Damn Skippy We Won...Now Get Your Turd Out of my Punch Bowl!

After 23 years of lacing up my shoes, I can finally admit that I really do love running. I love what it does for my body and mind, but most importantly, I love the running community. It is comprised of people from all walks of life, all shapes and sizes and all levels of ability. They all come together in the form of training or races to laugh, joke and encourage - sharing both misery and success along the way.

I’ve never taken myself very seriously on my runs, even when I was able to pull off sub-8 minute miles. I’ve stopped for beers, a sandwich and even a couple of yard sales during my races. I’ve worn costumes, wigs, umbrella hats and trucker apparel at various events over the years. I always have fun and I know that if I show up happy and ready to run, at least some of that enthusiasm is going to brush off on someone else and the more happy people on the course, the better the world becomes. I suppose I believe that through running, I am spreading the gospel of happiness and giving back to the world – and that, in turn, makes ME happy.

Yesterday, my team won the local Fall Series for the second year in a row. For those who don’t know, there is no limit to the number of team members, but only the top three scores count for each race. As such, I am particularly proud of this series since my time actually counted for three of the four races – keeping in mind that I was wearing a keg costume for one of those races.

Mind you, I am NOT a fast runner and my time only counted because we had a teammate absent for three of the races.  Still, I kept on smiling and running, continuing to fight for a mid-pack finish each time. I feel like I put in my miles and some good effort and am rightly proud of my accomplishment. I had loads of fun as the stack of running, smiling photos can attest.

However, while still trying to catch my breath at the finish, I was immediately confronted by a member of the second place team who notified me that my team won (I had no idea as I was still trying to breathe and really wanted some water) and stated that our team win is “unfair” because she believes at least one of my teammates is “elite.” I’d heard this accusation from her before and tried to ignore the ugliness and spite, but no one likes a turd in their punch bowl.  This time, I was angry, offended and sad for her at the same time.

(The truth is that the results of the Series were so close that had the second place team simply run on average six seconds faster per mile, they could have won themselves.  Sounds like good competition to me and far from an “elite” team that ran away with the Series.)

Sadly, it was disappointing to see that someone truly missed all the best parts about running that I’ve come to love. I have a ridiculous collection of ribbons, trophies and finishers medals stacking up in my house. Some mean more than others not because of where I finished but simply because I did. They are happy reminders of my training, my travels and the friendships I made along the way. I’m reminded of the incredible volunteers and race directors that spent their time allowing me to show up and enjoy a good run. The cheering, the cow bells and the wonderful water stops along the way where there’s always a kind word for you, no matter where you are in the pack. I’m reminded of all the uplifting words that keep you going on the days when you really want to puke, give up or both.  Those medals mean nothing to me without the camaraderie and solidarity I experience when I run. 

My Fall Series teammates truly are the best and it has nothing to do with their finish times. They are good people who inspire and accept others no matter what your pace may be. I love my team not because we won, but because they make me a better, healthier person and they challenge me in ways I would never challenge myself. They inspired me to run my very first ultra race this fall, where I learned how much my body and mind are truly capable of delivering. I’ve shared happiness, frustration, sadness, elation, fears and beers with them all. When I’ve had a rough week, I still can’t help but smile when I see them at the start line. It means everything to me because when you run with your friends, you understand that simply making it to the race at all is sometimes a momentous feat, given all that life throws your way.

I know that they all have busy lives and spent the earlier part of the week juggling families, work, relationships and personal demons, just like everyone else. But on race day – the world stops for a brief moment and we make time for each and take joy in each other’s company. What draws us together is the shared journey and support we give each other along the way. We come together on race day and show support not only on the running trail, but for life itself. We are stronger together because we encourage, reassure, cheer and affirm each other’s success. We share hobbies, pet peeves, and a deep love for animals and good beer. We are friends before runners.

Success comes in various forms and I’d have to say that our biggest success this year is not the Fall Series but rather the friendships we have formed. I couldn’t care less about a medal or trophy at the end of the season. In fact, if anyone else wants them, I will gladly give them up because when I was told at the finish line that we won, my true response should have been – “In more ways than you will ever know.”

The Evil Stepmother: I Don't Deserve to Be a Mother

“You don’t deserve to be a mother!”

Those words burned through the text I once received from my stepson’s mother. This is the same woman who lost all custody of her son over three years ago due to homelessness and drug use and now only visits with him for a few hours every other Saturday. My stepson suffers from Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD) due to the many early years of neglect she supplied and now he battles this mental illness everyday as he tries to awkwardly adjust and become a functioning member of society. He also suffers from a rare birth defect likely caused by his mother’s drug use that will haunt him for the rest of his life. His developmental needs and the road it has put me on is extremely difficult and has taxed my every nerve on a recurring basis and still I hear the words in my head – You don’t deserve to be a mother.

We all know that stepmothers are evil.  We were taught that in fairy tales from a very early age. They are jealous, manipulative and vain. They do everything they can to undermine and berate their stepchildren until they either leave home or are banished to a tall tower, all alone for the rest of their life. This is naturally me, because after all – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

I readily admit that I struggle with being Tyler’s stepmother. Due to his mental condition, he is extremely dishonest, manipulative and distant. He cares about nothing and no one except himself. He has no real hobbies or passion and if given a choice, remains disengaged from humanity as a whole. He refuses to manage the medical condition imposed by his birth defect and as result, regularly risks his long and short-term health. I spent the first few years trying to work with him, employing various disciplinary techniques that worked well enough in the past for my own three children, but fell flat on a child with his history and developmental struggles. I painfully labored alongside his father to help him catch up to the reading level of his peers, taught him to swim, ice skate, ski and zipline. I cleaned and treated wounds, drove him to sports, doctors, dentists and school. However, nothing seemed to help develop any real relationship with him. So, as you can see – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

I researched counseling options for him, selected one who specializes in RAD and made sure his dad got him to every appointment on time. These sessions were covered under my own health care program, which I paid with my own earnings. When I refused to allow my health care to cover private sessions with his mother, the counselor told me I was selfish and refused to see us anymore. I asked for his mother to cover the sessions under her own healthcare, but at two years after her divorce, she still made excuses about finding a job and therefore couldn’t cover the cost herself. So, Tyler stopped going to the counseling that he needed because as we all know – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

Having been through my own divorce almost six years ago, I now split parenting time for my own three kids. Their father and I live relatively nearby, remain cordial and work together to effectively raise our two sons and one daughter. My children are doing well and appear to be as happy and realistically adjusted as any kids of divorce can be expected. They are good kids that bring me more joy than I can ever express. They are my life. However, even six years later, on the three evenings each week they are gone, the wound in my heart rips open anew every single time. Leaving their father was my choice, but I still struggle like many other women with intense sadness, guilt and often feel like my soul gets ripped open so often I’m not sure it ever really repairs. I mourn every day they are gone and am often so depressed that I am simply unable to interact with Tyler, who remains in our house every night because his mother remains unable to care for him still. When I feel myself drawing away in those evenings and hiding in my bedroom , or out on the running trail, I hear those words repeated to me again – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

As three years of spousal maintenance payments come to an end for Tyler’s mother, my husband finds himself back in court to adjust her child support and discuss possible options I have suggested to him regarding more parenting time for Tyler’s mother. I am exhausted from trying to raise a son that I am repeatedly told is not mine and reaffirmed by a court that adamantly opposes my involvement in any proceedings.  If a child only has one mother, as many in society like to say, then I desperately demand that his birth mother be the one. I sincerely do not want to replace her and would love nothing more than to unload his laundry list of disciplinary issues, school work, haircuts, doctor appointments and activities to the one who haughtily proclaims herself as his mother. Alas, she laments that while she can spend a couple afternoons a month doing fun activities with him, she can’t possibly accept all those other dirty responsibilities and continues to discuss with her friends how, of course – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

My kids and I became even closer when I divorced as my energy was no longer split between parenting and trying to hold together a failing marriage. We spent extra time together and travelled from coast to coast on exciting vacations, read books together and enjoyed playtime in our new apartment and later, a five acre home. We laughed, lived and loved and I still treasure every moment and memory I have of those days. Since I have remarried, I’ve experienced the difficulty once again of splitting time between my children and my relationship. Although my children are easily the most important thing in my life and I try to tell them that often, I realize that no matter what I say or do, they will always hold some resentment for the intense love and affection I can’t hide for my new husband. Now add a new stepson to that equation as well - one that remains with me every single day and night, unlike my own kids. This creates a huge conflict for me and I feel like my loyalty is questioned at every turn. How can I convince my kids that they remain the most important thing in my world when I spend so much time with this other kid? How can I avoid Tyler when they are gone and not be an absent and evil stepmother? I have been a huge failure at this balancing act and no matter what I do, someone is slighted and resentful. Not surprising, since after all, I still don’t deserve to be a mother.

I certainly don’t seek any sympathy because I believe we all make choices for which we have to answer. I don’t know anyone that deserves to be a parent. In fact, I truly believe that no matter how great you think you may be, you are likely doing it wrong. We are all flawed and can only do the best we can under the circumstances. I, for one, am horribly flawed. I am often moody, emotionless and hold grudges far longer than I should. I can be selfish, insensitive, lazy and downright mean. But I am also very determined, loyal and focused. I work to direct my emotions into more positive actions like running and writing. I thrive on helping others see their strengths and know success. I vent my thoughts through my writing and hope that someone out there sees my struggle and recognizes it as their own.  I don’t pretend my problems are unique. Many of you struggle with similar issues every day.  Tyler’s mother was right. I don’t deserve to be a mother. But I do the best I can. And that’s okay with me.

 

Crying Babies

Many months ago, my 12-year-old daughter begged relentlessly for tickets to see her favorite singer, Austin Mahone, in Denver.  Her father and I agreed to buy her tickets as an advanced birthday gift, but bypassed the VIP option due to her less-than-stellar grade in Algebra.

When the concert recently came to town, I grumbled a bit at having to attend a teenybopper concert, but eventually decided that in order for her to have fun, I needed to play along and embrace the experience as new, unchartered territory. I texted Ali on the way home from work to let her know that I was on the way, gave her our departure time and asked what in the world we were going to wear. She informed me that jeans and t-shirt were acceptable, although she scoffed at my wedge sandals, which I needed to compensate for the fact that my pants are always too long for my midget legs.

Dressed up and ready to go, we headed to Denver and found Teenybopper Central. The line for the concert wrapped around the building and I begged her to let me stop in a nearby brewery so I could prepare for the event and let the line die down a bit. No luck.

We had to get in line NOW. I watched a parade of little girls go by in various concert attire, some very scantily clad, others with t-shirts bearing uncomfortably large face shots of some boys that I had never seen in my life, but ones to which these little girls lives revolved. Ali, having a moment of sensibility, remarked that it probably creeped out celebrities to see people wearing their face and she vowed to never own such a shirt of anyone, including Austin Mahone. She then informs me that since we bought these tickets so long ago, Austin Mahone is no longer her favorite because he was spotted with Justin Bieber. Luckily, her new favorite is Shawn Mendes, who is also in the performing line up for the evening. Whew.  She then begins to scowl at other girls wearing not only Shawn Mendes shirts, but brandishing Shawn Mendes VIP passes for after the show. I reminded her that she might have had a VIP pass as well, had she only fared better in Algebra. I received a scowl in return, but I think she realized the slight on this occasion was entirely of her own doing. Better luck next semester.

Once inside, I realize we had seats on the main floor, which made it easier to get to the restrooms, concessions and concert sales booth. Yay for restrooms and beer. Boo for easy access to $30 concert t-shirts.

We settle into the seats and Ali starts to make fun of all the "crazy" girls meandering around, twittering to themselves with excitement of seeing their crush onstage. I am almost proud of how sensible my baby seems to be taking things until....the large curtain with SHAWN MENDES written on it drops from the stage. Ali immediately begins to cry. I'm still trying to figure out what the hell just happened to her when a young man walks out from behind the curtain, holding a guitar and a stool. He sits down and plays. This kid is GOOD. Ali is still crying. In the interest of fun and trying to make Ali laugh, whenever the crowd of teenybopper starts screaming, I too, do my best paralyzed-with-excitement scream, although I have absolutely NO idea who the heck I'm screaming about. All in good fun. Ali manages to laugh a little through her happy tears. My job is already done and we've only seen the first of four acts.

Once Shawn is finished, I am in awe that my child is covered in happy tears, so while I head out to find myself a $9 craft beer, I decide to buy her a t-shirt of Shawn Mendes, along with a shirt of the next group -- Fifth Harmony. I'd heard one of their songs on the Disney channel through satellite radio on the way to the concert, so it seemed like a safe enough bet. Ali is thrilled, immediately puts on the Shawn Mendes shirt and proclaims that she might not take it off for at least the next month.

Fifth Harmony is already on stage at this time -- a group of five girls singing your typical teenybopper songs. I wasn't overly impressed with their talent, but I did appreciate that they appeared like real girls -- not the emaciated frames that consistently convince my daughter that she is somehow overweight or undervalued. I'm fairly certain those girls eat a normal teenage diet of pizza and ice cream, although I wish their "normal" frames had a bit more clothing covering their parts. I had a brief discussion with Ali where I pointed out that these girls seemed to be getting by on premature sex appeal rather than simple talent. She agreed, but asked me nicely to please shut up so she could just enjoy the show. Fair enough. I went back to sipping my beer.

Next up was a band called The Vamps -- which I had also only recently heard on the Disney station. A British band consisting of four young boys ranging from 18-20 years old, these kids hit the stage like little balls of fire. The lead singer, whom I had dubbed Nigel due to his strong British accent (I think his real name is Brad?), was about the cutest thing you've ever seen and I told Ali a million times like a grandma that I just wanted to pinch his little cheeks so bad. (Yes, the ones on his face -- not elsewhere.) I really enjoyed their set and spent some time boucing around as much as my wedge sandals would allow and screamed along with the rest of the tweenagers in the crowd. My favorite part was when Nigel decided he was going to teach the crowd a "new" song. He says he's going to give us the lyrics and we can try to follow along.

He begins, "Ceceeeeeeee-lia, you're breaking my heart...you're shakin' my confidence daaaaaaily...." OMG. He's trying to teach me Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkel?? I thought, "You cute little man - I was singing that song before you were ever a thought in your mother's mind!" No matter - he did a great job and I enjoyed the brief throw back to my own youth. This called for another trip to the concert stand and purchase of a Vamps t-shirt for Ali and then, in an attempt to be proactive, I went ahead and bought an Austin Mahone shirt just for good measure. The only one WITHOUT his face though, as directed earlier.

Austin Mahone hit the stage a short while later and proved to be the singing and dancing phenom I was promised. An incredibly cute kid, I thought he did a great job of engaging the crowd and I got in a bit more screming with the girls until I felt my voice begin to strain. I was telling Ali that although I like Austin Mahone, I really preferred the Shawn Mendes performance because I have more respect for simple, pure talent -- rather than a flurry of backup dancers, light shows and gimmicks. Almost on cue, the Austin Mahone set died down, he sent away the dancers and reappeared on stage with a stool and guitar -- only accompanied by an adorable older man on a piano named Abe. Ali got very excited and said this is why she, too, liked Austin Mahone - for his simple YouTube performances and not the wild stage show. She was correct. He was very good with just his guitar and won me over by remarking that he was orginally from Texas, loved country music and wanted to sing us one of his favorites. That favorite turned out to be "Check Yes or No" by George Strait and it was then that I might have been one of the few patrons still screaming in her seat. The teenyboppers didn't recognize the song (except for Ali who has been subject to much of my George Strait obsession over the years). I happily sang along, dancing around my chair, having an incredible end to a very sweet, happy evening with my baby girl.

We were exhausted on the way home and didn't get back to the house until after midnight. I still had to get to work early the next day, so I washed up and went straight to bed -- as did Ali. She reaffirmed her desire to wear her concert shirt for as long as I will allow -- possibly through the first school semester -- and I went to bed with the sweet, incredible picture of my child burned into my mind -- those tears of joy that she shared when the first performer hit the stage. These are the memories I will keep forever.

Heart Glasses

One day in my early years of flying, I was forced to get eyeglasses after failing to spot a landing strip off in the distance as early as I should have. I was very reluctant at first, but when I put the glasses on, I realized how many details I had been missing simply because I didn’t even know they were there! Though I wasn’t required to wear the glasses all the time, I hardly took them off for at least the first month because I was so impressed with the difference in all the little things around me that I’d never noticed before. Colors, sights, shapes and shadows all fascinated me with their clarity and crispness.

 

Over the past couple of years, I’ve realized that I’m going through the same experience all over again, except this time it isn’t the vision I have with my eyes, but rather with my heart. I’m not sure which happened first – whether my heart opened its eyes and began to see the incredible beauty of life, or if I was so inundated with beauty that my heart simply had to finally open its eyes. Either way, the result has been tremendous. I’m overwhelmed nearly every day with the crazy long line of fantastic people in my life. They give me hope, inspiration, comfort, humor, friendship and love.  They remind me of the need to help each other and that when we do this, we create a wave of positivity that resonates all around us.

Though many may knock the silliness of Facebook, I love scrolling through the pages of photos and updates from friends and family from all over the world. I am thrilled to see the truly happy faces, the shared triumphs and struggles and the way that I see people cope and thrive through the trials of life. I simply see beauty. Everywhere.

Thanks to my friend, Tonia, I’ve also even been able to really enjoy running again – not just as an exercise, but as treatment for my soul.  As a result, I’ve actually embraced my first attempt at an ultramarathon in September – a feat that years ago wouldn’t have even been a thought. However, I think being able to see the beauty in others also helps you to be able to turn the camera inward and see the positive aspects of myself. It’s been easy to criticize myself most of the time and I think for most people, we are well-versed in listing the endless faults we perceive in our bodies, minds and actions. But with a new outlook, I’m learning to see that when you start by really appreciating the person in the mirror, you become a better person to others as well.

I love my new glasses and unlike those that I received from the flight surgeon years ago, I hope that I never lose the novelty and feel the need to take these off! Happy running, everyone – or whatever makes your heart smile! J

Fired, Failing and Fresh Starts?

As I sit here trembling, slightly nauseous from my first ever firing in over 30 years of employment , I can’t help but feel guilty about the trail of events that got me in this place, and knowing that it all really went wrong decades ago. My guilt? Not following my dreams.

In my always strong-mind and eagerness to leave home, I graduated early at 17 and headed off to college. I was originally a drama major on a whim, courtesy of a one-year Officers’ Wives Scholarship, due to my military brat and high school drama club history.  When the scholarship ran out and I refused to give up my new found freedom, I spontaneously fled to the only interest I’ve maintained throughout my life – writing. I became a Journalism major, got a 3-year Army ROTC scholarship and graduated with an emphasis in Public Relations, knowing that I would be commissioned as an Army Aviator and subsequently never really use my journalism skills again, although it has and always will be my first love.

Fast forward twenty years and I’ve had a long career in the military with Army Aviation and now Air Force Reserves, neither of which I ever planned to be in my wildest dreams. I’ve done all kinds of wild and respectable things in my career (and some not so respectable), but none of which ever really felt like ME. While I have the highest respect for our military members and the armed services as a whole, I feel I’ve always been a fish out of water and have known that I’ve never really followed my passion in life. For that, I carry tremendous guilt. Instead, I followed the money.

However, you cannot do truly well in that which you truly do not love. What I love most is being a mother and advancing the motivation and direction of others who aren’t blessed with my same strength and perseverance. To be completely honest, I have been unhappy in my career path for quite some time, yet have felt powerless to change its course, or perhaps too naïve to know how to apply my strengths elsewhere. With a husband, four kids, a mortgage, an RV and a long list of obligations to my name, it has always felt safer to absorb the misery and provide the income necessary to maintain the life I’m accustomed to enjoy.  For this, I feel tremendously guilty and as if I have failed my family. How do you change direction so far down life’s road?

In reality, I am completely passionate about helping others, writing, communications and the public relations field.  Alas, having a 20+ year old degree and no real job experience in that area does not put you at the top of the hiring field. I am simply the 20+ year military veteran with a security clearance that is either over qualified for another job, or too inexperienced for the areas in which I would passionately love to work.

Still, I do believe that passion is what should and does drive all that is good in this world. I lost a very good friend to suicide in 2010 that I never could convince of his worth, despite what the world dictated he should be. He never seemed to grasp the tremendous worth in pursuing your dreams, no matter where they might lead. The world always seems to have a way of ripping away desires and replacing them with artificial ideas of what you SHOULD be. I always admired him for not caving to the pressure of what you should be and being simply what he was – which was beautiful.  In the end, the pressure won over his worldly battle and it breaks my heart to this day. But even now, I carry the guilt of still being here and carrying on the façade, though I know I’ve never had the courage to pursue my dreams in the way that he did.

I am truly sad today, but not in the loss of my job.  I am sad over the loss of confidence in myself, the obligation to my family, and that fact that I never had the courage to go where I was intended to be many years ago. Maybe this is my chance? I will bounce back, but not before I have soundly learned a valuable lesson for my kids. For the love of God and self, ALWAYS follow your dreams. Do not settle for what anyone else thinks you should be, rather boldly and proudly represent all that you are inside.  ALWAYS.

 

Combat Yoga, anyone?

Recently, I decided to try something new every month that moves me at least in the general direction of life improvement.  For March, this meant revisiting an old foe -- yoga. While I am well aware of the benefits of yoga, I've still always viewed it as an annoying, Ned Flanders kind of habit that rubs me like sandpaper across my temple. I know it may sound strange to say, but the peaceful, kind, nature of the practice drives me nuts.  I've spent most of my entire life in an Army environment that practices war and not only praises aggression, but rewards it mercilessness. My father, a career Army officer, never tolerated idleness and if you were trying to sit still and relax, then you were obviously neglecting some other chore that needing completing right-this-very-minute. You certainly didn't want to be accused of being lazy, above all things. While I am all grown up now and understand the absurdity of that mindset, I still have never successfully rid myself of the instinct to MOVE. NOW. And for cryin' out loud, don't expect someone to ask you nicely. I am sadly far more comfortable with someone screaming at me than I am with a soft, gentle voice explaining to me the benefits of measured, deep breathing over the soothing sounds of a dulcimer.  Thus, my journey with yoga continues.

This time, I chose an instructor that I truly admire and have known in the gym for years. She was gracious enough to invite me to her class and leave guest passes at the desk for not only me, but my yes-I'm-dragging-you-along-with-me husband. I actually showed up with my own yoga mat that has been in my garage for the last four years collecting dust.  I had to wash off the dirt, spider webs and dead bugs before it was class ready, but I felt that at least I'd LOOK like I knew how to do yoga up until the class actually starts.

Mind you, I have no fear of looking like an idiot in a class, so the self-conscious bit really wasn't an issue for me. I just wanted to find a spot in the back, observe the room, do my best to imitate the moves, and have some fun along the way. Of course, as soon as the doors opened, all the yogi-ites immediately strolled in and flopped their mats across the entire back row. We then tried the middle row, but it also filled up quick and to our dismay, we found ourselves in the front. Andrea, our instructor, was nice enough to loan Andy a mat (since I didn't have another bug-encrusted one to share), and it was shoes off, lights out, we begin!

Andrea turned on the yoga fire hose as she began quickly calling out and moving through the postures and poses one by one. I tried to keep up with the directions, but my brain moves entirely too slow, so I found myself looking around the dark room and just trying to copy what everyone else was doing.  Andy appeared to be as lost as I was, so I didn't feel quite so dumb.  There were lots of strange descriptions -- dogs, lizards, happy babies, warriors, triangles, pyramids, airplanes and few others that I can't remember.  My favorite was something about a "powerful chair" pose that really resembled something Andy does behind photographers when he wants the kids to laugh for a family photo.  We call it the "how you poop in the woods pose", so you can imagine my reaction when this turned out to be a legitimate yoga tool.  It ended up causing at least two brief giggling fits that I tried to suppress so as not to distract those around me quite so much.

The music turned out to be much better than I expected, especially since Andrea followed through with an earlier request of mine to have some Eminem during class.  That was my favorite few minutes as I was able to quietly rap along with the obscenities and forget that I have no idea how to attempt a Dying Dog Warrior Triangle pose. Andy enjoyed some Matthew Sweet music that also made the playlist, but while having to sit quietly AGAIN at the end of class, I still think I heard a dulcimer over some kind of strange singing/yodeling. I guess you gotta throw in at least one?

I also learned during class that I am horrid at trying to stand on one leg. I've always had the balance of a drunk, three-legged cat, which adds a special degree of difficulty when it comes to yoga.  Even as a young girl, I was one of the only kids in gymnastics that was eventually allowed to skip the balance beam lesson each week.  I required so much assistance for even the smallest task (and probably whined so extensively) that I believe they just gave up on me and decided to call a truce.

Balance aside, I managed to make it through class without major injury, skipping a couple of poses that hurt my back and replacing them with extra push-ups (or chaturangas, I believe they are called in yogi speak).  This is my favorite part of yoga.  Finally, an exercise I recognize and am actually GOOD at doing!

I feel that one of the worst tasks is having to close your eyes for extended periods of time. For me, this is nearly impossible. Rewind to childhood -- closing your eyes very much resembles a nap.  No can do. Got things to do and see. Did I just hear the door open? Who's that coming to class late? What are these numbers on the floor? Looks like they're peeling.  Someone should fix that. Where's the clock? Oh look, the digital clock got replaced! Where's the instructor? Is Andy closing his eyes too? I think I need a pedicure. Yep, looks like I do. Where should I go for lunch? In my mind, it goes on and on and on.....who's need relaxing?

The answer, I realize, is clearly ME. I will continue to try yoga where I can throughout the month of March, and I will do my best to keep my mind open because somewhere inside, I think I like the IDEA of doing yoga, but it hasn't quite caught on with my body or brain. If they invent some kind of combat yoga class where you get to complete obstacles around the room while wearing a chicken plate, shoot Airsoft at other participants and do more push-ups, I'm all  in.  And absolutely NO dulcimers. See you there?

The Beginning

As much as I love to write, I figured I'd start my own blog so I have a better venue to air my thoughts than the short status updates on Facebook. However, I am a bit hesitant, as many of my thoughts seem to cause great angst and displeasure amongst my family and friends, but nonetheless, I start my blog.

First step is selecting a name for the blog. I decided I'd adopt a unique past nickname, although I had to clean it up a bit and probably now do a bit of explaining. Among many of my food service jobs in my younger years, one included a cafeteria server in one of the University of Georgia dining halls closest to my dorm. This was supposed to be a great thing since I'd taken the money my parents gave me for the meal plan my freshman year and bought a ticket to see a boyfriend in New York instead.  After getting busted, I no longer received money for food, so I needed a place to eat for free and make a few bucks on the side. No problem.  I deserved it.

I was promptly assigned to one of the most popular lines, which included hamburgers, hot dogs, french fries and the ever popular mystery cheese sauce. Invariably, most 17-18 year old college kids that frequented my line would order either two hamburgers, two hot dogs, and one ENTIRE plate of cheese fries. This wasn't an issue until I realized that giving one full plate of fries to nearly every customer meant they didn't last all that long and I'd spend inordinate amounts of time changing out trays of fries from the back, which created a backlog of customers that never seemed to end.

As a solution, (and a prelude to my later fitness trainer mode), I began putting fries in much smaller bowls with a bit of cheese and ONLY offering the small serving. When the masses complained, I told them they were welcome to get back in line and get another bowl, but this way, everyone could get a little bit and the line moved much faster.  Many students got very irritated and came back through the line later for more, although some simply gave up and ate the smaller serving.  I hope they are thanking me now for not gaining 56 pounds during their freshman year. 

Anyhow, once I finished my shift, I would typically go downtown to the clubs with my friends, as many college kids do.  Since the dining hall where I worked serviced at least six freshman dorms in the area, there were a large portion of students that knew me from the serving line and began referring to me as "The Fry Witch".  Except they didn't say witch.  You get the picture.  Some used it as a derogatory term, and some as affection, but either way, I embraced the title with honor.

I'm many years removed from my Fry Witch days, but I still believe in the principle of moderation.  I look back fondly on my young adulthood, but wouldn't trade where I am today for anything in the world.  I hope you enjoy my little blog and I look forward to posting more down the road!

Keep Moving!