Author: hollyida

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Seeing is believing

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”–Henry David Thoreau

We received a note from the school nurse last week, letting us know our boy was having trouble seeing in the classroom. Both my husband and I were waiting for this to happen. I was 6 years old when I got my first pair of glasses, whereas my husband was in high school. Nearly every adult family member has glasses or had eye surgery, yet apparently our boy was still hoping he was immune.

When I made the appointment to see his optometrist, I warned my son that he would probably have to start wearing glasses. I wanted him to prepare himself if that was indeed the outcome. The kid flat out refused to even think about it. He told me to “Stop saying that!” in a freaked out and “oh my god the world is ending” kind of tone. So I didn’t mention it again.

I picked him up today for his appointment and he was in a great mood. It’s always nice to be picked up early from school, even if it is for a doctor’s appointment. We got to the doctor’s office, waited for less than two minutes and then the various testing began. My boy was polite, funny, and just all around wonderful. I was with him when the doc had him read some of the eye chart, and since he could only read the 2nd line without help, I knew what was coming.

The doctor told my boy that yes, he needed glasses. His vision was not horrible by any means, but with glasses, everything would be that much clearer. He let my son know that he didn’t have to wear glasses when playing sports, but at some point he might find that it could improve his performance. We thanked the doctor, but as soon as he left the room, my boy’s face fell. He was absolutely devastated. He quickly became angry and I just hugged him to me and told him it was ok.

He disagreed. Vehemently.

We walked to a different part of the building to pick up some paperwork and I hugged my boy again. He was fuming but let me hug him. “Honey, this doesn’t change anything. You’re fine. You’re still you.” But between tight lips he spat, “This. Changes. Everything.”

I sighed, but didn’t argue. For just a second I put myself in his place and tried to remember what it was like to put on glasses for the first time. To know that this would be part of my life forever, and everyone would be able to see the change. It wasn’t something you could hide from. “You’re right, Bri. You’re right. This does change things, but it doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing and it’s not a big deal. Honest.”

He didn’t talk to me again until we got into the car. He always sits just behind me and as I started the car, I looked in my review mirror. His head was down so I couldn’t see his face. As I started to turn around in my seat, I could hear my boy gasping for breath as he sobbed. I rubbed his leg and started to cry, too. I asked him if I could get out and give him a hug and he agreed. I got out, opened his car door, and crushed him to me as he cried and cried into my shoulder. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him that I loved him.

After we left the optometrist’s office, I stopped to get gas while my boy ran across the street to get a donut. (I don’t care what anyone says. Anytime we have a doctor’s appointment, we treat ourselves afterwards. Not always to food, but sometimes that’s the easiest and cheapest thing to do. It seemed appropriate today.) As I was pumping gas, I had an “A-ha” moment. Although getting glasses is a little scary and new, my son’s reaction still surprised me. He was really, really upset. And had been since the first mention of glasses last week. It’s not like he doesn’t know anyone who has glasses, but he knows very few kids that do. There are a few, though, including a girl in his class who he’s friends with. BUT, my “a-ha” moment was when I really put myself in my boy’s shoes. My kid–who has tics, who is over five feet tall at the age of eight, who wears shoes bigger than some adults–will now have one more thing to make him different, one more thing to make him stand out in a crowd, one more target on his back for the asshole on the bus to shoot at. THAT was why my kid was crying in the back seat of my car, and I don’t blame him.

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This was taken two years ago when he liked wearing fake glasses.

Being a kid is so damned hard. Do you remember? You want to grow up so fast so you can feel like you have control, feel like you have some power in your life. Of course, once you get there you realize that you really don’t have as much control or power as you thought you would, but we don’t want to hear about that part. I want my boy to feel good about being different, about being unique, and that it’s ok, damn it! I don’t want him to feel like the “special snowflake,” as in feeling entitled. That shit just pisses me off. But I want him to feel good about being who he is. Or what he is. Currently he’s a Star Wars-loving giant who blows on his hands when he’s anxious, is a video game-playing rock star, and will soon be wearing glasses.

I know in another year or two (hopefully sooner), my boy won’t think twice about putting on his glasses. It’ll be just another part of him. It really won’t be a big deal. Until then, I’m hoping he’ll find his way to acceptance without too much anxiety. I want to guide him on this journey by showing him how awesome I know he is and how being exceptional can be wonderful. But I don’t want to beat him over the head with it, you know? I need to be patient and just let him find his way. I know he’ll be ok. I just need to sit back and watch it happen.

And that’s the hardest thing to do.

 

 

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The Road to Hell is Paved with Hashtags

I think it’s time I came clean. I’ve tried to be ok with this. I tried to assimilate. But damn it, the Borg can’t have me. So let me be clear…

I hate hashtags.

I do. I hate them. They irritate me to no end.

First, # was not always called a hashtag. You do realize it’s the number symbol or the pound sign, right? And technically, # is not a hashtag. You need both the symbol and a word after it to be a hashtag.

So what would you call this creature?

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Apparently we can name things whatever the hell we want, so I’m calling him the Easter bunny, damn it.

Look, if you’re using Twitter, then I get it. Fine. Hashtags, as the world now calls them, have been used on Twitter for nearly 9 years now as a way to show groups, or to be used as a kind of unifying tool like #forthepeople or #imwithher.  Great. Fantastic.

But then hashtags started showing up EVERYWHERE. Not just other social media like Facebook, but in advertising, news reports, and my particular pet peeve–in conversations. Really?!? Why must you say, “hashtag idiot,” if you’re talking about someone and what to call them an idiot? JUST SAY “IDIOT!”  Or say “fucking idiot” if you want to add some real emphasis.

I realize people are trying to be clever in many of their hashtags or cutesy like #soinlove or #awesomesauce, and every blue moon a hashtag does make me chuckle. But mostly? Mostly they irritate me and give me an urge to hit people.

Admittedly,  many of my friends are hashtag happy. I still love them and think they’re amazing, but my urge to slap them has not waned.

I’m hoping that the hashtag fetish will dissipate in the next 10 years and I can find something else to irritate me. But until then, this is all I have to say, hashtag users.

#SuckIt

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Pierre wasn’t completely wrong

During the past month, I’ve found myself saying “I don’t care” quite a lot. Whether it’s to my husbanPierresyrupd when he tells me he doesn’t want to eat chicken for dinner or to my friend who complains about how much her husband spends on booze, the words “I don’t care” have started to flow freely from my mouth and I rather enjoy it.

I’m sure every single one of you have thought the same words in response to a variety of your family’s or friends’ dilemmas. Maybe it’s a lost toy your child is pining for (and you know it’s buried in their closet) or your co-worker is griping about being back to work after a long vacation, and all you want to do is yell, “I DON’T CARE!” But you don’t. Because you shouldn’t or because the time and effort it would take to smooth things over after a big blowout would be massive and you’d never be able to get that time back. So instead you bite your tongue and either give a bit of advice, “Sweetie, maybe try cleaning out your room,” or you nod and pretend empathy and say, “I know how you feel.”

But it’s those times when your loved ones tell you all that is going well for them, and you want so desperately to be happy for them, and yet all you feel is irritation and anger and envy. You want to scream, “I DON’T CARE!” You want to say, “Fuck your sex life, your love life, your vacations, your time off with your kid, your youth, and you. Just FUCK YOU!”

That’s when you take a deep breath and you don’t say any of those things. That’s when you don’t pretend to be happy for them, but you find real joy somewhere deep inside that part of you that really does want happiness for your beautiful friends and family. You dig that little bit of yourself out and shine it up and show those people how much you love them and are happy they’re not as miserable as you are. Misery may love company, but Misery is a real party pooper when Happiness is trying to have a good time. So you suck it up, put a genuine smile on your face, clap your hands (it always helps me be a little more cheerful) and hug your loved one. If you get a little teary, it’s ok. They won’t know if those tears are of joy or sadness, so it won’t matter.

The odd thing is that it’s very easy for me to feel happy for people I’ve never met. Those folks that win the lottery? Although I would have loved to win it myself, I am typically overjoyed for those that do win it. Think about it. How freakin’ extraordinary for something like that to happen! Or hell, when people win prizes on game shows I get excited for them, too. Maybe it’s because these things are like little happy endings only found in fiction, and since they’re strangers they seem more like characters in a book. I don’t know what happens to any of these people after the spotlight fades, nor do I want to know. They’d probably kill the image of the happy ending and I’d have to hate them for it.

But maybe it’s just when I’m feeling shitty about my own life that others’ lives look so great and I can’t help but whine and think, “Why can’t that be me?” Yet I know the grass is not necessarily greener. I know that sometimes that grass is really astroturf and although those Facebook photos make it look great, it’s really a bunch of chemicals that will probably give everyone in the neighborhood cancer.

I don’t want to be like this and I’m really not *always* this bitchy. But I am human. And sometimes it’s tough being a good person, especially when going through a difficult time. I do try to be happy for others and feel empathy for those that need it.  So if you tell me something wonderful or even something horrible that’s happened to you, I may give you a look that could be interpreted as my best Grumpy Cat imgrumpycatpression. Just give me a minute to find that little nugget of joy or compassion I know I have for you.

Unless I tell you that I don’t care.

Then I really don’t.

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Helpless

Do you ever feel like your skin is too tight or you just feel uncomfortable in your body? Do you wish your skin could stretch until you could climb out of it or expand just enough to make you feel “normal” again?

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If I gain a few pounds (or 8), typically this uncomfortable feeling is my cue to lose weight, just to feel somewhat good inside of this body. But for the past month, or possibly months, I’ve felt like this. I feel twitchy and itchy and tight and squishy. Yet the scale isn’t really yelling at me. There are still 4 pounds I’d like to lose, but I shouldn’t feel this out of whack for just four friggin’ pounds. I should feel annoyed and irritated, but not uneasy and anxious.

Intellectually, I know that I don’t feel well because my brother is ill and my mother is no longer my parent. I know that I am so fucking sad all of the time because my brother may not see his nephew grow up and my mother may not know who her grandson is. Thinking of the future without my brother in particular, shuts me down. A world without him is a world I don’t want to imagine living in. The possibility of my brother not being here to show me the world as he sees it, to laugh at the world as he does…how will I….why…FUCK!

This is why I want to crawl out of my skin and start anew. I want to feel like everything will be ok, to feel like I once did. To go back to some moment when all was good and happy and right.

Instead, I concentrate on those four pounds I still want to lose. I focus my energy on trying to control my weight by counting calories and reading diet books and finding healthy foods to eat and running and walking and lifting weights because I can’t control ANYTHING ELSE. And when I end up not losing weight because I either eat too little or too much or don’t exercise enough, then I readjust my formula and try something else or tweak this and that.

Because I can.

Because that’s all I can do.

 

 

 

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Another reason to hate Valentine’s Day…and Swedish fish

Over 20 years ago, I started wearing black to protest Valentine’s Day and the commercialism that went with it. I wasn’t being noble, I was just angry and bitter because I was single. But a tradition was born that day and I’ve continued it ever since, more to honor my amazing friends and the love they gave me way back when and the love I still have for them.

My husband and I don’t celebrate the “holiday,” although some years we have gone out to eat because any excuse to eat out is fantastic. We’ve given little treats to our son some years, too, again because it’s a good excuse to do so. But this year we were looking forward to doing absolutely nothing on Valentine’s Day. The weather forecast was predicting a *very* cold day here in Maine (wind chills of -30 degrees) so the plan was to stay home all weekend and do as little as possible.

On Friday, my son had a Valentine’s Day party at school. They always exchange the little cards you can buy at the store or homemade cards or whatever. There’s usually extra goodies for everyone, too. But there is also something called “candy grams” that are sold by the PTA. Now, I personally love these things. It’s a great little fundraiser for the PTA and it’s an easy little gift to give to my boy’s teacher and bus driver. Each year I ask him who he’d like to give a candy gram to. In the past, I’ve always twisted his arm and told him he’d be sending one to his teacher and bus driver, but apparently that already sunk in because he mentioned those two people first off. (Yay for my brainwashing, I mean parenting skills!)  Then he rattled off a few of his buddies’ names, wrote very formal messages on them, which I found hilarious (“Thank you for being such a good friend. I really appreciate it”), and called it good.

Here is where I screwed up.

When my boy got home on Friday afternoon, one of the first things he said was, “No one likes me, Mom.” He wasn’t crying, but he was matter of fact with a dash of melancholy thrown in. I told him that was untrue but why did he think no one liked him? “Because every single person got Swedish fish, except for me!”

Oh man, Swedish fish. Had I known the candy gram was Swedish fish, I probably would have bought one for my son. Why? Because Swedish fish is our crack, people. We LOVE this stuff. How these stupid, red, gummy fish can taste so yummy, I just don’t know. When I was a teenager, I worked in a video store where we sold Swedish fish (the small ones–which are WAY tastier) as penny candy. My friend, Ang, and I, had to eat at least $100 worth of these things while we worked there. And now I’ve apparently passed on my addiction to these little gems to my son.

fish

 

I reassured my boy that not every single person got a candy gram. He went on to describe the many places he saw the fish (classroom, hallway, lunch room, bus) then actually said, “Mom, why didn’t YOU buy me a candy gram?”

Oh, shit.

We ended up having a discussion about why I hate Valentine’s Day and how I don’t need one day to tell people I love them, because I tell them every day. And I reassured my son that he does have friends and people do like him, but maybe not everyone has the money to buy candy grams or maybe they feel exactly the way I do. Either way, don’t worry about the candy gram. And then I promised we’d buy him Swedish fish if he would pinky swear to give me some. So he did, and my husband bought the fish and my son and I gleefully ate them.

Is there a lesson in here somewhere? Besides the fact that I really need to give up Swedish fish? Or that I shouldn’t buy my son candy? Well, neither of those things are going to happen, so let’s see if there’s anything else I can learn.

One thing I kept thinking about today was, “Is this how people who don’t celebrate Christmas feel in December?” It feels kind of shitty. We say we want to be outsiders because we think it’s cool and it sounds awesome. But it doesn’t feel very awesome. It can feel very cold and lonely.

Does that mean I’ll conform and go back to buying chocolates and flowers for my honey? Or wear red on this day of love? Ummm…no. But it does make me empathize with those that always seem to be outside looking in. It sucks out there.

So come on inside and get warm. I don’t care what you’re wearing, what color you are or what you believe.

But if you have a craving for Swedish fish, we may have to wrestle for it.

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The Key to Happiness

Have you ever started reading a book that a good friend recommended, a book they were completely ga-ga over, then realized by page 50 that you *hated* the book? Or have you ever been so excited to see a movie, the one that you’ve been waiting for over a year to see, that after you see it you desperately wish you could get those two hours back because it was one of the worst things you had ever seen?

We’ve all been in these situations, haven’t we? So how do we possibly prevent them from happening?

Easy.

Lower your expectations.

ABOUT EVERYTHING.

About two years ago, I wrote a blog post about having high expectations and wanting everything to be wonderful and Disney-like.  I even mentioned a vacation I was about to go on, hoping it would be lovely weather–which it wasn’t. It was in Florida and it rained or was cloudy nearly every day. I was pretty pissed, and honestly, foolish! It may be the Sunshine State, but it doesn’t mean it’s sunny every single day (especially when I roll into town!). If I had only just kept my wants to a minimum–want to be away for a week, want to rest, want to not work. That’s it. If I had lowered my expectations: if I just expected my son and husband to argue, if I expected my husband to not want to do anything, if I expected the sun to not show its face again–then I would have been very happy.

People always say, “If you expect the worst to happen, then it probably will.” Well you know what? When I expect the worst, do you know how happy I am when something good happens?

catdog

For example, I recently facilitated a book discussion at my library. We all read books by a not well-known Maine author. Admittedly, when I’m reading a Maine author I know little about, I immediately think it’s going to be bad. You might not think that’s a good thing to do, but when you’ve read a lot of bad literature it comes with the territory. So, I had very low expectations for this author. But you know what? The book wasn’t bad! It wasn’t great but it wasn’t horrible. I actually enjoyed reading it. BUT, if I went into it thinking,”This is going to be such a great novel!”, I never would have made it past page 30.

The only problem with my new way of thinking, is that I can’t seem to lower my expectations when it comes to people. And this is when I should lower them to subterranean levels. I can’t believe how much I’m constantly disappointed by human beings. But I shouldn’t be. No one is perfect, and although I am completely aware of that fact, I still wish it wasn’t true.

But really no one has to be perfect, either. I just want them to do what I know they can, to live up to their potential. Hell, I’d be happy if people would stop being assholes.

But see? Right there. I need to lower my expectations and realize that there will always be jerks in the world. There will always be people hating people for stupid reasons. Which is why someday, instead of aliens arriving to destroy the human race like in Avengers, we humans will just destroy ourselves and the planet we live on. Apparently there are no super heroes or meta humans or any other cool beings out there to save us from ourselves.

And doesn’t that suck?

Yet if we don’t destroy ourselves, I’ll be so happy and surprised because I thought we were doomed. And if we do self-combust like I think we will?

Well…I’ll be happy then, too, because I was right.

 

 

 

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Becoming My Mother

motherdaughterThere’s no doubt I am a lot like my mother. We look alike in some ways, have many of the same mannerisms, same obsession about making things neat, same love of vanilla ice cream. As I watch my mother’s mind deteriorate, I can’t help but wonder if we will also share the same fate.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, particularly in the last month when my husband found my vitamins in the refrigerator. I’ve also had more of those moments when I just cannot grasp that one word I’m looking for. Do you know what I mean? You’re having a conversation with someone and all of a sudden you draw a blank on that one specific word. You haven’t lost the thread of the conversation (yet) but you can’t think of that one friggin’ word.

I often find myself in this situation when it comes to naming actors. I’ll be talking with a library patron about a particular movie and if I can’t remember the actor’s name, I start googling the other film titles I can remember just to narrow down the possible name. It drives me bananas!

And then on Friday, I got this weird vision impairment thing for a few minutes and it made me stop and think, “Shit. Do I need to go to a neurologist, too, and find out if my brain is already going wacky?” Maybe. Maybe I need to be a little cautious and make sure I’m ok. And maybe I’m just freaking out about my mom and worried that I’m following down the same exact path she did.

My sister and I often talk about how doomed we are. On nearly every branch of our family tree, a female member had dementia or Alzheimer’s disease–both of our grandmothers, at least one of our great grandmothers, and all three of our aunts. This past weekend there was an incident with my mom, and I asked my sister, “Is this what will happen to us?”

Not only is it frightening to watch my mother go through this horrible decline of her mental and physical health, but to think that my sister and I may have to go through it, too. Will my son be on the other end of the phone line, listening to me cry in confusion and frustration, just like I listened to my mother? Will he have to take me to my doctor’s appointments and tell them what is really going on in my life, because I have no memory of what happened the day before?  The thought of putting him through all of that gives me a belly ache. And yet, I am already turning to my 8-year-old son and saying, “Bri, what’s the name of that song? You know, the one with the guy that loves the girl?”

I can only hope that in the future, I’ll realize my decline, realize that I could harm myself or someone else. Having someone tell you that your memory is getting worse, doesn’t always do the trick. It makes you want to prove them wrong. Admitting that your mind isn’t what it used to be is a *very* difficult thing to do, and when you fear losing your independence, it’s nearly impossible. I can only hope that I’ll have the courage to admit to myself and to others when my mind is failing, and get help before I lose my chance to make my own choices.

This is what I fear for my mother. I want her to still be able to make whatever choices she wants to, to make her life her own. But things are getting more and more difficult and I feel like her time is running out to make those choices. We had several conversations in the past and papers have been signed, but not everything has been said. There are still things to be done and decisions to be made.

But…not yet.

Right now it’s just time to take deep breaths, to stay calm.

And to hope.

I no longer know what to hope for, but hoping for something good seems like the way to go.

So let’s do it. Let’s hope for good and see what happens.

 

 

 

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The Memory Game

Did you ever play Memory as a kid? I always loved it when I could remember where that one matching card was, especially that damn red apple. If I played with other people, I, of course, would want to win and would just hate it if someone beat me. And then, as an adult, I played with my little boy. All I wanted was for him to win, to feel good about himself. I never “let” him win, though. I would try to send him telepathic messages, telling him where the fish was or the beach ball, but rarely did that work.

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Last week, I took my mother to the neurologist, to play a new kind of memory game. I again found myself willing someone else to “win,” telepathically sending her words that began with the letter “F” and giving her numbers to count backwards with.

It was extremely difficult to watch. With each question, Mom was getting more and more frustrated and very tired. She would cover her eyes with one hand then rub her forehead and let out a big sigh.

My siblings and I know that sigh VERY well. It’s her “I am so sick and tired of you and what we’re doing and the best thing to do is for you to leave the room” sigh. And that’s what I wanted to do. I kept looking at the door. Maybe pretend I had to use the bathroom? I wanted to run away from that room and tiptoe back to it an hour later.  That’s what I used to do as a kid and my “fight or flight” response was screaming at me to just leave.

But I couldn’t.

So I stayed. I silently mouthed to the doctor that Mom was getting frustrated. The doctor nodded and she started to ask Mom questions about her children and grandchildren instead. Just a conversation. It worked…for a few minutes. Then the doctor slipped in a few other memory questions but Mom caught on after a bit, stopped talking and just stared at the doctor. It was so unbelievably uncomfortable. The neurologist was getting “the eye” from my mother! I’m sure that woman would have burst into flames if my mother had anything to say about it.

Thankfully the testing finally ended, or rather the doctor stopped trying. She wasn’t getting anywhere with Mom, so she did a short physical exam instead. Funnily enough, Mom relaxed at this point. This was something she was used to, something she was familiar with.

Unfortunately, my poor mother not only has a hurting brain, but her body is a mess, too. She smokes and this doctor, the very first ever, told Mom that her lungs sounded horrible. I was almost happy she said it, although it’s not going to make any fucking difference now. She’s 69 years old and she’s going to smoke a pack a day. Period. Diabetes is also corroding her body–her feet, her legs–I had no idea things were so bad. I should have, though.

Once the entire exam was over, the neurologist recommended a few physical tests (MRI, EEG) that will need to be done in the next week or two. We won’t go back to see this doctor until April, but will hopefully have more answers before then.  She did toss terms at us like frontotemporal dementia and transient global amnesia due to mild strokes that might explain some of the strange behaviors my mother has exhibited. But nothing is really known right now, except there are serious gaps in my mother’s memory and in her ability to understand or follow instructions.

I don’t really know what will happen now. I’m relieved that we’ll have some answers to why Mom acts the way she does. Sometimes all this guessing we’ve been doing gets exhausting and honestly, it’s just foolish. My family and I can look at our grandmother and our aunts and get a very good idea of what’s happening, but still not have any concrete answers or facts. With these tests, science can at least tell us why she can’t remember where she put her teeth and possibly, how much worse her memory will get. Although I suppose we all know that answer.

You know, I have so many wishes swirling around in my heart right now. Wishing I would have made my mother see a neurologist four years ago when things started going wacky. Wishing I would have told Mom’s doctor about her feet when I got a glimpse of them last summer. Wishing that Mom didn’t need me as much as she does. Wishing that I could tell her how scary it is being her parent and that I’m afraid something is going to happen and it will be my fault.

And wishing, always wishing, Mom was my mom again.

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The Great Outdoors

This has been a stressful week. Nothing extraordinary happened at work or at home. The library was very busy for the first few days and I was finally able to be productive for the last two. Home was the usual hectic schedule of trying to squeeze in making dinner and taking the boy to basketball practice and do my own workouts and laundry and all the other stuff. But there was nothing more stressful than usual.

And yet by Friday afternoon, I wanted to hide in my home and never talk to anyone again.

Typically I enjoy working with the public. People can drive me crazy but I usually find humor in odd behaviors or just roll my eyes at those that irritate me. But not this week. I had reached my fill of humans and I needed the day and week to end. I knew I had my son’s game to go to this weekend, as well as a visit to my mom, yet I wasn’t sure I could face either event.

I got up this morning WAY too early and a little grumpy. I still refused to think about the day ahead and just read a book for a while. Once my husband was up, we talked about my frustration with people and needing a break and about the courses I started to look into, possibly for a career change. Maybe something I could do from home or just something *not* with the public and with very few people. He was surprised but just let me talk. My son woke up then, so no further conversation was had, but that was ok. I needed to do a little self-assessment and figure out what’s going on in this brain of mine.

A while later, I bundled myself up and went for a run. It was 28 degrees, plenty warm and dry enough, but my face still froze. And yet it was a very enjoyable run. I just listened to my music and pushed myself when I was able and didn’t really think at all.

Once I got home, I stretched and did a few chores then showered. My kid got ready to go and we were off to the game.

No anxiety. No anger. No frustration.

Huh.

How come?

Did I purposely say to myself, “Ok, Hol, get a grip. You’ve got to do this, so just let it go”?  Of course not. That would probably be a very emotionally healthy thing to do, but I’m not there yet.

Was it the run?

Yeah. I think so. There’s something about a bit of heavy breathing and sweat and fresh air that does something to my brain. Something really, really good. Not only does my body feel better after a run, but my mental and emotional health is vastly improved. Endorphins are the absolute best drug.

But I don’t think it was *just* the run, but being outside.

All I want to do in the winter is stay indoors and sleep and read and not interact with anyone outside of my household. It’s cold and my body hurts when I’m cold, so leave me alone and let me stay inside and bake blueberry muffins and cranberry bread. I walk and run on my treadmill and lift weights and watch exercise videos, therefore my fitness level is still maintained, so why go outside?

Maybe because there’s a lot of life out there. It may be winter in Maine but there are birds and deer and rabbits and turkeys and squirrels and I get to see them right here, in my town, on my road, in my yard!  The trees may be bare but the snow and ice make them beautiful again. The spruce and the pine are always gorgeous, too, and just seeing them brings me comfort I wasn’t aware I needed.

Photo courtesy of Stephen LaRochelle

Photo courtesy of Stephen LaRochelle

Hearing and seeing all the life that is out there, makes me want to live. Makes me want to be a part of others’ lives, too. Even those annoying humans.

Well…some of them, anyway.

Do you ever just want to hibernate? Or hide? How do *you* keep going? I’d love to know.

 

 

 

 

 

by

My one intention

Typically I love the beginning of a new year. It’s so full of possibilities. This is the year I’ll finally [fill in the blank]! So many people scoff at the “lose weight” or “exercise more” resolutions that are made, but you know if that’s what you want to do in the upcoming year, then screw the naysayers. Some people just want to see you fail, no matter what your goal is. So don’t worry about everyone else, just do the best you can for yourself.

In the past, I’ve made some of those same resolutions and I eventually succeeded.  I lost over 50 pounds one year and have kept it off. I ran over 600 miles in 2012 and completed a half-marathon in 2013. But I’ve also said I’d try something new each month, which I’m pretty sure never happened, or to be happier with myself, which will just be an ongoing battle.

This may be the first year I don’t have any kind of resolution or goal for myself. There are things I would  *like* to do or become–I want to be physically stronger, I want to write more, I want to run a smidge more than I did last year, I want to bake gluten-free bread in my oven successfully–but if these things don’t happen then they don’t happen. No harm, no foul. Honestly, right now there are other people’s lives that will impact my own in such a manner that I don’t really want to have any goals. Not any personal ones, anyway.

Instead I have hopes and wishes for others.

I want my mother’s memory and health to stabilize for an entire year. I want my brother’s heart and health to maintain a good state. I want both my son and husband to enjoy moving their bodies.  I want my best friend to find true love.

I want all of us, all of you, to be happy.

But the only thing I really intend on being this year is sane. If I can balance my day to day life–the work and parenting and keeping in shape and caring for Mom and making dinner and doing laundry and taking care of the house and being a wife and a friend–and still find a little time for me to read and write? Then sane I will be. Or rather become. I’m pretty sure I’m not there yet.

So happy new year, my friends. May all your resolutions or goals or intentions come to fruition, and may all of our wishes and hopes and dreams come true.