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.

A Letter For Gabriel

Dear Gabriel,

          
         My sweet son.  I have thought day and night about what I might say to you if I had the chance.   If only you could have known how much you are loved and the impact you have had on your father, me, and everyone around us.  Since you did not have the opportunity to live your own story, I would like to share it with you now.

          Your daddy and I tried for five long years to have you.  We went through fertility treatments and many failed pregnancy attempts but we didn’t give up.  We wanted you so badly.  I finally got the phone call that I had been waiting for for so long.  I was pregnant with my precious baby.  I was sick in the mornings but I didn’t care.  I dreamt of the day that I would hold you and I imagined what you might look like.  I wondered if you would inherit your father’s amazing sense of humor.  I couldn’t wait for you to meet all of your cousins and your grandparents.  You were already so loved. 

          Shortly into my pregnancy, I got very sick and had to go to the hospital.  I was terrified that I was losing you.  They reassured me that you were fine but they needed to do regular ultrasounds to monitor us both.  I was excited about that because more ultrasounds meant that I got to see you more often and hear that precious heartbeat that warmed my heart. 

          On one of the ultrasounds that they did, they found a bulge coming from your belly.  They told me they could fix it but it was going to be a tough six weeks after you were born.  I was worried but I took comfort in their confidence that this could be fixed.

          They sent me to a specialist who performed more tests.  It was then that our true nightmare began.  You had some other abnormalities that were consistent with a disorder that was fatal.  They would have to do yet another test to confirm this but I knew in my heart that this was really bad news.  That evening I went for a walk.  I walked around our neighborhood and I felt you moving and kicking in my belly.  You were so active.  How could something be wrong?  I started to say goodbye at that moment.  I felt so guilty.  I had not even received a confirmation that we were going to lose you and yet I was already saying goodbye.  If your own mother didn’t think you could survive this, how could anyone else?  For that, I am so sorry.  I think that maybe if I had just believed a little harder, you could’ve had a chance.  I know deep down that isn’t true but I carry that guilt with me anyway.  Unfortunately, my guilt was only beginning. 

          When we got the call from my doctor that our fears were confirmed, my whole body went numb.  I heard some of the words he was saying but I was having trouble stringing them all together.  I heard words like “incompatible with life” and “will not survive childbirth.”  After rattling on for what seemed like forever, he asked if I had any questions.  The only question I could manage was, “Is the baby a boy or a girl?”  He told me you were a boy.  My precious son that I had wanted for so long.  I knew then that I would name you Gabriel as you deserved the name of an angel.

          Our lives became a whirlwind at that point.  Our doctors’ recommendation was to induce me early.  If we continued with the pregnancy and you, by some miracle, survived childbirth, you would suffer in a way that was unbearable for me to even imagine.  I was faced with a decision no mother should ever have to make.  I had to choose whether to induce early and let you go peacefully or continue with the pregnancy knowing that you would suffer and that the odds of you surviving were almost zero.  The death blow had been struck.  We knew this was the beginning of the end. 

          Your father and I made the decision to induce early and let you go peacefully in the only environment you had ever known rather than introduce you into a new world where you would feel nothing but pain and fear.  I will never forget the feeling of standing in that hospital staring at the doors.  It was surreal.  I felt you moving and kicking inside of me and I knew when I walked through those doors, you were going to be lost to me forever.  What kind of mother was I to do this to her son?  Why couldn’t I save you?  I felt completely helpless.

          After 26 hours of labor, you were born.  My precious Gabriel was here.  You were perfect in every way and we loved you instantly.  You were so tiny.  You had your dad’s nose.  We held you for 12 precious hours.  I never knew how short 12 hours really can be.  Those were our only 12 hours to be a family.  We talked to you, took pictures with you, took footprints, and held your tiny hands.  Your dad told you all about Notre Dame football and his thoughts that Michael Floyd might, indeed, be Superman.  You even got to meet your Aunt Susi who instantly adored you.  She would have spoiled you rotten.  Those 12 hours were the saddest and yet the happiest hours of my life.  When we had to hand you over to the funeral home, your dad and I held each other and cried.  We felt a pain that went so deeply into our souls that I knew our world had forever changed and we would never be the same again.  We lost a piece of ourselves that day and it took me a long time to understand that that was okay.  It is a piece of us that belongs to you alone and it is that void in our lives that will hold on to your memory and keep you alive in our hearts forever.       

          After we said goodbye to you, I went through a period of time where I felt robbed.  I felt robbed of the hopes and dreams that we had for you.  I felt robbed of the opportunity to watch you grow up, push you on a swing, and teach you how to ride a bicycle.  The holidays became torture.   I plastered a smile on my face and tried really hard to be happy when I watched other kids open presents on Christmas or hunt for eggs on Easter but, inside, I felt angry, jealous, and alone.  I would walk into your nursery and stare at your empty crib and cry.  It infuriated me when people said things to me like, “Don’t worry, you can still have more kids.”  I didn’t want any other kids.  I wanted you.  People did not understand the pain of our loss because they never knew you.  They had never met you.  I felt that this diminished your existence and it made me angry.

          Little did I know that nothing could diminish your existence.  As time went on, I witnessed something amazing.  I watched as our friends and family came together in support.  I watched my relationships grow and change.  I watched our friends hug their kids a little bit tighter and tell them just one more story at night.  Their appreciation for their children had changed, because of you.  I watched as my relationship with your father grew.  We became stronger and closer than we had ever been and we have you to thank for that.  You gave us the greatest gift we could ever ask for.  You made us parents. 

          I have had the ability to help other parents through the agony of losing a child and you give me the strength to do that.  Every time I talk a mother through her grief, I feel closer to you.  Not only did your life serve an amazing purpose, you helped me find my purpose as well and, for that, I can never repay you.  You gave the ultimate sacrifice.  You gave your life to enrich ours.  You give us hope, strength, and courage.  You remind us every day about what is truly important in this life and to hold on to the precious time we have with our loved ones.  Do you know how proud that makes me?  I’m such a lucky mother to have had you for a son. 

          I’m about to do one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.  I’m going to get on stage and share your story with other parents.  I thought it was only fair that before I share your story with them, that I share it with you first.  I hope that you are there, somehow, to hear out loud how much you are loved and missed and how proud of you we are.  I know that your story will continue to help other parents through their grief so, rest easy, my sweet Gabriel, that we will keep breaking the silence and never let your memory die.

Until we meet again,

Your loving mother.  

One Foot in the Grave

I really can't stand when people touch my feet. So, unlike most girls, I find pedicures to be pure torture. However, summer inevitably rolls around, and I am forced into the salon to protect the people around me from the horrific sight of my unpedicured toes.  I always wait until the last possible moment when my toenails are starting to grow into my skin and my calluses resemble something you might see on Fred Flinstone’s feet to once again bear the burden of my extra X chromosome and submit to the torturous ritual called a pedicure. 

So, this year, as the weather started to warm and my feet begged me to allow them to make the transition from boots to sandals, I begrudgingly entered the torture chamber and allowed them to touch my feet. As you can imagine, they were not particularly happy to see me.  They quickly disappeared into the back room to gather their tools which I assume consisted of a pair of pliers, a utility knife, and a belt sander.  They talked amongst themselves in Vietnamese in what I assume was their version of rock, paper, scissors to see who the lucky winner would be to go to work on my piggies.  They apparently had a new girl who was just starting. After getting a good look at my feet, they decided this would probably be good practice for her. I, on the other hand, was not so thrilled about having an amateur work on my feet. See, when I do go and get a pedicure I am not one who wants this to be an hour and a half long process while they massage my feet and pick at my toes. I want to be in and out of there in the absolute shortest amount of time possible with perfect toenails that look fantastic for 2 1/2 months because you know that I'm only doing this twice during sandal season. Not having to subject myself to pedicures is one of the very few things that I love about the winter.  

So, they gestured toward a seat that I walked toward as though I was headed for the electric chair and sat down across from a man who was currently getting his eyebrows waxed and I tried not to stare at him while I stuck my feet into the bacteria bin which I knew had probably held thousands of disgusting infected toes. Luckily, the water was scalding hot, so not only was I sure that it had killed any sort of organisms that might be lurking behind, it also peeled off my top layer of skin so the organisms wouldn't have had anything to attach to anyway.

The woman doing my toes offered to do a manicure as well since she was learning and practicing so I reluctantly agreed since my hands didn't look much better than my feet. She told me to sit back and relax and enjoy some TV while she went to work. I looked up at the TV, and in a moment of sheer irony, on comes a commercial for toenail fungus medication. I reached for a magazine instead. 

The new girl started to look distressed pretty quickly, not that I blame her. She started to sweat and said something to one of her coworkers which I told myself was probably a comment about how adorable my feet were and she needed to come and see them right away. In reality, it was more of a plea for help because she was clearly in way over her head.  Over walked the seasoned manicurist who decided to pitch in and help. New girl kept working on my feet and old girl went to work on my hands. She started massaging my hands, which is the only part of this process that I thought I would enjoy.  Well, that was until I realized that my next step would be to the hospital where they would repair my four broken fingers from the deep tissue/tendon/bone massage that she performed.

Meanwhile, on my feet, new girl decided that she was going to try a hot wax treatment on my legs.  It would have been nice if she asked me first, but she just brought the wax over and placed it on my legs before I realized what was happening. Unfortunately I had just shaved my legs prior to this visit in an effort to not look like a complete Neanderthal. Have you ever put hot wax on freshly shaven legs? I would highly advise against it.  Luckily, my feet and legs had started to go numb anyway from her constant prying, filing, and other torturous rituals that she could come up with to punish me. So I turned my attention back to my hands.  When I looked down, I realized that four of my fingers were bleeding from where she cut me while trying to trim my cuticles. Luckily, she dabbed some alcohol on them to get the excess blood off so it wouldn't ruin my French manicure that I was having done. My eyes started to tear up, but I still refused to say anything, because the man across from me still had not complained once about his eyebrows getting waxed. By the way he was now getting his hands and feet done too.  If he could do this, so could I.  I would not be shown up by a man.

Then came my favorite part of the experience...the part where I almost died. I always thought my headstone would read something cool, like “Eaten by a great white shark” or “Slipped and broke her neck while trying to climb on stage at a Chippendale's show,” not “Death by pedicure.”  Again, remember they are working on my hands and feet at the same time in an effort to get me out of their shop as quickly as possible.  The manicure I am receiving requires a UV light to set.  A UV light requires electricity.  My feet are still in the water basin of death when the seasoned manicurist decides the best way to handle this is to place the electric UV light on my lap with both of my hands inside.  I’m sure, in her mind, this is a great solution to getting finished quicker and, at the same time, making it impossible for me to move, squirm, and writhe away from their every move.  Unfortunately, as she turned around to grab something, the light started to slide towards the tub.  Defenseless with my hands inside of the machine and my feet in the bin, my life flashed before my eyes and I yanked my feet out of the water, kicking the new girl in the shoulder in the process.  At the same time, I pulled my hands out of the light sending it crashing down at the manicurist’s feet.  I strung together a slew of words that would have made a sailor blush and they responded with a string of words that I didn’t understand but I can tell you that it didn’t sound like, “I’m sorry for almost electrocuting you.” 

I was a bit shaken and I insisted on a different manicurist who wasn’t a homicidal maniac coming over to finish the job.  I glared at them all while he finished up and then I paid a ridiculous amount of money for my bleeding fingers, water-wrinkled feet, and newfound trauma before stomping out to my car and slamming the door.  How on earth do women enjoy this experience??? 

The logical part of my brain told me that, next year, I should just embrace unpedicured toes and use that money to buy wine and therapy from this year’s experience.  Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain is very small and the vengeful side is large.  So I’ll be back, sadistic salon workers, and I’ll be sure that my feet resemble something out of your worst nightmares next time around….    

Lucy-Fer

Recently, I went through a bit of a rough patch.  My health was not fantastic, I never seemed to feel quite right, and my anxiety levels were trending upward at an alarming rate.  My career that had once looked so promising and rewarding was in a downward spiral and I was miserable and hated getting up every morning for work.  I worked from home and I don’t think that helped the situation.  Winter had settled in and it was gray and cold outside and I frequently didn’t leave my house for days.  I felt like a failure.  I decided it was time for a career change so I started applying to different jobs in an effort to improve my sense of self worth.  Unfortunately, I was finding that I was overqualified for some jobs and underqualified for others.  I could not seem to find that happy medium.  So I waited as the responses didn’t come and the interviews I did have didn’t pan out.  Waiting sucks. 

So, it is not only for this reason but at least part of the reason that we decided to get a puppy.  We currently have a 10 year old yellow lab and thought he’d like a companion, especially if I was going to start working outside of the house.  So we found an English Cream Golden Retriever puppy, 8 weeks old, and decided to bring her home.  She is beautiful and affectionate and, for the most part, very, very sweet.  We named her “Lucy.” 

I am a huge animal lover and anyone who knows me knows that my other dog, Killian, is the love of my life.  He is actually prioritized over my husband the vast majority of the time.  We got him when he was 8 weeks old and we bonded immediately.  I trained him myself and we have spent almost every single day together since he was a baby.  I thought for sure I would have the same immediate and special bond with Lucy.  Unfortunately, I didn’t.

We brought her home and my first concern was for Killian.  I did not want him to feel replaced so I overcompensated with how much time I spent with him and maybe even left Lucy out just a little bit.  When we got Killian, I wasn’t working so I had all day and all night to devote to him and his needs.  Now, I’m working full time, my husband is out of town a lot, and I am not only having to watch Lucy to prevent her from destroying my house but also to prevent her from hurting Killian.  She doesn’t yet understand that he is old and jumping on him hurts.  She is a typical puppy with a ton of energy and extremely exhausting.  At first, I felt like I had a toddler running around my house.  But, then, as I watched her more closely, I became convinced that she was a demon puppy sent to punish me for my many sins.  At night, in an effort to use up all of her energy before going into her crate to sleep, she runs around in circles in a performance that resembles something straight out of The Exorcist.  She jumps on the chairs, scratches me with her demon claws, and gnaws at me with vicious little puppy teeth.  She even used those deadly fangs to chew a perfect circle in our carpet which I logically assumed would be used in rituals to offer up her human sacrifices. 

It didn’t help that my husband did bond with her immediately.  The evil temptress became his precious little princess and everything I tried to do to discourage her bad behavior, he negated because he was incapable of telling her no.  I cussed at them both when I would step in dog crap outside or walk in to my bedroom to find her eating my freshly laundered socks and underwear.  Her accidents or decisions to roll around in mud always seemed to be right after I got out of the shower or at times of utmost inconvenience.  Then, when I yelled at her, she smirked at me and looked up at my husband with those big brown eyes and he melted and let her do whatever she wanted.  I squinted my eyes and glared at her.  I know what you’re playing at, sister.  I used those same eyes to get myself a diamond ring.  Where Killian was dumb and sweet, Lucy was smart and manipulative.  But there’s only room for one manipulative bitch in this house and I’m not relinquishing my throne. 

About a week ago, as I shot up from my desk to clean up the furry devil’s third accident for the day while corralling her to a different room so she didn’t walk through it and track little pee prints throughout the house, I was suddenly very aware of why people say having a child will not fix marriage issues.  I was irritated and crabby from chasing her around, cleaning up her messes, and getting up early with her when she cried.  I couldn’t figure out why this was so irritating to me when I did it all so willingly with Killian.  I’ve always been a very patient person.  Why couldn’t I find some patience for this feisty little dog who, deep down, I knew just wanted my time and affection?  Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t neglect her or anything.  I played with her, snuggled with her, bathed her, and trained her just like I was supposed to do.  I even trained her to go to the corner when she was naughty.  But I didn’t feel a deep attachment to her through any of it like I did with Killian.  

Then I realized that I was unfairly resenting her.  I missed getting up in the mornings and sitting with Killian while I ate my breakfast and drank my coffee.  He would let me sleep as long as I wanted without bugging me.  He is already potty trained and obedience trained.  He spends his days laying by my side or staring out the window.  He’s not adventurous, no longer explores anything that might be dangerous, and doesn’t chew up my Ugg slippers.  I don’t have to take him out in the snow to go potty.  He knows my moods.  When I’m sad, he comforts me.  When I’m angry, he stays out of my way.  When I’m happy, he’s happy.  Lucy, on the other hand, needs constant supervision and attention. 

It finally set in that for the last year of my life, it has been all about me.  My career downfall.  My frustration.  My disappointment.  Lucy needed me to make things about her and until I finally realized this, I wasn’t ready to do that.  I was content wallowing in self pity and worrying about my own needs.  I looked down at her and felt so ashamed of my selfishness and I felt like the worst doggy mom on the planet. 

I got out of my chair, sat down on the floor and pulled my beautiful puppy onto my lap.  It was at that point that I sold the little she-devil my soul.  I showered her with the love, affection, and slew of apologies that she deserved.  She looked up at me with those big sweet brown eyes full of instant forgiveness and unconditional love.  She covered my face in puppy kisses and nuzzled up to my chest.  It was then that I realized that I Love Lucy…finally.