjust my seat and handle bars. I'm able to do all of this and get on my bike ready to ride by 4:34 a.m.
Yet, I wait. I watch my fellow spinners adjust their bikes, chit-chat about this and that and trickle in as late as 4:40 a.m.
Some people come in gracefully late. I don't notice them slip in after the lights have dimmed, the black lights are aglow and the music has started. They find a bike toward the back, make their adjustments and fall into step. I barely notice their lateness.
Some people come in awkwardly late. They move in and out of the room - they set up their bikes, they leave the room; they adjust the bikes some more, they leave the room. They move to another bike because something was wrong with the first bike.
Stuff happens. Alarm clocks fail. Traffic jams. Keys disappear. Stuff happens that's out of our control. When that happens, be graceful. Enter the room like a ninja, stealthily take your place toward the back where you don't disrupt someone else's ride. Grace.
I find the same annoyance with those people who are late for church. The ushers hold them back so they don't disrupt the opening prayer while the pastor sets the mood for the room. I find my attention distracted when the doors open during the first hymn and they all file in, squeezing into pews saying, "Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you. Good morning. Pardon me." WTF.
I know. I need to work on my Christian attitude of gratitude. Let's save that for another blog entry.
I started to write this in an effort to vent about what happened in my spin class this morning. Someone was late, disrupted my class because I had to get off my bike to help her, and the rest of the spinners missed some great cardio during a kick-ass song ("Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven). We were on the fourth song before she was on a bike, ready to ride.
Her lateness threw her off for the rest of the class, and it affected everyone's morning, too. She couldn't find her rhythm, and even though we were all there to support her and help her catch up, she was flustered.
I got to thinking about not only her but other people who show up late in life. Myself included from time to time. Lateness sucks energy from a room. When 11 people sit at a conference table waiting for the 12th person to show, it affects the dynamics of the group.
When we show up late, full of apologies and excuses, it throws off the momentum of the room. Move like a ninja. Enter the room. Take your seat. Turn off your cell phone. Get on beat.
Yet, I wait. I watch my fellow spinners adjust their bikes, chit-chat about this and that and trickle in as late as 4:40 a.m.
Some people come in gracefully late. I don't notice them slip in after the lights have dimmed, the black lights are aglow and the music has started. They find a bike toward the back, make their adjustments and fall into step. I barely notice their lateness.
Some people come in awkwardly late. They move in and out of the room - they set up their bikes, they leave the room; they adjust the bikes some more, they leave the room. They move to another bike because something was wrong with the first bike.
Stuff happens. Alarm clocks fail. Traffic jams. Keys disappear. Stuff happens that's out of our control. When that happens, be graceful. Enter the room like a ninja, stealthily take your place toward the back where you don't disrupt someone else's ride. Grace.
I find the same annoyance with those people who are late for church. The ushers hold them back so they don't disrupt the opening prayer while the pastor sets the mood for the room. I find my attention distracted when the doors open during the first hymn and they all file in, squeezing into pews saying, "Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you. Good morning. Pardon me." WTF.
I know. I need to work on my Christian attitude of gratitude. Let's save that for another blog entry.
I started to write this in an effort to vent about what happened in my spin class this morning. Someone was late, disrupted my class because I had to get off my bike to help her, and the rest of the spinners missed some great cardio during a kick-ass song ("Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven). We were on the fourth song before she was on a bike, ready to ride.
Her lateness threw her off for the rest of the class, and it affected everyone's morning, too. She couldn't find her rhythm, and even though we were all there to support her and help her catch up, she was flustered.
I got to thinking about not only her but other people who show up late in life. Myself included from time to time. Lateness sucks energy from a room. When 11 people sit at a conference table waiting for the 12th person to show, it affects the dynamics of the group.
When we show up late, full of apologies and excuses, it throws off the momentum of the room. Move like a ninja. Enter the room. Take your seat. Turn off your cell phone. Get on beat.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Bending spoons with my mind
I attended an event Friday called Go Red for Women luncheon. More than 600 women and a handful of men attended what I thought would be another boring fundraiser, but it turned out to be a life-changing experience.
Go Red is a movement from the American Heart Association that raises awareness of heart disease among women. I wrote about it on April 5 ( Ta tas are way sexier than tickers).
Preceding the luncheon was an expo packed with health care information. If anything has signaled to me that the economy is turning around, it's that companies have upped their tchotchkes. I got a full bottle of shampoo and conditioner, nail polish, pens, water bottles, reusable bags, nail files, pocket mirrors, lip balm and more! Stuff that I'll actually use.
The Greater Phoenix chapter of the American Heart Association packed the agenda with some excellent speakers. Two women cardiologists gave educational, passionate and entertaining speeches about heart disease. Three families shared their stories of heart diseases - a mother of her daughter's birth defect, a woman who lost her mother to heart disease and an elementary-age girl who spoke eloquently on behalf of her mother who couldn't be there because she'd just had open-heart surgery. (Her mother, by the way, is a very fit 30-something marathon runner.)
The highlight of the luncheon was the keynote speaker, Martha Beck, who I'd never heard of but is one of the many personalities that Oprah has thrust into the spotlight.
This is where the life-changing experience happens.
Beck is a PhD, life coach and columnist. She spoke about the evils of stress and how we allow it to dominate our lives. She had each of us pair up and choose one person to be the aggressor and one to be the resistor. I paired up with my former boss. She was the resistor and I the aggressor. Cami held her hands in front of her, palms facing each other, and it was my job to try to push them together to force them into a clap. Couldn't do it.
Next, each of the aggressors were instructed to close their eyes and take a deep breath. Exhale and breathe out thoughts of stress. Think only of pushing her hands together and nothing else. Quiet your mind and don't let thoughts pollute it. Listen to your heartbeat at the end of your exhale. Be calm.
We opened our eyes, resumed the position and, as if Cami offered no resistance whatsoever, I pushed her hands together.
"You let me do that," I said.
"No!" she said, and we both laughed.
Same thing worked when she did it to me.
Beck had demonstrated the same concept by bending a spoon, which I tried when I got home.
I thought of all the things that are sources of stress in my life: my recently vanished ex-boyfriend, attending this luncheon and missing work, my finances, my extended family, etc., etc. The spoon would not bend. It left imprints on my palms.
I sat on my couch and closed my eyes. I took one deep breath and exhaled until I had no air left. I listened to my heart beat. I did it again, once more just for good measure.
I picked up the spoon and bent it with ease. It bent like it was made of cheap metal alloy.
With those breaths, in mere seconds, I was able to quiet my mind and do something that was not doable moments before.
Where else can I apply this in my life...
Where else CAN'T I apply it in my life!?
In the pool, before I set out to do a 300 and push myself to do a 400 without stopping.
In the kitchen, when I need to resist the urge to pick up a handful of semi-dark chocolate chips and shove them in my mouth.
At work, when I need to focus to accomplish a task in a short amount of time.
When the phone rings and I know it's going to be a difficult conversation.
On the track, when I push myself to go faster.
When I need to resist the urge to text, e-mail or phone him.
Returning videos on time.
I have thought about his breakthrough a lot over the past 48 hours. In only a few seconds - LESS THAN A MINUTE! - we can take ourselves to places where the impossible is now possible. It's the same idea that is behind prayer, meditation and martial arts.
Of course, this revelation doesn't mean that if I want to fly, all I have to do is close my eyes, envision it and I'm airborne... but I think I might try it anyway ...
Go Red is a movement from the American Heart Association that raises awareness of heart disease among women. I wrote about it on April 5 ( Ta tas are way sexier than tickers).
Preceding the luncheon was an expo packed with health care information. If anything has signaled to me that the economy is turning around, it's that companies have upped their tchotchkes. I got a full bottle of shampoo and conditioner, nail polish, pens, water bottles, reusable bags, nail files, pocket mirrors, lip balm and more! Stuff that I'll actually use.
The Greater Phoenix chapter of the American Heart Association packed the agenda with some excellent speakers. Two women cardiologists gave educational, passionate and entertaining speeches about heart disease. Three families shared their stories of heart diseases - a mother of her daughter's birth defect, a woman who lost her mother to heart disease and an elementary-age girl who spoke eloquently on behalf of her mother who couldn't be there because she'd just had open-heart surgery. (Her mother, by the way, is a very fit 30-something marathon runner.)
The highlight of the luncheon was the keynote speaker, Martha Beck, who I'd never heard of but is one of the many personalities that Oprah has thrust into the spotlight.
This is where the life-changing experience happens.
Beck is a PhD, life coach and columnist. She spoke about the evils of stress and how we allow it to dominate our lives. She had each of us pair up and choose one person to be the aggressor and one to be the resistor. I paired up with my former boss. She was the resistor and I the aggressor. Cami held her hands in front of her, palms facing each other, and it was my job to try to push them together to force them into a clap. Couldn't do it.
Next, each of the aggressors were instructed to close their eyes and take a deep breath. Exhale and breathe out thoughts of stress. Think only of pushing her hands together and nothing else. Quiet your mind and don't let thoughts pollute it. Listen to your heartbeat at the end of your exhale. Be calm.
We opened our eyes, resumed the position and, as if Cami offered no resistance whatsoever, I pushed her hands together.
"You let me do that," I said.
"No!" she said, and we both laughed.
Same thing worked when she did it to me.
Beck had demonstrated the same concept by bending a spoon, which I tried when I got home.
I thought of all the things that are sources of stress in my life: my recently vanished ex-boyfriend, attending this luncheon and missing work, my finances, my extended family, etc., etc. The spoon would not bend. It left imprints on my palms.
I sat on my couch and closed my eyes. I took one deep breath and exhaled until I had no air left. I listened to my heart beat. I did it again, once more just for good measure.
I picked up the spoon and bent it with ease. It bent like it was made of cheap metal alloy.
With those breaths, in mere seconds, I was able to quiet my mind and do something that was not doable moments before.
Where else can I apply this in my life...
Where else CAN'T I apply it in my life!?
In the pool, before I set out to do a 300 and push myself to do a 400 without stopping.
In the kitchen, when I need to resist the urge to pick up a handful of semi-dark chocolate chips and shove them in my mouth.
At work, when I need to focus to accomplish a task in a short amount of time.
When the phone rings and I know it's going to be a difficult conversation.
On the track, when I push myself to go faster.
When I need to resist the urge to text, e-mail or phone him.
Returning videos on time.
I have thought about his breakthrough a lot over the past 48 hours. In only a few seconds - LESS THAN A MINUTE! - we can take ourselves to places where the impossible is now possible. It's the same idea that is behind prayer, meditation and martial arts.
Of course, this revelation doesn't mean that if I want to fly, all I have to do is close my eyes, envision it and I'm airborne... but I think I might try it anyway ...
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