Why Do You Do It?

…Because it feels so good when I stop.

I’ve been heading out every morning to the little workout room where my mom lives. I hop on the elliptical machine for a half hour, lift a few weights and do some sit ups atop the dodgeball on steroids.
I knew when I planned my trip out here, I was going to need to make sure I kept up with exercise since we were all gathering in less than happy times. I’ve known for a very long time that exercise has kept me grounded or at least prevented intergalactic travels.

I felt pretty good about the idea of exercise this morning when I woke up. I made sure to get a little earlier start than the past couple days just to avoid the moment on the couch when I knew I would try to talk myself out of it. I scooped up my water bottle and iPod and off I went.

I’ve just been using the pre-programmed workouts on the elliptical, mainly because I have never been able to figure out those damn contraptions. My best hope was to step on to kick it alive – even I could manage that. This morning I opted for a more challenging pre-set, and from the moment I pressed start, I was in high-intensity diplomatic negotiations with myself. I managed to stick it out until the last second ticked off the freaking display, but it was not without the promise of a couple green corn tamales later in the day.

I will say though, the moment I plucked one of the disinfectant wipes from the container hanging from the wall to clean off the machine, I felt pretty proud of my accomplishment. That, and I was glad I could check exercise off my list today.

There have been a few moments in my life where I actually enjoyed exercise, but mostly I just tolerate it because the physical and emotional benefits far out weigh the pissing and moaning and the rest of the fallout that occurs when I don’t do it.

What kinds of ways do you bargain with yourself to achieve fitness goals?

Tucson In Good Light

Life can be prickly, but I take the good with the bad.

We had a good day and wrapped up long conversations with a beautiful sunset.

Trapped in Opposite

Good, bad, happy, sad, easy, difficult, here, gone.

I stepped off a plane in Tucson yesterday, caught the first sign of my mom and entered the land of opposites.

When Paul died in November, I decided to postpone my visit to see my mom until the initial waves of to do lists following a death had subsided. People expect the bereaved to be upset and sad in the early days and weeks after a loved one passes, but often people around us expect quite the opposite after a couple weeks. I think that has more to do with the lack of comfort that most people have with the truly uncomfortable so I wanted to spend time with her when I knew that sometimes people assume that all is well with the world, but life has become anything but. I planned a solo trip leaving my men alone in the frigid Ohio temperatures.

Usually when I plan a trip to see my mom, it is filled with anticipation. We have been really close for many, many years, and our visits are generally a time to try to pack six months or a year’s worth of time into a week. We talk and talk and talk, and as Paul used to remind us, we never repeated the same thing in all of our ramblings.

But there was dread interlaced with the anticipation. I knew that Paul’s death would become real to me when I stepped off that plane. This quiet, gentle man maintained such a large presence whether he was making the first pot of coffee or knocking on walls to surprise you or eating the cheese crisp loaded with the hot salsa that made his forehead sweat at his favorite Mexican restaurant.

He and I often took morning walks through the desert, and I want to make a trek that we would have made together. It seems appropriate, and I always enjoyed that time, just the two of us. But I couldn’t do it this morning.

In an attempt not to use food to soothe all the feelings that I knew would surface, I headed to the little workout facility in their neighborhood early this morning. The release of the physical activity felt good.

As I walked back to the house, the tears started rolling down my face, gently at first, but I could feel them build. I reached into my jacket hoping to find a Kleenex or something to catch some of the ugliness that was bubbling to the surface, but my pocket was empty like the right side of the driveway where his truck was once parked. I walked passed my mom’s house, not ready to go inside and wanting to spare her from me just shy of hyperventilating as I tried to catch some of the emotion refusing to be contained any longer. I knew mom would be OK with seeing me like that, but I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to do anything for me.

I contemplated venturing out through the desert where Paul and I would have gone had he been there, but I realized that I wasn’t in any condition to necessarily find my way back so I settled down on a park bench that was on the edge of the desert. I sat and cried as I sent some of my thoughts out into the universe in hopes that he would receive them from wherever he might be.

As I pulled myself together, I looked up and saw my single shadow on the park bench and it made me cry all the harder, but I let the tears flow. I came back to the house and sat on the back porch until the rest of the messy, ugly tears subsided. I know the emotion has to come out.

Mom and I talked through the rest of the tears, and that just needs to be OK. It’s real and it sucks and it is different. I guess I just need to let it all be for the time being.

The Warm-up Begins In the Locker Room

So, this week while I’ve been working out at the Y, I’ve been trying to find the lady who was standing naked at the water cooler last week. I wasn’t really contemplating talking with her just yet, but I wanted to see if I could spot her with her clothes on. She either hasn’t been there or I’ve been so in tune with NOT staring, I might have spoken to her already and not even realized it.

My goal this week was to actually undress at my locker before taking a shower. I know that may sound stupid, but when I first started going to the Y, I left all my clothes on, carried a fresh pair of grunders in with me to the shower stall, and then presto-chango, I came out almost fully clothed.

In my first couple weeks at gym, I felt like I was living on the edge by simply using the gym’s measly little towels, all the while wishing my ass and thighs were smaller so it would have provided at least a small chance of towel overlap even if my hoo haa still nearly hung out because the width of the towels was also lacking. One lady bent over right in front of me with her towel that barely reached her bupkus, and whoa, I thought I was going to be the new headliner for the traveling Vagina Monologues. I’m certainly, years away from being that comfortable with my body and definitely anyone else’s.

I considered packing my own towel, which would have provided ample overlap, but this whole process has been about reaching beyond my comfort zone. I have seen a few people scattered here and there who bring their own towels, but I have no way to know whether that is a body image issue or an absorbency factor since the gym’s towels also have the wicking power of a store-brand paper towel.

So, I took off my clothes at my locker, and in my hurry to make it to a private space, I slammed my locker before I grabbed my shower sandals. I also take issue with my feet touching where bare stranger feet have walked in wet places. Maybe I have bigger issues here than just body image? Anyway, then I had to juggle my inadequate towel, an oversized bottle of shampoo and a slippery bar of soap while I maneuvered the combination lock. But the towel didn’t drop. I’m not sure whether I should be happy about that or shake my head at the absurdity. I’m sticking with being simply aware of my discomfort. That has to be enough for right now.

So, what I know today is diddly. I haven’t made a whole lot of progress – just noticing that pretty much from the moment I step into the locker room, the stretch begins. Who knew I would get a work out before I even made it to the Zumba class?

Shoot the Moon

I’m wondering about bodies, naked bodies.

I’m not very comfortable with mine, never have been.

This is not some big revelation. I’ve joked for years that my goal is to one day be comfortable enough in my own skin to moon someone, and the one caveat is I must be sober, not that I’ve ever been nearly inebriated enough to seriously entertain the notion, not even in my stupid-drunk college days. This may seem l weird, even obscene to some, but I feel like there might be a little freedom waiting on the other side of the moon.

Lyle has spent a lot of time mooning people – especially when we were in our twenties and early thirties. I don’t know if it is a man thing or a voyeuristic thing, but either way he seemed quite entertained by it. He would call down to our neighbors from the second story window to the driveway below that we shared. They would look up and in broad daylight they would see his moon aglow. Part of me admires him for this act. Perhaps, it is a subject best reserved between me and a professional, but it’s just a body, right?

I was confronted with the whole notion of naked bodies again this week at the gym. There is woman I see, and when I say see, I mean really see, in the locker room. As I hurried, late for a yoga class, toward the water cooler to fill my bottle, there she was. Stark naked, dripping wet, quenching a thirst. There were other people in the room seemingly oblivious to her presence. This was a woman who no one would be pining to see in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue or on a pin-up calendar or on a creased photo pulled from some pubescent boy’s wallet, which probably makes no difference, but I’ve always told myself the only thing standing between me and public displays of nudity was a perfect body.

I didn’t want to reveal my squirming insides so I stood and waited behind her while she extinguished her thirst, wondering where I should let my eyes rest.

I’ve been thinking about this woman a lot, and I’d even like to talk with her, but I’m not sure how to broach a conversation about her nakedness while she’s naked, and quite frankly, I don’t know if I’ve gotten a good enough glimpse of her face to be able to recognize her with her clothes on. I would like to know if she has always been that comfortable with her body or if it is something she discovered through the course of her 60-plus years on this earth.

Skin. I know it’s the biggest organ of our bodies. I’m comfortable with my heart and lungs and brain (well sometimes) and definitely my liver and pancreas. It’s time to show some affection toward my skin, maybe we could even become friends since I can’t seem to manage without it. As I mulled this over, I decided that I might need a picture to accompany this post, and I thought about what part of my skin I might be most comfortable with sharing right now.

My hands are exposed for all to see all day long. It’s impossible to hide them and still get stuff done. People see them at work and play, and I even let my dog lick them on occasion if I have a tasty remnant of a grilled cheese lingering on my fingertips.

But even as I tried to snap a photo with my iPhone, I became a little wary of the images I shot. Man, my hands are getting wrinkly, and ooh, there are new blotchy age spots materializing every day, and what about that bluish green vein that pops up on the surface of my hand. Enough already.

I’m going to just keep at it and report on my findings, perhaps not every day, but I will check in at least weekly with my discoveries. Who knows what will happen, where this will lead or even how long it will take, but I want some documentation of the progress. I’d also love for you to weigh in here and leave a comment on the blog to let me know what your comfort level is with your skin. Is a body just a body? Are you as comfortable with seeing a strange one (or yours) naked as you are fully dressed?

Success-O-Meter Gone Haywire

I’ve realized lately that I really kinda get off on external validation in both my personal and professional life. That may seem like a moronic thing to say since most everyone enjoys a little Atta’ boy or girl on occasion? But, I’m wondering if I may be a little hypersensitive here, which is making me squirm as I write.

I also love challenges and situations when I’m required to reach beyond my comfort zone, which may seem like it has nothing to do with the previous statement, but I think what I like about challenges and stretching is learning how to triumph over a potential obstacle. I like to be seen as the one who makes things happen, which again leads me back to the external validation. I don’t, however, always want to stick around to toil with something day after day that I’ve already solved. I want a new puzzle to disentangle.

I think the fact that I look at most things as solvable with a little (or a lot) of hard work is a good quality to have. I don’t believe that I’m extraordinarily smart or talented, but I’m determined and persistent and level headed. I look at those skills as things anyone could possess if they had the desire. What I lack in raw talent, I make up for in gumption.

Sometimes people look at the things I accomplish and wonder aloud how I accomplished a given task or obstacle, like losing weight or grieving the loss of our twins or making jewelry or whatever else might hold my fancy at any given moment. I just do it, like the ad. Damn, why wasn’t that my slogan, doh. It doesn’t seem very complicated to me, but I do get a charge out of the kudos.

What I’m wondering about though is if that appreciation and admiration needs to come from within. That seems pretty arrogant, and I’m not sure I can totally reconcile it.

When I’m happy with myself as a human being, I’m less concerned about what other people think and external validation seems less important. I don’t even like admitting that I care what others think, but I suppose I do; I did after all let the thought slide from my finger tips just now. Ugh, that makes me squirm even more. When I’m feeling unsure or find myself in a sticky spot when I’m questioning who I am or what I want or where I want to go, I can get lost in the swirl.

I maintain moments of deep clarity and even border on self-acceptance, but I don’t stay in those spots for extended periods of time, and I think that’s where I would like to be, and I’m wondering if I find and settle in to that place if there is an inner peace that I can permanently call home.

Until I find that place, I think I’m going to practice making small steps forward. I will know I’m doing a good job based on some pretty basic criteria, like putting good food into my body, treating myself with respect and exercising. My hope is that as I practice daily, I will reacquaint myself with the habit and be able to once again let go of the illusion of perfection and get on with the business of embracing all that life has to offer.

None of this sounds very cohesive to me, but I have a feeling it is interrelated so I’ll let my thoughts rest here to see how I feel in the morning. How do you judge yourself to be successful or good enough or even on the right path?

No Canine Lessons Today

There are some days that I look to my beagle and glean great insight. I used her as my inspiration when I decided what I wanted to achieve in the coming year. If you missed it, read more.

There are other days, like today, that I’m happy that I’m not a butt-sniffing, foot-licking, cat-chasing, furry beast. I let Sonya out of her crate this evening and she happily ran outside to do her business; ran back in and inhaled all her food like a Dyson mighty vac and then disappeared. Poof, gone. It was to the point that I was calling her name as I wandered from room to room, and our house isn’t that big. I was getting a little worried. Twice, I went in and out of our bedroom, which she knows better than to even enter.

I was getting ready to pull out the big guns, the cellophane package of turkey, which I swear she can hear crinkle from three miles away, when I heard crunching in the corner of my bedroom. I walked over to Lyle’s side of the bed and peered down to see her greedily eating Fisherman’s Friend’s lozenges. Yuck, I had a hard time sucking on the chalky rank, licorice-flavored disks when I thought I was dying of bronchitis, and there she was wolfing them down like it was the hind leg of a prize-winning steer at the Nebraska State Fair.

I swear the dog must share the genetic makeup of a goat. She will eat absolutely anything, I mean anything. After I pried the remaining lozenges from her mouth, I found her eating some of Russell’s graph paper. Geez, I thought I got desperate during my grazing sessions, but that dog could eat her way through a gravy train faster than I could even grab my first plate at an all-you-can eat dessert buffet.

It did make me think about my eating habits of late. They’ve been very balanced and controlled and unobsessed – I don’t think that is even a word, but it fits. Food has been just that, food; something to nourish my body, and in many cases since I haven’t been feeling all that great, I haven’t even wanted to eat. I simply wanted to unhungry. It’s quite a conundrum, given the fact that food probably flashes through my mind on an hourly basis. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I have to say that it’s been nice lately for food to be a non-issue.

While I’m ready to say so long to this freaking cold, I have to say that I’m hoping a little of my attitude toward food lingers around a while.

How often do you think of food, and on the days that you are thinking about it a lot, what seems to be the biggest trigger?

Stocked Up and Ready to Go

The Fast family broke quarantine today to venture out to
the grocery store. I figured it was probably safe for the general
public given we have all been fever-free for several days now.

I generally like to keep a pretty well-stocked kitchen so it took a
while to deplete our rations, but when I started contemplating how
edible the shriveled up grapes at the bottom of the fruit keeper in
the fridge would be, I knew it was time to hit the market.

I still feel a little less than 100 percent, but tons better than I did
just a few days ago. I was tempted to bypass the store today, but I
was afraid of what might happen if I decided to wing it for a few
more days. I feel good that I replenished provisions so that I can
be successful the rest of the week.

Here are a few of my favorites:

I try to keep bags of these frozen veggies at my fingertips. Tossed with some olive oil and a variety of seasonings, they bulk up any meal.

Fresh fruit is always in reach. I know it has to be hauled from miles and miles away in the winter, but I have a hard time living without it.

I think I’m ready to go for the week – yogurt, cottage cheese, fruits and veggies.

This Kashi is one of my favorite varieties – it’s packed full of protein and fiber, and it’s sweet to boot.

What does a well-stocked kitchen look like to you?

To You, Sweet Ones

Today’s post won’t discuss weight loss, my stupid-ass cold or any other mundane piece of shit that threatens to clog my existence. On this day, I remember and honor my twins who were born and died eleven years ago this week. I share part of their birth story, bits and pieces of an excerpt of a memoir that I’m writing. Thanks for reading…

The contractions intensified and so did the pain across my belly, and the damn anesthesiologist was nowhere near. I could feel the tension and angst and despair rising within threatening to take me down – there in that sterile hospital room that only pretended to be a welcoming birthing suite. There was much work at hand, definitely no space for hysteria. I calmed myself with meditation methods that I had read about in a Bradley Childbirth book, the irony not even escaping me in that moment.

Lyle worried as he saw me lay so still. He was saying good-bye to his children before he welcomed them into the world; he certainly didn’t need to agonize over me, too. I assured him, but I needed to prepare. Where was the damn epidural man? The breathing and meditation worked. I managed to calm my body until I heard in the distance, “It’s time.”

Wait, my doctor wasn’t there yet. Residents and nurses shuffled about hoping to stall just long enough. Medical instruments hastily jingled against each other on the tops of metal trays lined with white, sterile cloths. As the resident was bracing to take the lead, my doctor whizzed in with a nurse following close behind tying the back of his green gown.

I never did receive the epidural, but it wouldn’t have removed the pain that I really wanted to be released from. Our son was born within minutes of my doctor’s arrival. A new nurse entered the room, unaware that we had decided that the medical interventions available still failed miserably short.

“Do you want neonatal,” she called out.

My soft-spoken, even-keeled doctor looked up at her and perhaps forgetting he was supposed to be a detached professional growled in the most primeval, guttural way that left no room for misinterpretation.

It’s odd, but that is the one thing that I’m really thankful that he did. As I was laying there hearing her words bounce around in the tense, acrid surroundings, I wondered if we were making the right decision. Was there still time to change course? I knew it wouldn’t alter the outcome and would simply prolong the inevitable, but there was nothing simple about the situation we found ourselves in that moment. Doctors and nurses would all come and go home to their families later that night, but Lyle and I would remain, forced to endure all the consequences of the choices we made in those minutes that stretched for days.

Then I heard my doctor, “I need a consult with Dr. Ruedrich.”

I knew what that meant too. My cervix had closed after Nolan was born. It meant that we might have a chance to save Simone. My mind raced years ahead to a prettier, sunnier place buying frilly dresses and little white leggings and lacey bonnets and…

“Never mind,” he said.

Will those words haunt me forever? I was as comfortable with our decision as one could be, given the crap load we were dealt, but in that one moment, I thought about how my life would be different. I even imagined telling Simone about her little brother that she shared a room with before I even knew either of their names. Would she miss him like I did? Would she tell her friends that she was a twin? Would others tell us how lucky we were that she made it to us safely? Flashes, all sorrowfully unanswered.

Nurses bathed Nolan and Simone and swaddled them in warm blue and pink striped flannel baby blankets that hospitals around the country have lining the nurseries. The hands on the clock threatened to freeze and lock me in this nightmarish hole forever, but from somewhere I realized that time was also fleeting and something bigger than my sorrow demanded my attention.

I propped myself up in bed and opened my arms for the small package that was delivered to rest. They were so tiny, each weighed just under a pound, but they were so perfect. Like any good mother, I counted fingers and toes. They were all there, so why was that still not enough?

I held them. They struggled to breathe and I wondered if they were in pain. Was it wrong to pray for them to die quickly? I told myself that I just didn’t want them to suffer any longer. I didn’t want to be the cause for all this pain. It was after all my fault that my body had betrayed us all.

Cuddling them during their first and last collective breaths was the one and only mothering act I would ever perform for these children. I wanted to capture this moment simultaneously wanting to accelerate through the despair that was pulling me deeper and deeper into a place from where I might not ever return. The incongruity of it all made my mind and heart tumble.

Lyle stood by my side and we held our babies as tight as their fragile little bodies would allow, their tiny heads dwarfed in the little preemie caps that some unnamed volunteer had knitted for just this occasion. Did that mean there someone else out there in the world that knew exactly what we were we were experiencing in that very moment?

Everything around us ceased to exist as Nolan and Simone struggled to pull air into their tiny lungs that weren’t yet ready. It was time. No pomp. No circumstance. Just good-bye.

Words You Never Think You’ll Say

Sorry, for my absence this week. I’ve been really sick. I went to the doctor on Tuesday, mostly because my son was sick, and I thought if I was getting the flu, which I thought was what he had, maybe the doc would give me one of those stupid drugs that they give to shorten the symptoms.

He told us that neither one of us felt bad enough to have the flu. Whatever, I didn’t feel good enough to argue. Sometimes I wonder why I go to doctors. They usually tell me to do the same thing that I’ve been doing at home and then charge me for it. Anyway, we went home armed with a little additional artillery, prepared for anything that was going to come our way.

“OK, let’s do some drugs,” I said to my son as soon as we returned home. We both looked at each other and laughed hysterically. I don’t know whether it was the ridiculousness of the statement or how lousy we felt. The Z-Pack was the butt of our joke, and it pushed aside the Pink Floyd or Doors music that was thumping around in my head alongside the 12 pounds of mucous. Yea, it’s been pretty around here.

We’re on the mend now, but the boy missed the entire week of school. I worked at home most of the week so I wouldn’t infect anyone else, but yesterday I used a sick day because my world was so foggy I could barely find my own name, let alone use it. I’m feeling better today, but I think I’ll work remotely again. It seems to take less energy to hang out on a computer in my jammies than at my desk at work. I’m sure my coworkers will also thank me.

I’m really ready for spring so I can open some windows to let some fresh air and new energy in. I’m pretty tired of being sick. It feels like I’ve struggled with something for most of the winter. It’s annoying because I also feel like I’ve taken better care of myself this winter than I have in a while. Anyone else been hit with the flu and cold bug harder than usual this year? Here’s hoping that I’ll have a little better luck the rest of January.