I have my mother's feet.
Feet that I always thought were crusty and gross. With heels that were rough and cracked, and ridgy toenails that were constantly exposed in her ever-present flip-flops, toenails that I wished she would paint. No matter how much lotion was applied, no matter how often she worked across the callouses with the pumice stone that sat on the edge of the bathtub, my mother's feet were tough.
I have my mother's feet.
Feet that I was proud of in my youth, with their broad, well-shaped toenails perfect for painting. With a strong arch that my dancer-friends envied, a graceful point, and five straight toes descending in height that never hung awkwardly over the edge of open-toed shoes.
Feet that are no longer so pretty.
Feet that are scarred from bunion surgery, that ached and throbbed in exponentially increasing intensity throughout and following my pregnancy. Feet that pounded the pavement at a thankless job that I kept for way too long so as not to interrupt my insurance with a baby on the way.
Feet that go up and down countless flights of stairs, doing countless loads of laundry. Feet that hustle and shuffle up and down the aisles of the grocery store and the big box
stores, hauling decidedly unglamorous bags of necessities to and from the trunk of the car.
I have my mother's feet.
Feet with heels that are rough and cracked, and uneven toenails that are rarely painted. Feet that swell painfully after a night spent in towering heels, that embrace the comfort and ease of flip flops the following day. Feet that are permanently calloused. Feet that will carry my child when he's too tired to walk, that will hustle and shuffle to keep him safe, happy, and healthy no matter the sacrifice. Feet that are tough.
I have my mother's feet.
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Conduct Unbecoming of an Officer
It is with a heavy heart and no small amount of disgust that I sit at my keyboard today. With a pile of work that needs finishing, my thoughts are held captive by the incident I witnessed last night.
After over a decade in the service industry, either serving drinks or dealing cards, I've seen my share of human behavior. I would never be so brazen as to claim that I've seen it all, but I tell you my friends, I have seen a LOT. Last night turned my stomach.
Late in the evening, after many bars hopped and many drinks had, a clean cut young man approached a female and her friend at the bar. He made a drunken remark to one of them in regards to her non-white descent. He proceeded to another female, also of non-white descent, and addressed her in an unseemly manor. He asked her name and race. Not being the shy type, the female responded and was met promptly with a racial slur and a punch to the face. Chaos erupted in the bar, as friends of either party and bystanders jumped into the scuffle. Shirts were torn off and punches were thrown. Efforts by the bar staff to get the offender to leave were unsuccessful, and the police were called. The young man was arrested and charges will be pressed.
Bar fights are a dime a dozen in my world, but never in my LIFE have I seen something so disgraceful as that drunk piece of garbage standing in the doorway of the bar with his friends holding him back, after having assaulted a woman, hurling racial slurs and screaming, "I'm a United States Marine!"
Wow. A United States Marine. Really? Now, I'm not so naive as to think that every American soldier is an angel in uniform. But on the heels of a holiday that was created in order to honor the fallen service men and women who gave their lives to ensure the safety and freedom of others, this behavior is indescribably disgusting. After the smoke cleared, Facebook-stalking of the assaulter commenced. Sure enough, there he was: smiling wide in his impeccably pressed uniform, with his mother glowing proudly his side. I wonder how proud she would have been of his behavior last night? Scrolling through his posts, I came across a hateful piece of art (slurring multiple religions, Asians, and transgenders) that he deemed "hilarious" in his comments, and updated to his cover photo.
I am without speech.
I don't know what kind of consequences a staff Sargent may face after having been arrested for disorderly conduct in this manner, but I hope they are severe. "Conduct unbecoming of an officer" is a thing, right? For in my eyes, this man has disgraced his uniform, his family, and his country. I may not be much for politics, but I am a proud American. I am proud that this country fought for its own freedom from tyranny, and built itself into that most powerful nation in the world. I am proud that millions of people have come here to build a new and better life. And I am proud that after 240 years we are still striving to be a better society, evolving our laws, lives and hearts. Growing and changing our perspectives in hopes to one day grasp the happiness we have been granted the freedom to pursue.
After over a decade in the service industry, either serving drinks or dealing cards, I've seen my share of human behavior. I would never be so brazen as to claim that I've seen it all, but I tell you my friends, I have seen a LOT. Last night turned my stomach.
Late in the evening, after many bars hopped and many drinks had, a clean cut young man approached a female and her friend at the bar. He made a drunken remark to one of them in regards to her non-white descent. He proceeded to another female, also of non-white descent, and addressed her in an unseemly manor. He asked her name and race. Not being the shy type, the female responded and was met promptly with a racial slur and a punch to the face. Chaos erupted in the bar, as friends of either party and bystanders jumped into the scuffle. Shirts were torn off and punches were thrown. Efforts by the bar staff to get the offender to leave were unsuccessful, and the police were called. The young man was arrested and charges will be pressed.
Bar fights are a dime a dozen in my world, but never in my LIFE have I seen something so disgraceful as that drunk piece of garbage standing in the doorway of the bar with his friends holding him back, after having assaulted a woman, hurling racial slurs and screaming, "I'm a United States Marine!"
Wow. A United States Marine. Really? Now, I'm not so naive as to think that every American soldier is an angel in uniform. But on the heels of a holiday that was created in order to honor the fallen service men and women who gave their lives to ensure the safety and freedom of others, this behavior is indescribably disgusting. After the smoke cleared, Facebook-stalking of the assaulter commenced. Sure enough, there he was: smiling wide in his impeccably pressed uniform, with his mother glowing proudly his side. I wonder how proud she would have been of his behavior last night? Scrolling through his posts, I came across a hateful piece of art (slurring multiple religions, Asians, and transgenders) that he deemed "hilarious" in his comments, and updated to his cover photo.
I am without speech.
I don't know what kind of consequences a staff Sargent may face after having been arrested for disorderly conduct in this manner, but I hope they are severe. "Conduct unbecoming of an officer" is a thing, right? For in my eyes, this man has disgraced his uniform, his family, and his country. I may not be much for politics, but I am a proud American. I am proud that this country fought for its own freedom from tyranny, and built itself into that most powerful nation in the world. I am proud that millions of people have come here to build a new and better life. And I am proud that after 240 years we are still striving to be a better society, evolving our laws, lives and hearts. Growing and changing our perspectives in hopes to one day grasp the happiness we have been granted the freedom to pursue.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
No. I don't post pictures of my kid on Facebook.
I've been asked on more than one occasion why I rarely post pictures of my kid on Facebook. As though I am somehow lacking as a mother for having deprived the world of his cuteness. "That's what Facebook is for!" [shrug]. I don't know, is it? Because I thought Facebook was a tool to be used for my own amusement, in whatever way I see fit. Whether it be to blast my selfies out into the world, to share eye-rolling memes, or to promote my business.
There are three reasons that I keep photos of my son to a minimum on Facebook.
1) There is more to my life than being someone's mom.
I love my son, obviously. He's adorable and ridiculous, and even when he sucks he somehow finds a way to make my day. :) However, I am still ME. I have my own thoughts, opinions, and activities. I am a grown woman with a multi-faceted career, and every day in my life is an adventure, just the way I like it. My son is part of that adventure, but he's far from the only ride in this carnival.
2) Because, creepers.
Of my 380 "friends" on Facebook, many of them have never actually met my son in real life. I was eating at a restaurant once, when a young woman (whom I did not recognize) came in with a child that looked strangely familiar. I spent the majority of my meal staring at them, trying to figure out who they were. Eventually another young woman arrived, whom I recognized (despite the fact that I had never met her) as the ex-wife of an acquaintance that I hadn't seen more than a couple of times over the past 5 years. The child was their son, whom I had only ever seen on Facebook. I found it unnerving to think that I could be sitting in a restaurant with my son, and some weirdo whom I had never even met could be staring at us from across the room, knowing exactly who we are. Even though I was the weirdo in this scenario, it didn't sit well with me at all. I don't see any reason that strangers should be able to pick my kid out of a crowd. After all, many of my Facebook friends are co-workers, acquaintances, old high school buddies, business contacts, and friends of friends. How well do we really know our "friends"?
3) It's all about me.
My Facebook is my Facebook. I choose what to post. No one gets to tell me that I post too much of one thing, or not enough of another. When someone starts to post too many political opinions that don't align with my beliefs, or one too many pictures of whatever they're having for dinner that night, I can choose to ignore, unfollow, or unfriend. I am totally guilty of hiding the feed of persons unnamed who post nothing but pictures of their children. I want to message them and say, "Don't you have a life of your own?" But who am I to say what they should or shouldn't post on their Facebook. Because it's their Facebook. It exists as a tool for their own enjoyment, as much as my Facebook exists simply to amuse me.
The great joy in all of this is that not only can we choose what we post on Facebook, we can also choose what we see. I am constantly adding, deleting, friending, unfriending, and unfollowing. It's really nothing personal, it's just Facebook. :) The bottom line is, if you want to see my kiddo smile, come on over and bring him a present. Heck. Bring me one, too!
There are three reasons that I keep photos of my son to a minimum on Facebook.
1) There is more to my life than being someone's mom.
I love my son, obviously. He's adorable and ridiculous, and even when he sucks he somehow finds a way to make my day. :) However, I am still ME. I have my own thoughts, opinions, and activities. I am a grown woman with a multi-faceted career, and every day in my life is an adventure, just the way I like it. My son is part of that adventure, but he's far from the only ride in this carnival.
2) Because, creepers.
Of my 380 "friends" on Facebook, many of them have never actually met my son in real life. I was eating at a restaurant once, when a young woman (whom I did not recognize) came in with a child that looked strangely familiar. I spent the majority of my meal staring at them, trying to figure out who they were. Eventually another young woman arrived, whom I recognized (despite the fact that I had never met her) as the ex-wife of an acquaintance that I hadn't seen more than a couple of times over the past 5 years. The child was their son, whom I had only ever seen on Facebook. I found it unnerving to think that I could be sitting in a restaurant with my son, and some weirdo whom I had never even met could be staring at us from across the room, knowing exactly who we are. Even though I was the weirdo in this scenario, it didn't sit well with me at all. I don't see any reason that strangers should be able to pick my kid out of a crowd. After all, many of my Facebook friends are co-workers, acquaintances, old high school buddies, business contacts, and friends of friends. How well do we really know our "friends"?
3) It's all about me.
My Facebook is my Facebook. I choose what to post. No one gets to tell me that I post too much of one thing, or not enough of another. When someone starts to post too many political opinions that don't align with my beliefs, or one too many pictures of whatever they're having for dinner that night, I can choose to ignore, unfollow, or unfriend. I am totally guilty of hiding the feed of persons unnamed who post nothing but pictures of their children. I want to message them and say, "Don't you have a life of your own?" But who am I to say what they should or shouldn't post on their Facebook. Because it's their Facebook. It exists as a tool for their own enjoyment, as much as my Facebook exists simply to amuse me.
The great joy in all of this is that not only can we choose what we post on Facebook, we can also choose what we see. I am constantly adding, deleting, friending, unfriending, and unfollowing. It's really nothing personal, it's just Facebook. :) The bottom line is, if you want to see my kiddo smile, come on over and bring him a present. Heck. Bring me one, too!
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Three Completely Random Thoughts for a Wednesday
1. I frequently find myself inspired to write at the most inconvenient of times, such as when I am working, driving, showering, or on the toilet. (Don't act surprised. Like you've never had a Deep Thought while perched on the porcelain throne?) By the time I am able to seat myself at a writing device with a proper keyboard, the inspiration is gone. Without that spark, the writing feels empty. Fake, somehow devoid of authentic emotion. In similar fashion, I will occasionally begin writing, but when interruptions inevitably crop up, I'm forced to abandon the piece on which I was working. I don't feel right about publishing anything that I don't consider to be a complete work, and as a result, I have dozens of half-finished pieces sitting in my draft folder. I find this personally annoying. I enjoy writing, and other people seem to enjoy reading what I write, so what is the point of of a talent that I'm not able to share? In short, I am going to make an effort to publish more often, even if it's in a less formal fashion.
2. My kid's first birthday is tomorrow. It's an astonishing feat to have kept him alive for this long, when he attempts to thwart my efforts on a daily basis. That child isn't afraid of anything. If I leave the door to the garage open, he could literally be three houses away before I note his absence, and he is ONE. What is going to happen when he learns how to open doors by himself? I shudder to think. His favorite passtimes at age one include, banging his toys on anything that he could possibly scratch or dent, slamming doors, pushing big things with wheels (which is a problem at the grocery store when he wants to push the cart himself) and watching tv. (Yes, my one-year-old watches tv. The Baby Channel. Judging Panel: Go ahead and judge.) We'll be celebrating the amazing accomplishment of maintaining a healthy human for 365 days by throwing a big party and enjoying copious amounts of food and alcohol. The baby is invited.
3. I waste an unbelievable amount of coffee. Every two days, I brew a large pot, and pour myself a nice fresh mug. I add milk, sweetener, and occasionally a flavored creamer. If it's my day off, I'll throw in some Rumchada. (Yes, I put booze in my coffee. In the morning. BEFORE NOON. Again, I defer to the Judging Panel.) I will take a few sips, and then get distracted. Laundry, child care, shower...all of these things eventually lead to cold coffee. I will reheat the mug and maybe get a few more sips before it becomes cold again. At this point, I generally abandon my efforts, and make a mental note to prepare myself a fresh (reheated) cup before work. A few hours later, I will do exactly that. Reheat a fresh cup of coffee in the microwave, add the proper accouterments, and transfer into a travel mug for work. I will leave the travel mug on the counter, so I can grab it on my way out the door, and fifty percent of the time I will forget it entirely. My husband will find it a few hours later, standing alone on the counter. He will either dump it, or put it in the fridge for me to reheat the next morning. By the time I see the day-old coffee in the fridge, I will already have prepared a fresh cup, and it will get dumped out anyway. The other fifty percent of the time, I will remember to bring the mug to work, and (after spilling some of it on the console on the way there) it will become too cold to drink and I will move the travel mug out of everyone's way and then forget the mug at work. I repeat this cycle almost daily. SIGH. You're welcome, Folgers.
2. My kid's first birthday is tomorrow. It's an astonishing feat to have kept him alive for this long, when he attempts to thwart my efforts on a daily basis. That child isn't afraid of anything. If I leave the door to the garage open, he could literally be three houses away before I note his absence, and he is ONE. What is going to happen when he learns how to open doors by himself? I shudder to think. His favorite passtimes at age one include, banging his toys on anything that he could possibly scratch or dent, slamming doors, pushing big things with wheels (which is a problem at the grocery store when he wants to push the cart himself) and watching tv. (Yes, my one-year-old watches tv. The Baby Channel. Judging Panel: Go ahead and judge.) We'll be celebrating the amazing accomplishment of maintaining a healthy human for 365 days by throwing a big party and enjoying copious amounts of food and alcohol. The baby is invited.
3. I waste an unbelievable amount of coffee. Every two days, I brew a large pot, and pour myself a nice fresh mug. I add milk, sweetener, and occasionally a flavored creamer. If it's my day off, I'll throw in some Rumchada. (Yes, I put booze in my coffee. In the morning. BEFORE NOON. Again, I defer to the Judging Panel.) I will take a few sips, and then get distracted. Laundry, child care, shower...all of these things eventually lead to cold coffee. I will reheat the mug and maybe get a few more sips before it becomes cold again. At this point, I generally abandon my efforts, and make a mental note to prepare myself a fresh (reheated) cup before work. A few hours later, I will do exactly that. Reheat a fresh cup of coffee in the microwave, add the proper accouterments, and transfer into a travel mug for work. I will leave the travel mug on the counter, so I can grab it on my way out the door, and fifty percent of the time I will forget it entirely. My husband will find it a few hours later, standing alone on the counter. He will either dump it, or put it in the fridge for me to reheat the next morning. By the time I see the day-old coffee in the fridge, I will already have prepared a fresh cup, and it will get dumped out anyway. The other fifty percent of the time, I will remember to bring the mug to work, and (after spilling some of it on the console on the way there) it will become too cold to drink and I will move the travel mug out of everyone's way and then forget the mug at work. I repeat this cycle almost daily. SIGH. You're welcome, Folgers.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
The Bikini Condition
I shuffle out of the dressing room and hand my pile of tried-on garments over to the fitting room attendant. "Did you have any luck with those?" she asks politely. A tight smile and small snort of disgust escapes me as I reply, "Not this time." Something catches my eye in the pile of bathing suits that she is sorting on the counter. "Oh! Does that one happen to be a size large, by chance?" She glances down at the swatch of colored fabric in her hand, and gives a mildly sympathetic shake of her head. "It's a small. Sorry." Psh. No, you're not. I think to myself as I stalk bitterly towards the front of the store. I usually feel bad for fitting room attendants. It's a thankless job, counting hangers and passing out those stupid little plastic numbers, re-hanging garment after garment for hours at a time, only to watch the items that you've just put away come back to the dressing room moments later and end up in a messy heap once again. But not today. Today I feel a rather smug satisfaction at the thought that the bathing suits I'd left behind the counter were making someone else miserable besides me. That's not very nice, Gina. I shrug to myself. It's not very nice. Such is life.
It's nearly spring, once again. And here, in the great frozen state of North Dakota, that means two things: 1) The city of Fargo is about to suffer a major case of spring fever. This usually involves a lot of yard work, as well as hundreds of people walking around in shorts and flip-flops even though it's only 50 degrees. And 2) Summer is just around the corner. This means that the tanning salons are being flooded with ghostly white individuals who've spent the past few months shielding their delicate skin from the frigid winter elements. This also means it's time to start shopping for bathing suits, and waking up to the harsh reality of looking at our bodies, practically naked in dressing room mirrors. Every extra Christmas cookie, every celebratory New Year's drink, and every hastily sneaked piece of Valentine's chocolate will hide no longer. This, my friends, is the reckoning.
My mother was very modest when it came to clothing, and as a result, I was never allowed (or even interested) to wear a bikini as a child. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even brave enough to don my first two-piece until halfway through college. I'd gone through a difficult breakup, and as a giant nose-thumb to the ex who'd told me point blank that I wasn't built to wear such things, as well as to my conservative upbringing, I decided to throw caution to the wind and let it all hang out one 4th of July weekend. I was surprised at the result. No one threw eggs at me or laughed hysterically as I walked by. I had a great time with my friends, both male and female. I realized that it didn't matter what I looked like in my bathing suit, because the people I cared about cared about me, and not my so-called physical imperfections. Ironically, back in the days when I was most insecure was probably the best I'd ever looked in a bikini.
Fast-forward fourteen years. That brings us to today, where I am suddenly a 35-year-old female, wishing desperately that I had the body I so loathed in my youth. Having birthed a child eight months ago isn't helping the situation much, either. Although the baby weight is all gone, it seems that things didn't exactly go back to the way they were before. Same size, but...different shape.
In a few short weeks, I am about to embark upon my first ever girls trip. Five girlfriends and I will strap on our traveling shoes and board a cruise ship from Miami to the Bahamas. This is obviously cause for some serious shopping, which is what landed me in that despicable dressing room with a stack of horrible bathing suits in the first place. What was I thinking? Even if we weren't just coming off winter, and even if I hadn't recently given birth, bikini shopping is the WORST! It's hard to hide flaws when nothing is actually covered. I decided to ditch the bikinis and give a selection of one-piece suits a try. Well, that was a mistake. Those adorable one-pieces with the sides cut out? The ones that look amazingly sexy yet still respectable? Like all of those swimsuit models in the Victoria's Secret catalog are actually just regular women with high-paying day jobs and the pictures in the magazine are simply candids from their family vacation to Florida? Yeah...not so much. Somehow, through some sort of gaping hole in the laws of physics, more material is actually less flattering. I felt like those "sexy" cutouts were designed exclusively to highlight my flaws. Like my own personal sorority hazing, where the senior girls make you strip down to your underwear in front of everyone and circle your fat spots with a Sharpie. Nothing will ever look good enough, because no matter how good I look, someone else will look better. I realize that this is ridiculous, but it's simply the female condition. We are bred to foster insecurities, and spend our entire lives working on ways to overcome them. Most of us give up "overcoming" and instead find a way to just deal with it. Rather like my 21-year-old self who threw caution to the wind to don her very first bikini, my 35-year-old post-baby self is going to have to take the same leap.
As I stomped angrily to my car, I thought back to the suits I'd tried on. I exhaled my breath in a long silent whistle and steadied my thoughts. Maybe, just maybe the pink and purple one would look halfway decent if I could find it in the proper size... I ordered it online as soon as I got home, along with one more suit for good measure. After all, even if I'm not entirely thrilled with my resulting appearance, it's really the only excuse I need to spring for a cute sundress cover-up. It turns out that my grown-up self know a secret truth that my 21-year-old self had to learn from experience: after all the muss and fuss, the hemming and hawing, the moaning and wailing, after ALL of that nonsense, comes clarity. No one is perfect, and it is a waste of energy to expect perfection where none truly exists. Life is about the experiences, not the appearances. In the end, it's just a bathing suit. And the reality is that the only person who truly cares how I look wearing it is me. I don't have a thing to prove to anyone except myself.
So. When the time comes for my my girls and I to drop our towels by the pool on that cruise ship, I can embrace the certainty that a couple of muffin tops isn't going to make one shred of difference in how much fun we have. Hand me some sunscreen and a margarita, and let the memories make themselves.
It's nearly spring, once again. And here, in the great frozen state of North Dakota, that means two things: 1) The city of Fargo is about to suffer a major case of spring fever. This usually involves a lot of yard work, as well as hundreds of people walking around in shorts and flip-flops even though it's only 50 degrees. And 2) Summer is just around the corner. This means that the tanning salons are being flooded with ghostly white individuals who've spent the past few months shielding their delicate skin from the frigid winter elements. This also means it's time to start shopping for bathing suits, and waking up to the harsh reality of looking at our bodies, practically naked in dressing room mirrors. Every extra Christmas cookie, every celebratory New Year's drink, and every hastily sneaked piece of Valentine's chocolate will hide no longer. This, my friends, is the reckoning.
My mother was very modest when it came to clothing, and as a result, I was never allowed (or even interested) to wear a bikini as a child. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even brave enough to don my first two-piece until halfway through college. I'd gone through a difficult breakup, and as a giant nose-thumb to the ex who'd told me point blank that I wasn't built to wear such things, as well as to my conservative upbringing, I decided to throw caution to the wind and let it all hang out one 4th of July weekend. I was surprised at the result. No one threw eggs at me or laughed hysterically as I walked by. I had a great time with my friends, both male and female. I realized that it didn't matter what I looked like in my bathing suit, because the people I cared about cared about me, and not my so-called physical imperfections. Ironically, back in the days when I was most insecure was probably the best I'd ever looked in a bikini.
Fast-forward fourteen years. That brings us to today, where I am suddenly a 35-year-old female, wishing desperately that I had the body I so loathed in my youth. Having birthed a child eight months ago isn't helping the situation much, either. Although the baby weight is all gone, it seems that things didn't exactly go back to the way they were before. Same size, but...different shape.
In a few short weeks, I am about to embark upon my first ever girls trip. Five girlfriends and I will strap on our traveling shoes and board a cruise ship from Miami to the Bahamas. This is obviously cause for some serious shopping, which is what landed me in that despicable dressing room with a stack of horrible bathing suits in the first place. What was I thinking? Even if we weren't just coming off winter, and even if I hadn't recently given birth, bikini shopping is the WORST! It's hard to hide flaws when nothing is actually covered. I decided to ditch the bikinis and give a selection of one-piece suits a try. Well, that was a mistake. Those adorable one-pieces with the sides cut out? The ones that look amazingly sexy yet still respectable? Like all of those swimsuit models in the Victoria's Secret catalog are actually just regular women with high-paying day jobs and the pictures in the magazine are simply candids from their family vacation to Florida? Yeah...not so much. Somehow, through some sort of gaping hole in the laws of physics, more material is actually less flattering. I felt like those "sexy" cutouts were designed exclusively to highlight my flaws. Like my own personal sorority hazing, where the senior girls make you strip down to your underwear in front of everyone and circle your fat spots with a Sharpie. Nothing will ever look good enough, because no matter how good I look, someone else will look better. I realize that this is ridiculous, but it's simply the female condition. We are bred to foster insecurities, and spend our entire lives working on ways to overcome them. Most of us give up "overcoming" and instead find a way to just deal with it. Rather like my 21-year-old self who threw caution to the wind to don her very first bikini, my 35-year-old post-baby self is going to have to take the same leap.
As I stomped angrily to my car, I thought back to the suits I'd tried on. I exhaled my breath in a long silent whistle and steadied my thoughts. Maybe, just maybe the pink and purple one would look halfway decent if I could find it in the proper size... I ordered it online as soon as I got home, along with one more suit for good measure. After all, even if I'm not entirely thrilled with my resulting appearance, it's really the only excuse I need to spring for a cute sundress cover-up. It turns out that my grown-up self know a secret truth that my 21-year-old self had to learn from experience: after all the muss and fuss, the hemming and hawing, the moaning and wailing, after ALL of that nonsense, comes clarity. No one is perfect, and it is a waste of energy to expect perfection where none truly exists. Life is about the experiences, not the appearances. In the end, it's just a bathing suit. And the reality is that the only person who truly cares how I look wearing it is me. I don't have a thing to prove to anyone except myself.
So. When the time comes for my my girls and I to drop our towels by the pool on that cruise ship, I can embrace the certainty that a couple of muffin tops isn't going to make one shred of difference in how much fun we have. Hand me some sunscreen and a margarita, and let the memories make themselves.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
A Fond Farewell
The legendary Randall R. Rustad, teacher of high school history and government, master of one-liners, collector of dirt. Mr. Rustad (for I will never in all my life feel comfortable referring to him as "Randall") was so much more than just a teacher. The gymnasium at Fargo Shanley High was packed with hundreds of teary eyes, as we collectively mourned the loss of a man who touched more people that I suspect he ever realized. And although he has now been officially laid to rest, I find my thoughts continue to dwell on him. His passing has brought to light so many memories, and they seem to be floating around in my brain like the pages of an old newspaper caught in the wind, occasionally catching the light and bringing either a smile to my lips or the prick of tears to my eyes.
What was it about this man that was so special? I doubt that hundreds of people will show up to tell stories at my funeral. For Mr. Rustad, they came out in droves, both in person and on social media. Every single student came armed with a story about passing Rustad's dreaded mandatory oral exams, or participating in one of the many class pranks that were played on Rustad, year after year. He was everyone's favorite teacher, but why? He was strict, and commanded respect. (Seriously. You don't mess around in Rustad's class. I fell asleep in government once. In the front row. When I woke up and realized that Rustad's lecture was still in progress at the podium directly above me, I felt that I had narrowly escaped certain death.) Yet he was hilarious and quirky. (He drank Tab. TAB. Where does one even find a case of Tab these days? In my entire life (post-1990) I believe the only place I ever saw a can of Tab for sale was in the vending machines at Shanley. And the only reason they stocked it was for Mr. Rustad.) He was jovial, and passionate about both his students and his work. Having taught government, history, and drivers ed at Shanley for nearly thirty years, it takes a special kind of dedication to display the same intensity with every class, year after year. History doesn't change, yet Rustad was able to cover the same material again and again, never failing to convey its importance, even the one-hundredth time around. Any teacher can regurgitate material, but Rustad possessed a rare quality in that he made students want to learn. Not that we had a choice, as we WOULD be learning the material, one way or another. I remember my very first day of class with Rustad a million years ago, when he announced that, "You WILL be learning each and every state capital, and you WILL be learning the 27 constitutional amendments, because I'll be damned if any student is going to graduate this high school without knowing their rights. Not on my watch!"
Even now, days after the funeral service, I find myself preoccupied with memories and thoughts that have resurfaced since Mr. Rustad's death. I keep seeing his grandchildren, seated at the funeral. Little bodies squirming in their parents' laps, short little legs dangling over the edges of chairs. I never thought of Mr. Rustad as a grandfather before. I went to school with all three of the Rustad children, so it stands to reason that they are all now grown up with children of their own, as am I. But the Mr. Rustad in my mind is still the young man of many years ago, with the future laid out as a path at his feet, as it was for all of us back then. It seems a cruel irony that after decades spent teaching other peoples' kids how to drive, Mr. Rustad's own grandchildren will one day take the wheel without him there in the passenger seat bellowing, "Use your mirrors!" Watching those kids during the funeral service, I wondered if any of them had ever been to a funeral before. Could they comprehend the impact that their grandfather had on the hundreds of people around them? Looking around the Shanley gymnasium, I saw classmates of my own from the late 1990's, as well as younger faces from the classes of 2000's and beyond. I saw parents, some of whom were former classmates of Mr. Rustad himself. I saw faculty and coaches, both current and previous. And of course, there were several members of the clergy seated in a row underneath one of the basketball hoops, and the casket, front and center at the free throw line. It was quite the gathering.
My senior year of high school, my family traveled to the Black Hills. Knowing Mr. Rustad's fondness for gathering souvenir dirt from historical sites (Civil War battlefields were his personal favorite), I scooped up a chunk of earth from Will Bill Hickock's grave on the legendary Boot Hill. I secured it safely inside an plastic film canister and brought it to school as a gift for my favorite teacher. Not wanting to look like a brown-noser, I left the dirt in my locker until such time as was opportune to deliver it without painting myself a suck-up. It sat on my locker shelf for the remainder of the school year. On our very last day of class in the spring of 1998, as the entire senior class was a manic panic of cleaning out lockers and counting down the last few hours of our high school careers, I grabbed the dirt and tossed it to an idle classmate. "Hey, go give this to Mr. Rustad for me!" She did as instructed, and that was the last thought I had regarding that little container until recently. Reminiscing about it now, I wonder if that dirt ever made its way into Rustad's esteemed private collection, or if he even knew that it was from me? I will never know. But every time I visit a famous landmark or a historical site, I remember the man who boasted so proudly of his extensive and fabulous souvenir dirt collection.
Lastly, my most vivid personal Rustad memory. In our senior economics class, we were assigned a "stock market project". (I should mention here that I truly hate economics. I only took the class because Mr. Rustad taught it.) We were to invest a specified amount of fictional money into our choice of stocks, and over a certain period of time, we were to buy/sell them as we saw fit and record the outcome. Having much more important high schoolish-type activities to attend to, I put off my work on the assignment until the last minute. I had already mentally selected my stocks, so it was the simple matter of going back to look up what they had been worth on the date that we were to have begun our initial "investing." This gave me the distinct advantage of knowing which stocks would do well and which ones tanked. I decided to scrap my original idea, and instead to invest in a pharmaceutical company that, the week before, had announced that they had perfected a new drug for cancer patients. In other words, I cheated. Their stock went through the roof in a matter of days. Cha-ching! I believe a made just over twenty-three thousand fictional dollars. That should be good for an A, right? Unfortunately for me, Mr. Rustad decided to post a list of everyone's stock results in class. In order. Biggest earner on top, biggest losers at the bottom. And there I was, right there at the top of the list with my $23k in earnings. The classmate listed below me had earned a just few hundred bucks, so my cheating couldn't have been more obvious. Next to my name, in parentheses, were the words, "Inside Trading." Well played, Mr. Rustad! I was totally busted, but Mr. Rustad never said anything to me about it. On our last day of class, I stole that sheet of paper off the board and I know that I still have it secured somewhere among my high school keepsakes.
The mark that Mr. Rustad left on his students is rare. A fond memory shining brightly through the darkness of those angsty high school years. I wonder about my own small son. Will he be lucky enough to have a teacher like Mr. Rustad? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Either way, Mr. Rustad may be gone, but his legacy isn't lost. It lives on inside of me, and every other student who was touched in some way by this wonderful man. WE are that legacy.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Baby Steps
Eight weeks ago, I birthed a human.
He's a cute little human. He grins and squirms and makes adorable little gurgling coo sounds when he's happy, and I love him bunches. He is quite literally, the fruit of my labor.
I could go on and on in mushy detail about how incomplete my life was before I became a mother, but that doesn't really ring true to me. In my eyes and heart, I was every bit as happy before the baby as I am now. My life wasn't empty without kids, and now that I have one, it's still not empty. My days feel normal to me, just as they did before the baby, even though my days now are quite different from the ones I lived one year ago. Even as I constantly worry that things won't fall into place, somehow they continue to do so. It's like magic. It keeps me ever grateful and humble in the eyes of God, because only something as divine as He could keep me sane in the face of what could be an utterly overwhelming task: keeping our son alive and happy while managing not lose myself in the process.
As the horrific discomfort of pregnancy, and the messy indignities of childbirth fade into the past, my eyes turn once again towards the present and the future. I'm a mom now. (And saying that out loud is as foreign to my ears as if I were speaking Swahili.) How do I be Mom, and still be Me? How can I live my life for this little person who needs me, and still live my life for me? For ten months I let the little peanut camp out in my body. I gave up parties, vacations, kickball and pole dancing, as well as a number of extremely delicious foods and beverages in order to keep him safe and healthy. Now that he's breathing the free air, I am trying to reclaim some of those things. I desperately missed pole dancing. I missed laying by the pool in a bikini. And haters (you know who you are) can judge me if they want, but I missed dressing up and feeling sexy. And I missed alcohol. A lot.
Getting my groove back is proving to be a bit harder than I expected. I was so sick of being pregnant, I was really excited to have the baby and get my body back under my own control. And I'm not just talking about the weight. I'm talking about putting my internal organs back where they belong, and not having to pee every hour. I'm talking about being able to sit in the car without feeling like my pelvic bone was about to crack. For goodness sake, I just wanted to be able to bend over and put on my own f*cking SHOES again! Eating and drinking what I want, when I want, instead of what I needed to eat and drink for the health of the little womb-hijacker. I thought once I had the baby, all those long-missed niceties would be mine once again. However, it turns out a LOT of that was easier said than done. Getting over the extreme trauma of childbirth was frustratingly slow. Eight weeks later, I am still healing, both physically and emotionally. And although most of the weight has melted off (as promised, although I didn't believe it actually would), my body certainly doesn't look like it did pre-pregnancy. It's squishy and weak. Even though I'm just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight, my soft, fleshy curves don't have a home in any of my old clothes. My boobs are HUGE, but they don't seem all that sexy, as they are always sore, require constant maintenance, and serve a decidedly functional purpose. *SIGH*
Two weeks ago, I was finally able to get back into the pole studio. Although I have a fitness pole at home, and had done a bit of beginner-level work on it since the baby, I knew that the sooner I was able to get back into a weekly class, the better. I need that studio time to keep me motivated and to get my strength back. I work harder when I have company, and an audience. Since it had been nearly a year since I was last able to perform to my full potential, I contacted my instructor and asked if it would be possible to get into a low-level class, just to get myself started. Last October, a month before I became pregnant, I fell while rehearsing for a performance. I suffered a separated shoulder and a torn ligament. I was hoping that pregnancy would be an ideal time for my body to heal, but it's been a bit rough and the injury is still painful. (I didn't consider it at the time, but pregnancy may have actually slowed my shoulder healing, since the body's priority would have been the baby, not my shoulder.) So not only is it pregnancy that I'm recovering from, but a fairly severe injury as well.
My first day back in class was both exhilarating and disappointing. I was SO excited to be back. I really missed my work-outs, and the amazing feeling of performing advanced tricks and pushing myself to learn more and get stronger every day. I was so proud to really be good at something, and to be able to inspire other women through my performances was good for my soul. To my disappointment, I struggled with even the most basic moves. Despite the instructor's reassurance that I "looked great", I felt heavy and awkward. Every move was a challenge. Tricks that I used to perform with ease were now difficult and painful. I fought back tears for the entire hour, and drove home feeling utterly defeated. What if I can't ever get back to where I was? Will I ever be strong enough to maneuver as gracefully as I did before? Worse than the physical pain, my pride hurt. I was always one of the best dancers in the studio, now I felt chunky and clumsy. My back ached with every move. I worked gingerly to protect my tender (enormous) breasts. My hamstrings and quads burned from trying to keep my legs straight. My feet, having schlepped and shuffled to hold up the weight of my pregnant self for all those weeks, just didn't want to point. After all that time spent waiting to have the baby so that I could finally be in control of my body once again, it still felt completely foreign to me. My eyes welled up and spilled over. Why couldn't I just be myself again?
Since then, I've attended two more classes, and am feeling much better about the situation. My subsequent attempts at performing my old tricks have been a little more successful, and I'm reminded how quickly the body responds to this type of fitness training. In addition to that, I used to hit the studio 4 days a week. With an infant to deal with, I've only been able to go once a week for class, and managed a couple of short workouts at home. My determination to regain the level of performance that I had before is very motivating. If I can get to the studio twice a week, (which is a simple matter of planning), and work out once a week at home, I should be able to speed up both the process of rebuilding strength, as well as healing my shoulder. I need to simply rediscover what my body is capable of. When I first started pole dancing, I was constantly amazed by what I could do. When I came back to the studio for the first time, I was only seeing what I couldn't do. That kind of thinking is a deterrent to my progress. Focusing on the negative doesn't encourage growth, it facilitates failure. (THAT GOES FOR ANYONE.) It would be like walking onto a baseball field after coming back from an injury, and being disappointed that you didn't hit a home run on the first swing. What would you do? Would you retire, or would you try again? (Duh.) Now that I have had three classes, I can already see progress. Small, but noticeable progress, and that is encouraging. (Which is another thing that I love about pole fitness. Progress comes quickly, and noticeably.)
Writing this down, and putting it out there for the world to see will be a lesson in accountability. One year from now, will I be back up to my old tricks (literally and figuratively), or will I have given in to the frustration and resigned myself to a life of mediocrity? Hmmm.
I think I prefer the former to the latter. :)
He's a cute little human. He grins and squirms and makes adorable little gurgling coo sounds when he's happy, and I love him bunches. He is quite literally, the fruit of my labor.
I could go on and on in mushy detail about how incomplete my life was before I became a mother, but that doesn't really ring true to me. In my eyes and heart, I was every bit as happy before the baby as I am now. My life wasn't empty without kids, and now that I have one, it's still not empty. My days feel normal to me, just as they did before the baby, even though my days now are quite different from the ones I lived one year ago. Even as I constantly worry that things won't fall into place, somehow they continue to do so. It's like magic. It keeps me ever grateful and humble in the eyes of God, because only something as divine as He could keep me sane in the face of what could be an utterly overwhelming task: keeping our son alive and happy while managing not lose myself in the process.
As the horrific discomfort of pregnancy, and the messy indignities of childbirth fade into the past, my eyes turn once again towards the present and the future. I'm a mom now. (And saying that out loud is as foreign to my ears as if I were speaking Swahili.) How do I be Mom, and still be Me? How can I live my life for this little person who needs me, and still live my life for me? For ten months I let the little peanut camp out in my body. I gave up parties, vacations, kickball and pole dancing, as well as a number of extremely delicious foods and beverages in order to keep him safe and healthy. Now that he's breathing the free air, I am trying to reclaim some of those things. I desperately missed pole dancing. I missed laying by the pool in a bikini. And haters (you know who you are) can judge me if they want, but I missed dressing up and feeling sexy. And I missed alcohol. A lot.
Getting my groove back is proving to be a bit harder than I expected. I was so sick of being pregnant, I was really excited to have the baby and get my body back under my own control. And I'm not just talking about the weight. I'm talking about putting my internal organs back where they belong, and not having to pee every hour. I'm talking about being able to sit in the car without feeling like my pelvic bone was about to crack. For goodness sake, I just wanted to be able to bend over and put on my own f*cking SHOES again! Eating and drinking what I want, when I want, instead of what I needed to eat and drink for the health of the little womb-hijacker. I thought once I had the baby, all those long-missed niceties would be mine once again. However, it turns out a LOT of that was easier said than done. Getting over the extreme trauma of childbirth was frustratingly slow. Eight weeks later, I am still healing, both physically and emotionally. And although most of the weight has melted off (as promised, although I didn't believe it actually would), my body certainly doesn't look like it did pre-pregnancy. It's squishy and weak. Even though I'm just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight, my soft, fleshy curves don't have a home in any of my old clothes. My boobs are HUGE, but they don't seem all that sexy, as they are always sore, require constant maintenance, and serve a decidedly functional purpose. *SIGH*
Two weeks ago, I was finally able to get back into the pole studio. Although I have a fitness pole at home, and had done a bit of beginner-level work on it since the baby, I knew that the sooner I was able to get back into a weekly class, the better. I need that studio time to keep me motivated and to get my strength back. I work harder when I have company, and an audience. Since it had been nearly a year since I was last able to perform to my full potential, I contacted my instructor and asked if it would be possible to get into a low-level class, just to get myself started. Last October, a month before I became pregnant, I fell while rehearsing for a performance. I suffered a separated shoulder and a torn ligament. I was hoping that pregnancy would be an ideal time for my body to heal, but it's been a bit rough and the injury is still painful. (I didn't consider it at the time, but pregnancy may have actually slowed my shoulder healing, since the body's priority would have been the baby, not my shoulder.) So not only is it pregnancy that I'm recovering from, but a fairly severe injury as well.
My first day back in class was both exhilarating and disappointing. I was SO excited to be back. I really missed my work-outs, and the amazing feeling of performing advanced tricks and pushing myself to learn more and get stronger every day. I was so proud to really be good at something, and to be able to inspire other women through my performances was good for my soul. To my disappointment, I struggled with even the most basic moves. Despite the instructor's reassurance that I "looked great", I felt heavy and awkward. Every move was a challenge. Tricks that I used to perform with ease were now difficult and painful. I fought back tears for the entire hour, and drove home feeling utterly defeated. What if I can't ever get back to where I was? Will I ever be strong enough to maneuver as gracefully as I did before? Worse than the physical pain, my pride hurt. I was always one of the best dancers in the studio, now I felt chunky and clumsy. My back ached with every move. I worked gingerly to protect my tender (enormous) breasts. My hamstrings and quads burned from trying to keep my legs straight. My feet, having schlepped and shuffled to hold up the weight of my pregnant self for all those weeks, just didn't want to point. After all that time spent waiting to have the baby so that I could finally be in control of my body once again, it still felt completely foreign to me. My eyes welled up and spilled over. Why couldn't I just be myself again?
Since then, I've attended two more classes, and am feeling much better about the situation. My subsequent attempts at performing my old tricks have been a little more successful, and I'm reminded how quickly the body responds to this type of fitness training. In addition to that, I used to hit the studio 4 days a week. With an infant to deal with, I've only been able to go once a week for class, and managed a couple of short workouts at home. My determination to regain the level of performance that I had before is very motivating. If I can get to the studio twice a week, (which is a simple matter of planning), and work out once a week at home, I should be able to speed up both the process of rebuilding strength, as well as healing my shoulder. I need to simply rediscover what my body is capable of. When I first started pole dancing, I was constantly amazed by what I could do. When I came back to the studio for the first time, I was only seeing what I couldn't do. That kind of thinking is a deterrent to my progress. Focusing on the negative doesn't encourage growth, it facilitates failure. (THAT GOES FOR ANYONE.) It would be like walking onto a baseball field after coming back from an injury, and being disappointed that you didn't hit a home run on the first swing. What would you do? Would you retire, or would you try again? (Duh.) Now that I have had three classes, I can already see progress. Small, but noticeable progress, and that is encouraging. (Which is another thing that I love about pole fitness. Progress comes quickly, and noticeably.)
Writing this down, and putting it out there for the world to see will be a lesson in accountability. One year from now, will I be back up to my old tricks (literally and figuratively), or will I have given in to the frustration and resigned myself to a life of mediocrity? Hmmm.
I think I prefer the former to the latter. :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)