Gettin' Some-Why I Hate the Gym and Crave Adventure

Something funny has begun to happen to me.

I've never been the most physical of people.  I don't enjoy being out of breath and in pain, and I hate the gym with a passion.  When I go inside, I feel a part of me dying.  It's socially acceptable, institutionalized self-torture!  Like the terrible Greek myth of Sisyphus who is doomed to push a boulder up a hill over and over only to have it roll back down, people run and run and arrive at precisely nowhere, climb stairs that will never, ever end in a rooftop view, and endlessly push their arms and legs against a contraption that is not pumping a well or moving a stack of wood or doing anything at all.

And let's not even talk about the music.  Gym music makes me suicidal.  I know...listening to Nick Drake croon, "pink, pink, pink, pink moon" doesn't make you want to jump around.

I understand that people do it for their body, their health, and that it inexplicably makes them feel good after.  But you know me-I need meaning in everything.  If you want to move your arms, lift roofing materials onto your old neighbor's roof.  If you want to do squats, go help harvest lettuce at the local organic coop.  This is how I feel about exercise; it's great if it's a by-product of actually doing something.  

Super unpopular I know, as my views tend to be.

Well, I don't really know where this is coming from, but lately my desire to push myself mentally and physically has grown.  Quite a bit, actually.

Maybe it's rebellion against the idea of what a mom "should" be like.  Maybe I feel defiant about my age and the complacency that has crept in and made itself comfortable in my life.  I'm tired.  I don't want to be wet or dirty or uncomfortable.  I'm becoming less flexible, less tolerant, and I hate that.

I don't want to grow soft.  I don't want to "go gently into that good night".  I want to rage, rage, and maybe surf or skate into the dying of the light.

So I've been thinking; why don't I bomb hills with my kids?  Aside from a lot of skin surface and my front teeth, what do I have to lose?  Who said I can't?  And if not now, then when?

Suddenly I want to dangle from cliff faces, hike the entire Camino de Santiago de Compostela, jump out of moving things, and plow through heavy surf.  I want to feel the very edges of my physical and mental boundaries...I want to know their contours and textures intimately.

At dinner with friends the other night, I articulated this out loud for the first time and my best friend asked, "Why do you think you feel like that?"

"I don't know," I said,  "I just want to live.  Until there is no life left in me, I want to feel and I want to live."

Anyone else up for some adventure?





............................................

Once...

Dusty photo of Eiffel Tower, 2003

I don't remember anything else about that day.

Deranged by the time change, we probably overslept and then couldn't get a bite of breakfast in any of the old restaurants of the Pigalle. The sturdy husband-and-wife owners would have looked at us sharply and pointed to cold ham and buttered baguette sandwiches, unglamorously piled in plastic wrap on the counter.

If the husband pitied us, he would switch on his great, steaming beast of an espresso machine and bring us an au lait. A few men nursing tiny glasses of late morning wine at the counter would look at us curiously.

The chef was gone...it was not time to eat in Paris. Anyone would know that.

Using flash, film camera, 2003

This day, we probably took the wrong Metro stop again and ended up below the statue of Louis XV instead of above it. We would have hitched our bags up, rounded our shoulders against the climb, and walked in silence, me using the snowy domes and peaks of the Sacre Coeur to navigate.


Perhaps this was also the day I asked the hotel concierge, in perfect French for the first and last time in my life, where was the Opera Garnier, earning me the briefest warmth of an approving smile.


But perhaps this was also the day that I unfolded a shelf of clothes in a boutique and made the clerk grimace; the day a fat waiter told me I would be much more beautiful without my ugly wool hat.

From the window of my hotel, 2003

It was not a good trip in the way you would imagine it would be; two young women in Paris for their first time.

I had picked the wrong traveling companion and things had begun to unravel immediately. She spoke French but refused to.  Refused, in fact, to use a map, learn the name of the street our hotel was on, pick a restaurant, ask for water.

She sulked when, on our third visit to Fuxia for hand rolled pasta with goat cheese and pine nuts, it was me, not her, that the waiter kissed on both cheeks after an animated Frenglish discussion about eggplant vs. aubergine (he was, I think, surprised to find Americans had the capacity for such whimsy regarding the vegetable kingdom).


It could have been any one of these grim and beautiful November days in Paris that we left the Metro deep below street level and had to exit through one of those endless, white subway-tiled corridors. We were alone in the corridor, this being a work day in a working neighborhood. The fluorescent tube lights flickered blue against the white tile, reminding me of an igloo entrance.

Red bag, Eiffel Tower

My red bag was slung cross my body as usual, zipped and resting under my left arm. Somehow I felt the weight of one fingertip more added to my burden. I whirled and caught in my hand the skinny wrist of a very young, very beautiful boy who had the corner of my wallet in his hand.


"Bon!" he congratulated. "Very good, very good!" he praised me in English.


He dropped my wallet, bowed, and then this very young boy who had just been ready to rob me blind, turned my hand over, kissed it tenderly, and ran off. At the end of the tunnel his friend peeked out, laughing.


"Very good!" he yelled one last time, turning to wave. And then he disappeared.


It was not an act of aggression or violence. There was no malevolence. My little thief had, in fact, been the most French; the most charming and proper person I had met in Paris.


I no longer have that friend but I do have that bag, and there is still so much I don't understand about Paris.


Pardon me while I grapple with the fact that BLOGGER HAS CHANGED EVERYTHING OVERNIGHT... I was thinking about the idea of "once-ness" when I wrote this down. You know, those experiences that are so singular and so memorable.  They can't be planned or replicated.   I wrote about another "once" moment here.


.......................................

A Week in Which the Internet Becomes Reality

Heather shares her awesome eye of newt recipe with Bianca, Alex, and Jennie!

I nearly poked her in the face to make sure she was real.

But I didn't. I behaved *pretty* normally when I ran into one of my most long-term "internet relationships" at the thrift store the other day. I was looking down, trying to tame my outrageously overgrown Elvis pompadour with some spit and a prayer, when I heard my name. I turned to see her standing there next to the tie rack, adorable and uncertain. The chaos of the thrift store fell away and I approached as if in a dream. We held hands and spun around in a field somehow and then we braided each other's hair.

No, silly. We didn't do that! We chatted about Mexican blankets for a few minutes like normal thrift store ladies, and then said goodbye.

She was smaller and skinnier in real life, just like celebrities are. Joel McHale was on our flight to Kauai last week and he couldn't have been more than 120 pounds. Seriously, he was EMACIATED (and p.s. he totally initiated a conversation with my husband but I was like, hey this book I'm reading upside-down is way more interesting and I'm not even listening to you!)

This pretty much set the tone for the rest of the weekend, because on Saturday I was invited to a gathering of bloggers/small business owners, some of whom I've "known" for quite some time without ever meeting.

I drove with Erin and although we've never met in person, it was as if we were picking up the thread of a conversation that had just been briefly interrupted. I love, LOVE Erin's thoughtful, academic writing style and wish I could be as clear-thinking, direct, and simple in my approach to blogging as she is.

We parked down the street and downed a few shots from my hip flask of Bach Rescue Remedy (I'm just kidding, only I did this) which proved completely useless against my most special talent, social anxiety. I spent the rest of the evening willing myself NOT TO SAY ANYTHING SUPER INAPPROPRIATE, which must have worked because some of the ladies are still talking to me!

There are two major things I took away from the evening:

1) If you want to grow your blog or business or change anything about your life, make yourself uncomfortable and put yourself out there. Go take a class or host an event yourself. You can only go so far in life alone in a room with a computer screen. We are social creatures and we need the creative stimulation of others in order to move forward. Alone with our thoughts, we just get stuck!

2) Women are super heroes . Guys are ok for some things, but ladies are awesome. We get a bad rap for being "catty" or jealous or whatever (gee, I wonder who's responsible for that stereotype!), but in my experience we thrive on helping one another succeed and will even put aside our own interests to do this. The organizers, Alexis and Jules (who came and set up despite having food poisoning!), testify to this.

Attending this event reminded me of how starved I am for some good female energy in my "all-dude-all-the-time" life! So many generous women came up to me or contacted me via email later to discuss certain aspects of what I had said, give advice and feedback, or just be generally encouraging and supportive.

I felt the love, ladies. I felt the love, and I want you to feel it too. But not in a gross way.

37

So my 37th year of life is coming to a close in a few months. Wow, that sounds so much sadder than it really is! I've always heard women say that they liked their 30s but really came into their own in their 40s. While I'm not (at all) wanting to rush the last 2+ years of my 30s, I think I have some sense of why women say this.

In my 37th year so many things seemed to finally fall into place for me. I understand things clearly that I didn't before and have a sense of calm and peace that grounds me despite my angst-y, searching nature. Some people might call this "having perspective."


PARENTHOOD:

I'm not, and am never going to be, "angry mom".
Sometimes I am tired mom. Sometimes I am cranky mom. But I'm not angry. I think my kids are hilarious and sweet, and it's never, ever their fault if I'm feeling badly. They not only have my love, but my unconditional approval of who they are and everything that entails (including emptying the refrigerator, leaving skateboards everywhere, wrestling all over the house and knocking down furniture). I'm not saying everything they do is o.k.. I'm just saying I recognize it's "part of the package" and I accept that. It doesn't make me angry.

To some of you this comment won't make sense. But if you know angry mom, and especially if you were raised by one, you'll understand why this is important.

ENTERTAINING:

It's ok to serve pizza if it means everyone can come.

Pour half a bottle of Trader Joe's Citrus Vodka and a bottle of Pomegranate Limeade into a glass pitcher, squeeze in a few limes. There. It's a cocktail party. Life is too short to make fun things hard.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Pay the compliment; pay it immediately.

Sometimes I'm struck with respect or gratitude or appreciation for someone and think of just the right way to express it. It's usually in that moment just the right words come to you. Write them down. Make the call. Send the card. Before you forget. Before you have time to overthink it or become embarrassed by your sentimentality. When's the last time you rolled your eyes at an authentic and heartfelt compliment? No one will. I wrote a poem for my best friend and read it aloud at a dinner party. I still can't believe I did that.

FASHION:

Good shoes and bags make cheap shirts and jeans cute. Spend money on these things. Also, a scarf or big necklace turns "clothes" into "outfits".

BODY IMAGE:

You don't have to lose 25 pounds. Losing 3 will make you walk taller.

LOYALTY:

Don't gossip. But especially don't talk about your friends with other friends.
It makes you look small. It makes you seem childish. It suggests you have nothing better to talk about.

THE INNER PERSON:

In your secret heart, don't let the ultimate question be "But was I pretty?" or "Was I thin?"
Other people are thinner and prettier than you. Get a new ultimate question.


Some big ideas for Monday, I know! What age seemed particularly life-changing for you? I would love to hear...

AMERICAN PICKERS

This past Sunday we went with some new friends (a trio of Glamazon sisters that have befriended our oldest) to our local mountains for some fresh air and apple picking. It was a perfect day, in that way that perfect days can only spontaneously occur. The kind that no amount of planning can replicate.

And there was pie. Glorious, apple-berry, crumb-topped pie.

How was your weekend?



in miniature



Snow White

cousins

killer apples

beating the system

Renaissance girl

orchard worker

wildlife

The trouble with Morgan Satterfield

is that she will ask to use your bathroom and take her camera with her (and not come back for 20 minutes). The good thing is that she will take pictures of the very tiny spaces in your house NOT covered in laundry.
Thanks for using your artsy editing skills to show the ten square feet of my house that look good!

You left out my favorite rug:





The granny hoarder crap on my honky tonk pianee:







More rugishness, featuring the backyard tulip table and $20 bentwood cafe chairs:





The Moroccan artifact wing of the house:





Libations (I don't know what Red Stag is...it was a gift, it stays!):



Signs of the times (these were being used to patch holes in our garage walls...actually carriage house walls since it's pre-automotive era...but we DO have iron rings in our sidewalk where you can tie up your horses, before coming inside to drink Jameson and listen to me play the honky tonk pianee...also those old bentwood chairs are perfect for smashing over someone's head in a barfight since they won't hurt much...OMG it's pretty much the Old West over here)





A tipsy, leaning tower of Pisa-esque view of my new Danish cabinetry:



Aaaaaand finally, my husband's favorite piece of art, the He/She. I like to make up stories about her when people come over. Tons of fun.



You may have noticed that there are not pictures of bathrooms or kids' rooms in these or Brick House photos...and that is because this house was built before kids or digestion had been invented, sooooo.

No, actually my kids probably have the best rooms in the house and I'll have to get to that. The bathrooms are what you would expect; various holes and levers, implements of self-loathing (scale), a fancy "makeup area" containing (one) one-inch long brown eyeliner , some Daddy Longlegs in the corner. Can you picture it??

Do we have any classes together? or Does anyone blog in the summer?

It's been awhile. But I promise I thought about you all summer. How I should call you more. How we should catch up over a couple of Dairy Queen ice cream cones. Ride our bikes down to the park and lay under the big pine and talk about which is grosser; having someone stick a finger in your bellybutton or your eye (I will vote bellybutton and you will vote eye, every time). Compare leg tans (you always win).



Summertime blogging is kind of like that summer between 9th and 10th grade. The one where you crushed on some boy hard, and guiltily ditched your best friend all summer to hang around him. But as school approached you start hoping she'll forgive you. The guy turned out to be needy and have sort of bad breath. But her? She's perfect, as best friends always are in that intense, you-were-made-for-me, symbiotic girl-love sort of way.

You call to offer your best tank top for her first day of school outfit. A guilty trick to woo her back, and it works. You compare school schedules and arrange to ride together on the first day. She's forgiven you, and you love her all the more for it.

I'm gonna GOOP you Gwyneth-style with some Spain deets shortly. But first I had to make sure...you'll still sit with me at lunch, right? I'll let you wear my Esprit tank top if you do.

Her Name is Rio

and she doesn't have any shame
she wears leg warmers
and she dances through the pain
and when her kids beg her
to stop she says no way
oh Rio's husband is late
for his tennis game




Yes, there WAS a lot of air tennis guitar in the 80s...I was there:



The preppy and the club dancer with a heart 'o gold:



Ralph Macchio, 'dat you?





Most naturally awesome:



Best dancer by far:



We went to an 80s party, obviously. Almost busted a friend's tooth out with a karaoke microphone. It was aight.