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Am I Ready?

SNOW
This morning, the cat looked up at me, flicked his tail and let out a meeeoweer when the cold air hit his whiskers. Yeh, I know he’s just a cat, but I was pretty certain that was his equivalent to WTF. He turned and walked back over to his food bowl, also exactly what I want to do …French toast would be just fine with me.

I didn’t need snow this morning, and frankly it surprised the hell out of me. Sure, I heard “winter storm” on the news, at least I think I did, but who really listens to that shit mid-November. Last night, I took it as meteorologists looking for a little evening wood over the potential of bad weather. I was not ready to wake up and actually see the shit.

I’m not sure why the wintery mix makes me so mad. Would I feel differently if it weren’t Monday, if I knew there wouldn’t be a stupid-ass long commute or if there was going to be a crack of sunshine today? The husband will wake up this morning and check the snow report for Mad River before grabbing a shovel to clear the driveway. I’ll look at him and grumble something about picking up his gloves off the kitchen floor.

What if we have another winter like last year? I’ve heard mumbling. Yes, I’ve chosen to ignore it, but what if it’s true? I sit in my cozy chair with a soft, fuzzy blanket wrapped around my shoulders with the SAD light beaming in my face. Can I make it through another Polar Vortex?

During periods of snow last year, I vaguely remember saying, “Well, at least it’s not rain.” No sir-ee, and it might be here a while. That doesn’t really help my half-full outlook, but it also doesn’t change reality.

Am I ready? The cat sucked it up and went outside. Unlike my cat’s furry wardrobe, neither the ass of my pants nor my head can handle four or five months of total hibernation. So, what’s next?

Maybe I need to grab the snow shovel and begin my morning with a little brisk activity. Maybe I could learn to love the snow like the husband. Maybe I could lie down in the front yard and catch snowflakes on my tongue and swish my arms up and down in the fluffy white stuff until my snow angel appears.

Thumbs Up

I’ve got a confession.

For the last three weeks, I’ve been taking a Zumba class.

You don’t understand. I am not Zumba. I am not Latiny dance, I am not pop music, and I am not cute aerobics outfits.

But I needed something to help me get back on track and put myself at the top of the to-do list. A friend and I agreed to give it a shot after another friend who mainlines Zumba said, Oh you gotta come. It’s so fun. I looked at her ass and legs that she had whittled down to tiny, muscular rocks over the last year with Zumba.

A week before I went to Australia, my friend and I took the pinky swear. Well, it was actually a “cheers” during a glass of wine, but I’m pretty sure that is more binding.

I returned from Australia and dragged my uncoordinated self to class. So far, so good, I told myself. No 20-something perky bitches who look my way and say to themselves, I will NEVER let myself get like that.

Mostly, it was just a bunch of people in varying sizes and shapes and ages walking around in sweat pants or yoga tights before class. You can do this, Melissa.

The first three weeks, I moved and I watched. The old lady, two rows in front of me, gyrated through the hour of the peppy, Latin-inspired music. If she can do it, I can do it.

Move. Move. Move.

I could follow the warm up and the cool down just fine, but those 55 minutes in between were filled with grand mal seizures, sans the loss of consciousness.

But last night, for the first time, I followed the music (okay, some of it). I still feel like Elaine from Seinfeld in the dance scene, and I’m confident that won’t go away, but for now Zumba offers an hour of activity that goes by pretty fast. So, unlike Elaine, I give it two thumbs up knowing full well there is someone definitely laughing at my antics, but I don’t care.

 

 

Trick or Treat

Last night’s plan included a Zumba class, and then I was gonna sneak into my dark house and avoid any trick or treaters. It’s not that I hate Halloween, I just didn’t want left over candy giving me the evil eye, and there’s nothing too fun about packing 45 fun-size Snickers to each thigh.

But then I remembered how much fun we used to have in our neighborhood. Either my husband or I would take our son house to house until he tuckered out, and the other one joined friends across the street at a ring of fire. The blaze kept the chilly October evening at bay, and the trick or treaters maximized their turnout reaching three or four houses at once. It didn’t hurt that as the evening wore on, the tipsy candy-hander-outers got more and more liberal with the stash. On occasion we’d offer a weary dad a beer, and his kids were bribed with candy so they didn’t mind a little longer stop. It worked, really well.

The friends moved, not far, but far enough I guess. The annual tradition stopped. I still really miss it. There were a few more years of trick or treating for us as a family, but of course our son grew too big to think it was cool. By then, I was trying to make better food choices and eating a bowl of candy wasn’t in any diet program I could find.

I had always tried to buy candy that I didn’t like. In theory that works, but I can man-up and force down any candy in a pinch. Well, maybe not Mike and Ike’s or Juju fruits, but I’m not gonna to be known as the lady who hands out that shit.

So, over the years it was just easier to not be home. But as I drove home from Zumba, I saw all the scampering superheroes and princesses, which made me think of the plastic pumpkin full of sweet-smelling chocolate, Twizzlers and Nerds our son brought home and spread out on the floor. Sorting. Categorizing. Eating. I stopped at the convenience and bought a bag full of Cowtails. They were fairly cheap, and I’m not super fond of the powdery caramel and gritty, white nougat stuff.

As I drove through my neighborhood, I wondered if we would even get any trick or treaters. Since there wasn’t going to be a ring of fire to lure them down my street, and I was going to make them actually walk to my front door, would it be worth it to come by my house? Well, I ended up with a bunch of leftover candy. I ate two Cowtails and called it a night.

As I sat looking at the rest of the cowtails, I thought about the slippery week I’d had. There was a lot of stress: looming deadlines, late nights, not enough exercise or sleep, and now I had two cowtails worth of sugar in my gut to further fog my reasoning.

I thought about running into the darkness again, but something tugged and said, don’t do it. It’s not worth it, or maybe you’re worth it.

Don’t let the goblins get you.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow?

Swallowtails shared garden with the bees.

Swallowtails shared garden with the bees.

Since I decided to return to this place, I started dicking with the back end of the blog. Erasing, adding, sighing.

When the blog sat dormant, occasionally, I would meet someone new who would say something like, hey, I found your blog and I really liked it. Hmmm, yeah. I would say. I haven’t logged on in so long.

I don’t think these comments were meant as sucker punches, but they still doubled me over. I wondered if the person sitting across from me saw the embarrassment rise in my cheeks.

I came up with a lot of excuses of why I let this virtual place slip off my to-do list. Most of the reasons had to do with time. But when I poked around the blog this week, I made myself look at About Me and Move It. Was I afraid of what I would find, or was I just too embarrassed and pissed off and disappointed at myself to confront what was there?

I’ve spent the last few months beating the shit out of myself. Why did you let yourself go? You know better. You had this licked. You’re stupid, fat, ugly.

Then I looked at the before photos, really looked at them. I’m not that girl. That girl might have been an extrovert (there are still some things we can’t change), but she was afraid and shy, she hid behind a lot of shit, she refused to take risks, and she blamed others for things that went wrong. And excuses? She had plenty. The invisibility cloak she created with all that extra weight kept her hidden from…well, life.

I may not be my “after” in the physical sense, but I’m closer to that woman than I will ever be to the other one. Could I return to that other strange girl? Maybe, but it occurred to me that a little slippage (okay a lot) doesn’t need to shoot me off on backward trajectory in which I might never return.

So, for today, I’m going to do what I know will help me…the basics. Good food, exercise and a little meditation. I’ll worry about tomorrow… well, tomorrow.

Asian Steamed Shrimp

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1 pound raw shrimp
1/2 cup low sodium soy sauce
1 T minced fresh ginger
1 clove minced garlic
1 T raw sugar
1 t Truvia
2 T orange champagne vinegar
1 T Tonkatsu sauce
cilantro
fresh spinach
fresh pea pods
fresh mushrooms

mix soy, ginger, garlic, sugar, Truvia, vinegar and tonkatsu sauce. Heat in microwave or saucepan until sugar disolves. reserve 1/3 of liquid.

Layer shrimp on bottom of steamer and vegetables on top rack of steamer. Pour liquid over both layers. Steam for 5-8 minutes. Serve over rice and pour extra liquid over mixture. Let the feast begin.

Where’s My Four-Leaf Clover?

I’m not fond of January. It began the year our twins died. I know it is an over generalization to say bad things happen at this time of year. I’ve also experienced enough distance from that death to understand that anniversaries, hell even impending anniversaries, are hard, fucking hard. But it still seems like bad crap crops up in January, and I’m always happy to flip the calendar page.

This month I had the distraction of going to Tucson to play nursemaid with my mom when she had her bunion surgery. That worked, and I thought I was going to be able to use that surgery to check off the obligatory bad shit of January.

Then my dad called.

He was scheduled for surgery today, and it didn’t go well. Now he’s headed for more; serious shit of the same variety that my grandpa ended up dying from. Life sucks sometimes. I want to be optimistic, really I do, but I also want to bury my head in a bag of Fritos and forget about it.

Instead of turning to food, I’m here trying to release what’s eating me before I gobble it up. I’m not sure it will work, but at least for the moment, I’ve pressed pause, and I guess for that I’m grateful.

I wish life wasn’t so hard.

My dad used to say to me when I was a kid, “Wish in one hand and shit in the other. See which one gets fullest the fastest.” That brings a smile.

I love my dad. I’m blessed that we have a really good relationship, and there is no unfinished business. While I hope that I have many more years with him, I’m lucky to know that he is forever in my corner.

And The Award Goes To…

Me. I’m proud of me today. I wanted to eat a house, multiple times actually. Had it been covered in chocolate I might have surrendered, but as of 8:30 p.m., my house is still standing as are my neighbors’.

It’s been tough, but I keep circling back to my goals of 2012 that I posted earlier in the week. I do believe that it is worth the effort to take care of my body and soul, and I am convinced that sugar will be my life-long enemy. I’m not always sure about the beauty or the strength things I jotted down, but I think those goals are at least worth working toward.

As I sat in my office today at 1:30 p.m. with absolutely fucking nothing crossed off my to-do list, I tried to convince myself that a sweet treat from down the street would alleviate stress and increase my productivity. Hell, the walk to buy this bit of yummiliciousness would actually be good for me, and if I got something with nuts or dark chocolate, those ingredients have been proven to contain things like omega 3s and flavonoids.

Stop.

I chewed some gum, munched on raw veggies and gave myself permission to go in an hour if I still wanted the sugar that in my world resembles crack. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I still wanted the fix, but I asked myself what I really needed? No stress. Was a brownie or biscotti or cookie going to rid me of stress? Damn. I stuck a fresh piece of gum in my mouth and later snacked on a boiled egg when I knew I was really hungry.

I revisited another a brief moment when I walked through the door this evening. The house was quiet and would be for hours since my guys went skiing. I’ve accomplished some of my best binge eating when I was alone. Woo hoo, let the party in my mouth begin. I passed the calendar on my way to the snack cabinet. I saw the stars lining each day of the New Year; little awards recognized my effort at taking better care of myself. I wanted another star…so, here I sit writing about my feelings instead of eating them.

May I have two stars, please?

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