I Won't Become My Mother

We all love to blame our moms for everything. Thanks a lot, mom- You are genetically responsible for the cellulite that makes my ass look like a bag full of golf balls.  And thanks for the anxiety and medical issues that you passed down to me as well.  I’m pretty sure everything that’s wrong with me and all of my negative qualities somehow trace back to you.  We take our moms for granted, exploit their weaknesses, and mock them as they age, or at least I do. When she is in town, I constantly rename my Wi-Fi network just to make my technology-challenged mother think she's going crazy. And I pretend like I’ve said something three times just so she thinks her hearing is going. I've threatened to put her in a home, buy her Depends, and endlessly taunt her about growing older. It’s all in fun, of course.  I love my mom.  But sitting around a table the other day with my girlfriends and reminiscing about younger days, I realized just how much my mom has had to put up with for me. 

Growing up, I was not exactly what you would call an "easy child". I was sneaky, manipulative, and had an "easier to ask for forgiveness than permission kind of mentality."  My friends’ parents called me trouble.  Mom called me "quirky" and would tell my dad I was simply trying to find myself.  My sweet mom, forever the optimist. I'm pretty sure she kept a breathalyzer, a pregnancy test, and a spare set of handcuff keys in the top drawer along with her Prozac and Xanax. I threw parties with underage drinking, smoked pot, and even met up with a guy I'd never met in a mall parking lot for a date (It didn’t work out.)  I'm not entirely sure how I'm still alive. Or how my parents are for that matter. 

My partying lasted well after high school. My mom even picked me up from a blind date where I drank too much, ditched my date, and hit on the bartender. Upon finding that my original date had left, the bartender lost my interest, and I had consumed my fifth Long Island iced tea, I called my savior to pick me up. And she did. And she patiently pulled over while I puked down the side of her car. "Sorry, mommy."  She just laughed and drove me home.  My brilliant ideas lasted well into my college days.  My parents were out of town and I invited a few (dozen) friends over to their place to “house sit.”  Upon finding a container of gasoline in the garage and watching a couple of action movies, a lightbulb went off in our heads… “Hey!  Do you think we can set the pool on fire?”  Turns out you can… Luckily, cops were never called, nobody died, and mom and dad didn’t find out about that incident until much, much later…

As an adult, I have not changed much, but she can no longer ground me.  My partying has slowed but I still love to shock and disgust my mom and drag her into any shenanigans I get into. And she gracefully follows with a sense of humor, a lot of skepticism, and a willingness to step out of her comfort zone just to make some memories with her not so little girl. I even dragged her into this blog post. I have not pre-cleared this with her. Sorry, mom. 

As I grew and dragged my mom into my world of mischief, it was my turn to laugh. Turns out my mom has a wild streak too. Hers just came out later in life. She proved this at an 80's party we threw. I couldn't find her anywhere. Imagine my surprise when I walked out of my back door to see my mom, on her knees, with my girlfriend spraying a can of whipped cream vodka into her mouth from between her legs. I'll never un-see that. The night ended with an Afro wig on her head, her trying to hold a wine glass between her toes, and my dad rolling his eyes, saying "I think I'm going to put mom to bed now."  Yes, I have pictures of all of this. They will accompany her throughout the remainder of her life. And I might even put them in her coffin just to have the final word. 

I feel like I’ve become even more relentless with time.  In fairness, I had to.  She just doesn’t shock as easily as she once did.  I don’t just try to push her outside of her comfort zone anymore, I shove her there, against her will.  For example, we invited her on a trip to Texas with us for her 60^th birthday.  Instead of a nice dinner with a birthday cake, we made her ride a bull and took her to a bikini bar where we made her put on a bikini top and take a blowjob shot.  She did it, like a pro, and as the ultimate birthday gift, I filmed it and put it on Facebook for all to see…

I recently took her tailgating with me where we serve jello shots out of syringes and call them “flu shots.”  On questioning how good I might be at a blow job, a friend approached me and said, “I dare you to suck the jello out of this syringe without pushing the plunger.” Not feeling the need to flaunt my flawless fellatio skills at that particular moment, I said, "I can't... But I'll bet my mom can..." Not willing to be called out, she did just that, resulting in laughter and respect from my friends, and a little bit of pride from me. 

Forever the entertainer, I feel my friends should benefit from my mom’s discomfort as well.  So, in an effort to really try and shock her one day, we took her to a local adult toy store.  My mom laughed right along with the rest of us at the multiflavored lube and cleverly named battery operated devices.  And she even smirked when the lady behind the counter explained how the theater rooms worked.  In a moment of spontaneity, I decided, “Hey, will you give us a tour of the back rooms?”  My friends all looked immediately grossed out and I turned to my mom anxious to see the look of utter disgust I was sure would be on her face.  But instead there was a smile followed by, “I’d like to see too.”  I exchanged surprised glances with my friends.  “Well I guess we’re going!”  So we toured the back room and I was actually impressed with how clean it was.  My shoes didn’t stick to the floor and I don’t think I contracted any STD’s.  I turned to mom and said, “Well that wasn’t so bad…”  As though on cue, a man stumbled into the hall, private parts in hand, enjoying himself immensely as we all walked out.  Mom and I looked at each other and died laughing.  Another proud mother/daughter moment. 

My mom and I are alike in many ways but we are also very different.  Mom is content staying at home, reading books, scrapbooking, and playing games.  I want to get out and experience the world, do weird and unique things, and I like to drag her with me.  In particular, I like to do things that scare me.  Mom and I are alike in the respect that everything scares us.  We are different in that I actually like being scared.  I take this into consideration (or lack of consideration depending on how you look at it), when planning our excursions.  I like to take her to do things like spend the night in haunted asylums or spend an hour in an escape room.  Mom is scared of enclosed spaces.  And the Dark. And her shadow. Yet somehow locked in an escape room modeled after a jail cell in Alcatraz seemed like the perfect mother/daughter night out. I’m shocked she hasn’t started making me pay for her Xanax yet. Exploiting that fear further, I made her sit in a closet in my basement for an hour on a bright and sunny Thursday by convincing her there was a tornado when they were simply testing the sirens.

I’m not a total jerk.  I do things that she enjoys too.  In fact, we have a girls’ trip every year where we travel down to Florida with a group of our favorite girls for a Food and Wine Festival at Disney World.  However, we still have to make it at least a little uncomfortable for her.  After several alcohol-induced brainstorming sessions, we’ve started to theme our visits and dress the part.  I use that opportunity to once again mock and embarrass my poor mother.  This last year’s theme was Alice in Wino-Land.  When we were planning, I smiled at her (not unlike the Cheshire Cat) and said, “I’ll be the Queen of Hearts.  You can be Tweedledum…”  She laughed and went online and bought the appropriate hat without a single argument.  When we got there, we set her up to have an odd gentleman dressed in sequins show her some affection in the middle of Downtown Disney.  Those pictures have come back to haunt her at random intervals.  We took another exciting trip to New York City and got her so hammered that she couldn’t even remember that the Broadway Theater was actually on a street called “Broadway.”  Then I made her sit through The Lion King.

It has become a cliché, but my mom really has become my best friend over the years.  We experience things together, take trips together, and share memories that are serious, sad, frustrating, joyful, and hilarious.  She’ll travel 12 hours in a car with me wherever I want to go, shoot tequila with me, watch Harry Potter for the thousandth time, and hang out with my friends.  I can borrow her clothes without asking and use her lipstick without fear of getting herpes (I think…) She’s become my best friend because, for my whole life, she’s been my biggest advocate.  When everyone else had given up on me, she didn’t.  She loved my free spirit and carried me through the difficult stages and fought for me to hold onto that fun-loving attitude.  It was extremely important to her.  This became evident to me at a friend’s house one night when I was doing cartwheels while wearing a dress after several shots of Fireball.  I’d love to tell you I was 19.  I was 32…  My husband shook his head and apologized on my behalf.  Mom just laughed and said "that's my girl." You see, she’s kept her optimism and hopeful outlook for her high-spirited daughter, even after all these years of torment.  As she watched me cartwheel in all my glory without a care in the world, she didn’t care that everyone could see my bright white rear and my fancy underwear.  Again, forever the optimist, she was just grateful that I bothered to wear underwear at all.  She smiled that with everything I had been through in life, I was still the girl in the mismatched clothes and tutu twirling around the living room, lost in her own imagination.  Life has a way of stealing your innocence. Mom fought for me to keep my individuality, imagination, and sense of humor regardless of what life threw at me.

Girls grow up and go through a stage where they dread realizing they have become their mother.  I haven't had that moment. I am not my mother. My mother is more patient, kind, and tolerant than any other person I know. I'm not that selfless.  In fact, I think we've established by now that I'm kind of an asshole. And yet she still hangs around. 

I’ve tormented her and mocked her relentlessly and she follows with unlimited patience and humor.  We even convinced an entire country club that she used to be a Playboy bunny.  She just laughed and signed some autographs.  It doesn't matter what I put her through or how hard I’ve pushed her outside of her comfort zone. She somehow has still remained my biggest fan.  So, no, I won't be lucky enough to become my mother.  But she wouldn't want me to be. You see, I'm as unique as she is. And that's all she's ever wanted for me.

INCONCEIVABLE

A lot of couples struggle with infertility.  It’s frustrating, it’s hard on a marriage, and oftentimes, it’s humiliating.  The only saving grace is that sometimes you just have to laugh at the absolute absurdity of it all.  My husband and I have been relatively open about the fact that we have struggled with infertility.  We knew something wasn’t right after a year or two of trying to conceive without success.  Our first step was to our regular doctor who suggested a mild fertility medication and timed intercourse.  I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried timed intercourse but I can tell you from experience that there’s nothing sexier than a bottle of lube and an eggtimer.   Nothing turned my husband on more than an alarm going off and me snapping my fingers and throwing cheesy pickup lines at him to lighten the mood.  Turns out asking him if there’s a mirror in his pants because I can see myself in them doesn’t work after numerous years of marriage.  It became evident rather quickly that this avenue was not going to work for us.  You see, my husband is out of town a lot.  He was completely unreasonable and adamant that the timed intercourse had to be with him so that significantly limited my options.  It’s a shame too because my charming pickup lines were bound to work on someone. 

Since this was not going to be an option for us, the next step was to see a fertility doctor.  Living in a small city, our options were limited.  The closest specialist that our doctor endorsed was about three and a half hours away.  As a result, our first appointment was via Skype.  That is a surreal experience.  It’s not the first time I’ve discussed my genitals on a webcam but it was a lot more clinical this time around.  It was also a little odd that this guy knew my last name and we didn’t meet on Craig’s List.  But no matter, I guess it’s like riding a bike because, before I knew it, he had all of the information about my lady parts that I usually reserve for a second date. 

Next, we needed to meet our physician in person to go over options, budgets, procedures, and that sort of thing.  We got back into an exam room and the first thing Dr. Babymaker does is pull out an anatomy book and without any warning at all, starts showing us pictures.  I must’ve turned a little green and I looked at my husband in horror.  “What?” he asked me.  “Um… Is that what my vagina looks like?!?!?!?!”  Not fully understanding my disgust, he replies, “Well, yeah.”  “Oh my God!  That’s awful.  Why the fuck aren’t you a homosexual?!?!” Both men in the room seemed unaffected by the bald little alien with its tongue sticking out in the picture and gave me a “Can we please move on?” look.  Now I was frustrated, infertile, AND self conscious.  I crossed my legs a little bit tighter.  He used the picture books to explain to us that he thought I had something called polycystic ovarian syndrome.  “No way, dude. I’ve only had like 5 sexual partners and I always used a condom.”  The doctor looked at me, his patience draining…“It’s not an STD, Mrs. Carlson.”  “Oh.  Well then carry on.”  He told me they could do a quick ultrasound to confirm the diagnosis.  “Okay, that’s not so bad.”  I laid down on the table and pulled up my shirt a little bit, exposing my stomach, when I received another sigh of exasperation from our doctor.  “No, ma’am, it’s an internal ultrasound.  I’m going to need you to get undressed.”  I was very confused but I’ve never really shied away from taking off my clothes for hot doctors, so what the hell?  I took my pants off and laid down on the table.  He then put my feet up in stirrups and pulled out a large wand.  He didn’t seem to think it was funny at all when I asked if they had one with batteries.  The experience was not as enjoyable as I thought it might be but, in typical fashion, he probably just didn’t do it long enough.

The diagnosis was as expected.  I was left to get dressed and meet him back in his office.  I hung my head, a little sad knowing that there was something wrong with me but I pushed it aside, pulled my pants on (making a mental note to bedazzle my vagina before our next visit to make it slightly less hideous), and marched back into the office for my next dose of humiliation.  The first thing he told me was to change the way I eat and perhaps start exercising because weight played a big role in this particular disorder.  Whoa, whoa, whoa!  Way to kick a girl when she’s down, asshole.  “Don’t worry, honey, you could probably have babies if you were just a little less chubby.  A little more broccoli…A little less Ben and Jerry’s.”  I fought the urge to kick him in the shin. 

It was determined that in vitro would be our best option.  He went over the procedure in painstaking detail, again using that horrific anatomy book, and I was pretty sure that my husband was never going to touch me again.  After discussing the procedure, he brought up the subject of frozen embryos.  Basically, he wanted to know if we got pregnant but had remaining embryos left over, would we be interested in donating them?  Donating them??  Like to another couple in the area?  My mind jumped to the worst case scenario.  What if they end up in school together?  What if they fall in love?  What if they get married?  Am I condemning my children to possible incest without their knowledge?  My mind went through every Days of Our Lives episode that I have ever seen before I wrinkled my nose in disgust and asked, “What are our other options?” 

They sent us home with a folder full of information, a prescription for a bunch of hormones, and an empty wallet.  I was to start hormones in two weeks.  Injections proved to be slightly challenging.  The ones in my stomach were okay because I could reach that area easily and I have plenty of extra padding to soften the blow.  It was the hip injections that were interesting.  That is not an easy area to reach by yourself.  I am not overly flexible and, most mornings, this routine seemed to resemble a puppy chasing its tail.  And while I don’t have a fear of needles, it feels wrong to be injecting something into yourself that you know is going to make you crazy.  And crazy I was.  For those who have not experienced infertility hormones, I can safely compare it to pregnancy hormones on steroids.  I cried.  At everything.  And for no particular reason.  I wasn’t even sad!  In fact, I would start laughing at myself while crying because I was crying for no reason.  I’m pretty sure I resembled a clinically depressed villain straight out of Batman.  My husband would ask me…from a safe distance away…if I was going to be okay.  He would barely wait for an answer before rushing down to the basement to quietly plot how he was going to get me to the hospital for a psychological evaluation and fitted for a straight jacket.  I noticed he seemed to spend a little more time at work during this particular phase of treatment.

Luckily, the hormones were only extreme for about two weeks.  Then they leveled out a bit when it was time for my retrieval.  When they mentioned egg retrieval, I immediately thought of a fluffy little bunny going in and pulling brightly colored Easter eggs from my ovaries.   It turns out this was inaccurate.  I didn’t even get any chocolate which I still think is bullshit.  Instead, I got a world of pain from over- stimulated ovaries and a promise of nausea while recovering from anesthesia.  But I sucked it up and put on a brave face because I wasn’t the only one involved in this process.    

My devoted husband had stood by my side through every minute of this ordeal so I felt somewhat obligated to be supportive when it was time for his end of the bargain.  He looked at me, cup in hand, and said, “I’m not sure how I feel about this.”  I looked lovingly at him and then I looked at my feet up in stirrups…again… a shower cap on my head… the current needle in my arm that was going to be a portal to knock me unconscious… the even larger needle on the bedside table that was going to be used to stab at my ovaries… and the current small crowd that was forming between my legs with my vagina as the life of the party.  With every ounce of sympathy that I could muster, I looked up at him and said, “I’m sorry you have to watch porn and have an orgasm.  Seriously, honey, thanks for taking one for the team…” 

Before I knew it, the procedure was over and I was in the recovery room.  I apparently apologized to the doctor for falling asleep while he was talking to me and completely missed my head when trying to point to my big brain while telling everyone how smart I was.  I’m sure I was incredibly embarrassing and my husband couldn’t wait to get me out of there.  So he got me in the car and got to enjoy the three and a half hour ride home with a drugged up wife who thought she was a fantastic singer, impressionist, and comedian.  But my supportive, loving husband didn’t say a word.  Not that I would’ve let him get one in anyway.  He patiently drove me home to wait the agonizing two weeks until the pregnancy test.  Another two weeks of emotional fun for my hubby to deal with.  You will all be surprised to know that he never once threatened divorce.  We weren’t successful but we made it through the ordeal together and even managed to have some laughs along the way.    

Now that I have shared my story and some of the laughs that we have while looking back on it, I feel it’s only fair to address the women in the room who are currently fighting this battle.  I’m sure there are plenty of you out there thinking that there is nothing funny about infertility.  And you’re not wrong.  It’s extremely difficult to see the humor when you are in the situation.  I could have written an entirely different Mamalogue about the heartache and frustration associated with our struggle.  Finding the humor was the only thing that made it bearable for me.  And I had to make a conscious effort to see that humor.  So in fairness to the other hopeful mamas out there who are feeling the stress and frustration, I will offer you this.  I will address the most common question I get.  Was it worth it in the end to someone who was not ultimately successful?  Yes.  I didn’t see it at the time.  But I do now.  It was a journey worth taking.  It’s one more struggle in life that I’ve overcome.  It made me stronger and more comfortable in my own skin.  It helped me see who those true friends were who held me after yet another negative pregnancy test, regardless of the fact that the pee stick was still in dangerously close proximity.  My husband and I have yet another obstacle we have conquered together.  Infertility is stressful and exhausting and disheartening.  But, in the end, I have learned that it didn’t have to be the happy ending I had always dreamt of for me to still find my own happy ending.  But I needed to take this journey to see that.  

He Was Still Born

I haven’t been back to “the scene of the crime” since Gabriel was born.  I’ve been to the hospital, of course, because I’m accident prone and unhealthy, but I have steered clear of the childbirth unit.  Not necessarily by choice but probably because something in my subconscious told me I wasn’t ready.  However, a friend of mine was hosting an event on Tuesday night and I offered to help.  I didn’t think much of it.  I have helped with plenty of infant and child loss events since our loss.  I was warned that going back to the childbirth unit was hard but, again, I didn’t really anticipate how hard it would be.  You see, I have found a way over the years to almost numb myself to certain things.  Is that the healthiest way to deal with my grief?  Probably not.  But it is self preserving and it makes my days bearable.  I built a tougher layer around my grief over the years, not curing the wound but creating a bit of a scab over the top.  I wasn’t healed but I was protected. 

Unfortunately, the minute I pulled into that parking lot, that scab was ripped open and I wasn’t prepared for the emotional bleeding that would take place over the rest of the week.  I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go inside.  I sat in my car and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.  That overwhelming grief that I felt almost five years ago that I had worked so hard to overcome was back in an instant.  Anyone who knows me knows that I love life, I love to laugh, I love to make other people laugh, and I just want everyone to be happy, including myself.  It was a sobering feeling to sit in that parking lot and feel just like I did five years ago.  Like I’d never laugh, smile, or find happiness again. And perhaps scariest of all, I didn’t care if I lived.  Don’t misunderstand that.  I didn’t want to take my own life.  I just simply didn’t care if I was here or not.  I have felt that way a grand total of twice in my entire life.  It is a devastatingly awful way to feel. 

As I sat there in my car, trying to compose myself, every single feeling that I had on October 5, 2011, came back and I felt it intensely and painfully.  The memories I had tried to suppress for years came flooding back and I knew, at that moment, that this was never going to go away.  My grief is always going to come back in some form and haunt me for the rest of my life.  Those demons that appear in my nightmares are never going to go away.  I looked at the doors to the hospital and I remembered the feeling of my sweet child moving and kicking inside of me, yet knowing that when I walked through those doors, I was going to come out childless.  And, even worse, I remembered that we were forced to make that choice.  Although, if I was grateful for anything on Tuesday, I was grateful for the fact that we at least had the ability to make that choice.  Our governor has, since then, decided what is right for women, their bodies, and their families by outlawing the ability to induce early, even in situations like ours.  With the new law, our situation would have ended the same way.  I still would have left that hospital childless.  But I would have had to watch my son suffer in an unbearable way before I did.  I pray that he and his family are never faced with that situation. I pray that he never has a child on life support and has to make a decision on whether or not to take them off.  Our decision was no different.  I felt anger for this man that I don’t even know because I knew that so many other women would experience the trauma I was feeling now but it would be so much worse.  But I’ll leave my bitter feelings on that topic for another day, another problem, another battle, another blog.    

I composed myself, threw on some makeup and an artificial smile, and walked through the glass doors into the childbirth unit.  I must have been pale because the woman at the desk asked me if I was okay. I said “yes” but internally I was screaming “no.”  I looked at all of the signs for the child “birth” unit and remembered hearing that I would not receive a “birth” certificate for my son.  They don’t give out birth certificates for stillborn babies.  I didn’t understand.  I thought to myself, “But he was still born.”  I labored for 26 hours, gave birth, held him in my arms, and took pictures with him.  Yet, somehow, they still wouldn’t acknowledge his birth simply because he didn’t take a breath.  No wonder I have felt the intense need every single day since then to defend Gabriel’s existence and trying to make sure people acknowledged his life.  Because he was very much alive.  I felt it.  I saw it.  I lived it.  But I would never receive an acknowledgment of that birth for his baby book or memory box.  Just one more thing I felt robbed of. 

I looked down the hallway when the doors opened for a nurse to exit and the memory of the funeral home coming down that hall to take my son from my arms came back and I had to stop and steady myself for a second.  I felt dizzy and sick.  Like I was back in a nightmare that I thought I had finally escaped. 

I made it through the event without really letting anyone know about the turmoil that was taking place inside.  Looking back, I’m not sure why I felt the need to hide it.  If anyone understood, it was that group of people.  I’m sure they felt the same.  I know they would have held me and comforted me.  But emotions are hard for me sometimes and I’m much better at joking my way out of uncomfortable situations than I am at facing them.  I don’t like it when people see me cry.  I felt damaged and for some reason, I didn’t want anyone to know that.

In the ultimate moment of kicking me when I was down, I was scrolling through Facebook trying to cheer myself up when one of my memories popped up.  Guess what that memory was?  Naturally, it was the one where I announced my pregnancy on Facebook many years ago.  I don’t get angry often but my blood boiled at the cruelty of it and I thought, “Fuck you, universe.”  

I got back in my car and lost composure all over again. I was broken.   The girl who can always see the light sat in darkness.  The girl who can always laugh could do nothing but cry.  The girl who loves life realized that a piece of her would never be alive again.  And the grief, for that moment in time, consumed me.  I gave in.  I gave up. I felt like I had nothing else to give in this world. 

I knew enough to know that this feeling would pass eventually but, right then, I felt like my world was crumbling.  I was grateful that I had family who listened to me and an amazing friend who sat on the phone with me until 1:30 in the morning listening to me blow my nose and sob.  That was the only light I found that day but it was enough to pull me through.  I spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday with my husband and with friends who can always make me laugh and that helped.  But at night I still went home and felt a sense of emptiness.  I know I will find my way through this once again and my grief will become bearable but now I truly know what they mean when they describe the grieving process as “one step forward, two steps back.”  So, I suppose, I will keep walking forward and focus on all of the good in my life while accepting that setbacks are just going to happen.  I just hope I can continue to keep them to once every five years.     

EXERCIST

I recently decided it was time to get back into an exercise routine after a long hiatus.  I used to be extremely in shape, ate right, and took care of myself.  It was easy because I had a workout routine that I loved.  Then I made the mistake of taking a friend with me and she ruined it by being adorable and charming and the instructor fell for her and became irritatingly creepy.  I had to stop going slightly because I feared for her safety but mostly because he wasn’t offering me the correct compensation for information on her daily routine and whereabouts.  I don’t sell my friends out for free, you know. 

Once I stopped working out daily, it was very easy not to go back.  Then I went on to discover alcohol, fried foods, and NetFlix.  Turns out I liked these things.  A lot.  So my jeans got tighter, my abs got softer, and my thighs got thicker.  But, hey, I’m a bright side kind of girl so I chose to focus on the fact that my boobs got bigger too. My husband liked that part of it a lot and didn’t seem to mind me a bit squishier so I was content in my new lifestyle.  However, I inevitably started to feel tired and somewhat depressed and I knew a big portion of it was the fact that I wasn’t exercising.  So I started to turn over ideas in my head as to what I could do that I would love as much as I had once loved kickboxing.  I didn't know what I might try.  The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t taking my cute friend with me this time around. 

I knew it would be hard to find something that would keep my interest and not feel like exercise so my ears perked up when a coworker mentioned going to a barre class.  Barre?  Sounds right up my alley.  How does this work?  Do we do squats and get rewarded with wine?  Fireball after pushups?  It was spelled weird but I just assumed my coworker was trying to make it sound fancy.  So off we went. 

This was NOT what I expected.  There were no bartenders and chicken strips.  No lovable hammered friends who would FaceTime me at 3 am.  And was that headband made out of hemp?  No, no.  This wasn’t right at all.  I felt dizzy and confused and for all of the wrong reasons.  But I’m tough so I figured I’d give it a chance and stick it out.

The instructor was super-annoying.  She had…what do you call that?  Oh yeah…energy.  She talked.  A lot.  And I wanted to choke her.  A lot. She kept coming over to me and showing me what I was doing wrong.  It seemed like she only came over to correct me which was embarrassing and I was getting angrier by the second.  “See?  Bend further down.  Do you feel that burn?”  I answered her first in my head, “No.  What I feel is my thong riding up my crotch, your breath in my face, and if you don’t step back out of my personal space, I will punch you.”  But out loud, I said, “Sure.  Thank you.”  I turned to my coworker, rolled my eyes, and went back to doing exactly what I was doing before.  Then, suddenly, as my muscles burned and I’m pretty sure even the top of my head was sweating, I had hope.  I smelled margaritas.  I knew it!!!  I knew there would be alcohol with a name like barre!  I looked around frantically.  Where’s that coming from?  And then reality set in… “OMG!!  It’s me! It’s coming from my pores!”  I was literally sweating out last night’s poor decisions.

After that experience, I discovered quickly that barre wasn’t really for me.  What else could I try?  I discovered a gym that formed their workouts in a group personal training atmosphere.  That’s interesting.  Maybe in a small group I’d feel some sense of accountability.  So I signed up.  I knew when I walked in that I was probably in over my head.  I could tell this by the chiseled bodies, displays of protein powder, and overall sense of enthusiasm about spending the next hour torturing their bodies.  But, nevertheless, I was going to give it a shot.  In walked the instructor.  This wasn’t the high-energy nagging Antichrist from barre.  Oh, no.  This guy was smoking hot!  I suddenly had a little burst of energy, skipped to the treadmill closest to him and got ready to bat my eyes and ask for help with every exercise that we did. 

So, off we went.  They had treadmills, rowers, and a weight room.  I started on the treadmill because it was the most familiar.  Okay, it was the only thing familiar to me.  They had three different levels:  Runners, joggers, and power walkers.  Yep, that’s me.  The last one on the list.  Like the last one picked for dodgeball.  But I suppose I’d rather be the kid in last place than the one who falls on her face trying to run when I know I’m about as coordinated as a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. 

About 30 minutes in, after deciding that I could probably jog for a little while, I got a cramp.  Not a bad one, but bad enough to step off the treadmill and let the cute trainer massage it.  He was a good sport and even laughed when I told him that it was actually my inner thigh that I needed him to rub. 

I had enough of the treadmill after that so it was off to the weight room for me.  This trainer was a girl.  Boo.  But she was nice enough and helpful so I pushed through despite her ovarian shortcomings.  Each station had a set of weights and various other equipment that looked like something out of Fifty Shades of Grey.  We were apparently only using the weights on this particular day.  Bummer.  Lady trainer showed me an exercise that I chose to do without the weights.  Upon seeing this, she came over and said she’d prefer me to use the weights as they would help me balance.  She handed me two 10-pound weights.  I started the exercise, my eyes grew wide, and I put them down immediately.  “Nope.  My spaghetti arms won’t be using these today.”  She smiled sweetly and, forever helpful, said, “Don’t worry, we have 5-pound weights too.  They’re over there.”  She pointed to the other side of the weight room.  You know, on the special rack, covered in dust, because nobody in this place actually uses those.   So, I hung my head and started the walk of shame through the swarm of fit, chiseled bodies to grab my 5 pound weights like the only kid at camp who has to wear a life jacket on the paddle boat ride and returned to my station. 

Hot trainer, sensing my draining motivation, came to the rescue.  We were going to do squats together.  Yay!  I positioned myself slightly behind him so I could watch his form.  He told me to stick my butt out a little bit more and smirked at me when I creepily asked him to show me just one more time.  I managed to make it through the rest of the painful workout on sheer stubbornness while fantasizing about the 12 inch kettle bell and giant pair of BOSU balls that I was sure made up the workout equipment beneath his spandex.  I thanked him for the workout and left in a hurry, nervous that I might puke on his now shiny, perfect muscles if I hung around for too long. 

I did feel good when I got home though.  Who doesn’t love that post-workout feeling?  You know, the legs on fire, sweat running down my cleavage, I just touched the same weights as 500 people who don’t wash their hands after taking a shit kind of feeling.  I’d jump in the shower immediately if I didn’t have to wait for the sweat to stop pouring out of my body in order to peel off the layer of spandex that I am now convinced is super glued to my skin.  And I don’t even want to think about how deep of a crevice I will have to pull my underwear out of at this point.  It might be gone for good.    

So, after all of this, I’ve learned a valuable lesson.  I’m getting older.  This gym thing just might not be for me anymore.  I’m not cut out for a super healthy lifestyle.  I’ve decided to take a break from the gym and exercise at home from the comfort of my recliner while eating cookies and watching Shaun T sweat it out on my DVR.  That should get my heart pumping enough to call it cardio.  And carrying my lazy ass up to bed every night surely counts as weightlifting.  It’s really all about perspective.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bar class to attend.           

     

POLITICALLY INCORRECT

I was recently called out on social medial for making a political joke in what this person apparently thought should be a serious conversation.  Never mind the fact that it was a humorous discussion to start with.  He made some pretty rude statements and I was bothered by his hurtful comments for a grand total of 3 seconds before I stopped giving a shit what he thought about me.   I’m comfortable with who I am.  A cynical, sarcastic individual who tries to find the humor in everything.  The subject of politics is no exception.  I joke about politics simply because, let’s be honest, this election is a fucking circus.  And circuses are funny.  Allow me to provide a brief synopsis of some of the main acts.  

          First we have the firebreather.  He opens his mouth and there is an immediate explosion of hot air that is only meant to spark a fire and elicit gasps from the crowd.  And gasp they do!  Although you can’t hear the female spectators because he has informed them that the best decision for their bodies is to sit in the back row for the entire 9 months that the circus is in town, regardless of their personalized circumstances.  But no matter, they can still enjoy the show from back there in the 1900’s.  And it’s not just the women he knows what’s best for.  Oh no, he cares about ALL of his spectators.  When he invites audience members to participate in the show, he will even let homosexual individuals join in the fun, as long as it’s not the part of the show that requires rings.  That’s crossing the line.  What a great guy, this firebreather, looking out for everyone else.    

That’s a tough act to follow but up next is the high-flying trapeze artist.  She swings from side to side, never really landing on any given issue.  The spectators watch her in awe as she leaps from topic to topic, dodging all obstacles in her way until she ultimately catches the hands of her partner, without whom, she wouldn’t even be in the show.  Her act isn’t overly impressive to me.  I can see the thin rope hooked to her back that attaches to the ceiling.  It’s really not that big of a surprise, is it?  Little scandals like this tend to follow this high-flying acrobat everywhere she goes.  It is disappointing though.  She belongs in the center ring about as much as the Kardashians belong in a convent. 

 Up next is the magician.  I find this one particularly fascinating. Halfway through the show, he takes half of the popcorn from paying spectators and makes it appear in the hands of those who didn’t put in the time and effort to stand in line to get their own.  But he does it with such flash and pizzazz, that even half of the paying spectators don’t seem to mind.  It’s really impressive.  His employees love him too.  Probably because he pays his lovely assistant the same amount that he pays his doctor.  Personally, if I was his doctor, I’d be kind of pissed and would tell him to have his assistant surgically remove his head from his ass the next time he got it stuck there.  But that’s just me.   

Finally, we have the clown.  I think I love him most of all.  What’s funny about his act is that he actually has some valid points, as long as you live in 1865, pre-civil rights America.  In his defense, purging and starting over is all he knows.  When he was in debt, he filed bankruptcy, cleaned house, and started over again.  Why not do the same thing with America?  A new beginning…genocide…we are really just splitting hairs over terminology.  Cut the guy some slack. He just wants to rid America of the “problems” that he sees.  You and I might call them human beings but, again, we are really just nitpicking over terminology here.   

Wow.  Seriously, great show guys.  Barnum and Bailey really have some competition.  I can barely wait for the next election year.  I’m not sure how we will be able to top this year’s candidates.  But I guess I should get back to reality and respond to the asshole who is adamant that I must have a serious political stance.  Well here it is.  I don’t get involved in political conversations for a reason.  I hate arguing with people and tension makes me anxious, especially with friends and family.  But choosing not to participate in political conversations doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions or am unaware of the current issues facing our country.

When voting day comes, I will be among the first in line.  Because that is my right as an American citizen and it is one that I don’t want to lose.  But make no mistake about it, I’m not voting for the person I think will make the best President.  I’m voting for the person I think will do the least amount of damage.  Because the reality, folks, is that the only hope we have of getting a candidate in place who can really change this country is not electable.  We are too busy rooting for our “team” that we can’t open our eyes and see that the only way to make a difference is to find someone that is neither left nor right, but somewhere in the middle.  That person will never get elected because they would not be the “ideal” Democrat or Republican.  And shame on us as American citizens for being so closed minded. 

So those who want to argue politics, by all means, continue to do so.  I won’t stand in your way and it is your right to believe what you choose thanks to this beloved country that I love so much.  Continue to try and change your America through a system of corrupt individuals who don’t give a damn about you or the promises that they make you.  If you think you can make a difference through these circus freaks, congratulations, you have more faith in our government than I do.  I, on the other hand, will continue to try to make this country a better place in the only way I think I can.  Through charity, hard work, and general kindness to my fellow Americans.  How is that for your precious political opinion?

A QUESTION OF FAITH

I’ve always struggled with faith.  I’m actually a little jealous of people who believe so strongly and fully.  I wouldn’t necessarily consider myself an atheist but would classify myself as a skeptic.  I’ve gone through stages where I have believed there might be a higher being out there and I’ve gone through phases where I adamantly believed there was nothing at all.  During tougher times, even if there was a God, I was sure I hated him.  It is no secret that I’ve had some struggles in my life, especially over the last 5 years.  While this is by no means a “poor me” story, I think that most of you can probably understand my skepticism.  This is a dark world sometimes.  While I’m quite capable of finding the light most days, I struggle with what is “fair” and “unfair.”  There is just no logical reason for some of the misery that takes place on this earth.  So if I'm not sure whether or not there is a God, why exactly do I celebrate Christmas?

When we lost our son four years ago, I went to a very dark place.  I believed in nothing and even got a little snarky and irritated when people told me everything happens for a reason and that God needed him sooner.  God didn’t need him…I did.  And the words were meaningless to me.  The people saying them, however, were not meaningless.  They were well-intentioned, kind, loving people who just wanted to support me and shower me with their love and compassion.  That’s pretty hard to stay irritated with.  So I let them comfort me however they chose to do so and I put aside the thought of God with a shrug of indifference.  During this dark time, there was a small group of women who I had never met that reached out to me.  They had gone through similar losses and they understood my grief and pain.  They took time out of their lives and their families to put their arms around me, let me cry, and teach me how to move forward.  When I was lost, they found me.  When I needed a constructive way to remember my son, they gave me a position on the board of a non-profit that is now very near and dear to my heart.  It enabled me to serve my son’s memory in a positive way and maybe help a few others along the way.  This group became a family to me. Through this organization, I have met many parents who have suffered a loss. Some of them believe fiercely in a God and in heaven, others don’t.  I am content with both beliefs. 

Through my time with this non-profit, I met another amazing group of people. A group that consisted of some of the most selfless, humble, and caring people I have ever met.  I will not speak in detail about who they are or what their mission is because they choose to remain anonymous.  They are truly giving to give, not to receive recognition.  They, again, were giving countless hours of their own time to make life just a little bit better for those who were hurting and just needed to know that someone cared.  I honestly don’t know their beliefs.  We’ve never talked about it.  And, again, I am content with that.

We celebrated Christmas growing up.  I’m not sure I ever understood the reason for the holiday.  I knew the story behind it.  But did I believe it?  I’m not sure.  I don’t think I ever put much thought into it.  What I did love about the holiday was the magic of it.  How kind people suddenly became.  How people stopped thinking about themselves for just a few days and cared about others.  THIS was the joy of Christmas growing up for me.  We didn’t have a lot of money when I was a little girl and I don’t know that we had the elaborate gifts that I see kids open these days.  But I had two parents who were so selfless and loving that I never noticed the lack of tangible things.  I remember things like watching the parade with my mom, making cookies for friends and family, my dad putting the star on top of the Christmas tree.  I remember taking an angel off of the Christmas tree in the mall and providing what we could for those in need. The love and kindness was what I celebrated, not a baby in a manger.  And I was okay with that. 

I was surrounded by people of exceptional faith growing up.  People who went to church every Sunday, read the Bible, and prayed daily.  I, on the other hand, was not fond of spending my Sundays in Sunday school and had more questions than answers.  I have a curious mind that is always asking “why” and “how”.  This is a blessing and a curse.  I’ve had moments where I’ve thought “There has to be…” and other moments where I’ve thought “There can’t be…”  Many days, I wish I was someone who could just have faith in a higher power.  I'm not sure it’s in me to do so and I have accepted that.       

Through the ups and downs in my life, I kept searching.  Searching for a sign of a God.  A sign that there was something more.  Something to ease my fears that this isn’t it.  That there is something after this life.  Something to provide me with hope.  I never found the proof I was looking for.  I’ve never had that “aha!” moment that made me feel strongly one way or the other.  However, through every rough patch in my life, there has been someone there to help me up.  Sometimes it was family, sometimes it was a friend, and sometimes it was a complete stranger.  Oftentimes it was a stranger who then became a friend.  I found support in places that I would have least expected it and this is what gave me hope. 

  

I think as human beings we have this deep desire to label things.  When life is dark and challenging, we need something to believe in.  The jury is still out for me on whether or not a God truly exists.  But I do believe in angels.  I have witnessed them myself.  Despite the pain, sorrow, and hatred in the world, real-life angels walk among us every day.  So when I consider what exactly it is that I’m celebrating this Christmas, I have decided that I am, in fact, a person of faith.  My faith may not necessarily be in a higher being but in human beings that I interact with every day and these angels, alone, give me something to celebrate.    

EXCUSE ME WHILE I OVARY-ACT

As a disclaimer, I do not consider myself a die-hard feminist.  Or a man-hater.  And rest easy gentleman, this is not a man-bashing rant.  I prefer to think of it as a teaching opportunity for you to take back to the cave and share with your male counterparts who might still live in the 1920’s.  I know many of you are civilized and are aware of the fact that we are more than baby-making machines with the sole purpose of pleasing you and making you sandwiches, but even the most liberated of men still seem to judge us for our tendency to be a little emotional and sensitive.

So this one is for the men out there.  Your wives and girlfriends have probably given up on trying to explain our mood swings to you in an effort to avoid the inevitable eye roll, dramatic sigh of exhaustion, and condescending comments that you give us when we have the audacity to express ourselves.  I, on the other hand, don’t give a damn if I offend you.  So listen up boys, I’m going to explain to you once and for all why we are the way we are in hopes that you realize there is more to us than what you learned in your high school sex ed class.

First of all, being a woman is hard.  And I don’t mean because of the pregnancy thing.  24-36 hours of labor is the least of our problems.  What I mean is it is a LOT of work.  All.  Of.  The.  Freaking.  Time. 

Let’s start with the masochistic ritual known as hair removal.    Shaving for men is optional.  In fact, I have heard of countless bets where you bet each other NOT to shave. Women would take that bet in a heartbeat and happily grow our leg hair out to lengths that would require a separate bottle of conditioner and an extra comb.  However, our society, as a whole, frowns on this.  As a result, most of us pluck, wax, and rip our hair out on a regular basis.  I have personally chosen waxing as my source of self mutilation so I feel that I can enlighten you on the experience.  Waxing is painful.  And sticky.  On one occasion, I actually glued my labia together while attempting to wax my bikini line and then glued my thigh to the shower floor when trying to undo the damage.  And I didn’t even remove a single hair!!  Those ladies who are more coordinated than me might succeed in yanking their hair out by the roots.  However, even a successful waxing session usually results in a deafening scream that results in the cute, concerned neighbor coming over to find you curled up naked in the fetal position or frantically rubbing aloe on your lady parts.   

After we have adequately tended to our waxing wounds, we then proceed to spend 30 minutes putting on makeup and using scalding hot tools at an alarmingly close proximity to our scalp.  We sometimes suffer from second-degree burns while attempting to look like the airbrushed women you drool over in magazines.  And we haven’t even gotten dressed yet.  When we do, this usually consists of something tight and uncomfortable with undergarments that rival ancient medieval torture devices.   So the next time I’m crabby and you ask me what’s up my ass, I will tell you.  It’s a half-inch wide piece of material that feels like a permanent wedgie and chafes my butt crack.  Yet I paid good money for it so that you can’t see my pantylines because apparently that is unattractive.  You won’t hear me judging you when your boxer briefs slip down and I can see the crack of your ass every time you bend over.  But, no, by all means, I’ll spare you those pantylines.  We then proceed to put on shoes that force us to walk on our toes as though we are auditioning for the New York City Ballet and polish everything off by wearing a 10-pound purse that holds the Band-Aids and aspirin we will inevitably need to make it through the evening.  And since we have to carry this scoliosis-causing bag anyway, please, allow us to carry all of YOUR crap for you too. 

Now, it’s not all bad.  We do have a slight reward for all of our hard work.  Allegedly, we have the potential to have powerful orgasms.  Unfortunately, to achieve this evasive experience, we have to pull out a Sharpie and draw a set of detailed blueprints on our inner thighs so you know which spots to target and which to avoid. Then we twist our bodies into positions envied by most circus performers to find the perfect combination of pleasure and pain, by which time, you are probably already done.  In all honesty, it is much easier for us to throw some batteries into that new toy we bought for half off on Groupon.  But, we go through the contortionist act anyway in an effort to please you so, do us a favor and spare us the story about the porn you saw with the woman who could get her legs behind her head while achieving an orgasm and cracking open a beer at the same time.  She’s not normal, probably had ribs surgically removed, and she’s faking that orgasm.

If you still don’t understand where we are coming from, I’d like to point out the hardships of my single friends.  On dates, men have the luxury of eating whatever they want and, in an effort to not look like the carnivorous beasts that we actually are, we order a salad and longingly watch you down your meat and potatoes.  By the end of the night, our stomachs are usually growling, our reflexes are slowed, and our judgment is impaired.  So those women who put out on the first date are not slutty, they are severely malnourished and just praying that your bachelor pad has an extra slice of pizza in the fridge that they can inhale while you are fumbling around for a condom. 

After eating that pizza, we then come home and give ourselves a guilt trip for it.  We listen to the voices in our own minds reminding us about our muffin top, stretch marks, and the cellulite that has been forming on our thighs.  We balance with one leg up on the bathroom counter twisting around and using three mirrors to try and count how many new dimples we have and cry as we attempt to figure out the lengths we might have to go to to remove them. Then we do everything from rubbing coffee grounds on our skin to wrapping ourselves in seaweed, bathing in mud, and, if all else fails, subjecting our bodies to lasers and scalpels in an effort to rid ourselves of these perceived flaws.  And we won’t even discuss gray hair and wrinkles. 

By this time, we are truly exhausted.  So it’s time for some beauty sleep.  But we can’t even do that without being judged!  Women are apparently not supposed to snore, wake up with dragon breath, and God forbid you are a sleep farter.  So we attempt to stay in one spot and appear to be dainty little angels.  It is not until we are truly comfortable in a relationship that we will allow you to see the reality of our sleeping habits which usually consists of our legs caught in an alligator death roll with the sheets in a fight to the death type of situation.

Like I said, this is a lot of work.  What do we have to show for all of this effort?  Seven days of uncontrollable emotions and hormones that cause us to laugh and cry at the same time while wearing something that feels like an adult diaper or playing “hide the string” if it’s swimsuit season.  And, while we are on the subject, let me offer you some advice.  Don’t you DARE ask us if we have our period when we are a little crabby.  If you are wrong, the question itself is enough to piss us off enough to make you spend the entire evening paying for it.  If you’re right, you better be wearing a cup because the probability of you getting kicked in the balls is high.  Do us both a favor and offer us a foot massage if we are a little cranky instead.  It takes you 10 minutes and the odds of any permanent damage to your testicles decrease dramatically.  

Now, we don’t ALWAYS have those dreaded 7 days a month.  But if we are lucky enough to be without them, it’s probably because we are carrying a little human being inside of us.  Yes, this is sweet, and precious, and we are happy about it and all that crap.  But that little human being will eventually take away our ability to sleep, our ability to poop in peace, and our ability to laugh or sneeze without wetting our pants.  But don’t worry, God rewards us later on in life with hot flashes and night sweats along with a decreased sex drive which you will inevitably bitch about too. 

So please cut us some slack the next time we are crying at the feminine hygiene commercial during the Super Bowl or have an irrational response to you asking how our day was. Chances are we have a g-string up our butt, our feet are bleeding, we are probably starving, and it’s time to wax our mustache again.  We certainly put up with your burping, farting, temper tantrums, quirks, and weird man smells so the least you can do is forgive us for occasional ovary-acting.  I don’t think this is asking a lot. We are, after all, doing most of this for you.