Growing Growing Gone - A Tale of Tween Growth As Told Through The Voice of Bitmoji

I haven't written in a while.  Nothing has moved me to stop napping long enough to write. Not until this morning, that is...

This morning, HRH said something to me that about knocked me over. I wanted to cry but I also felt relieved and then I felt mournful. Her words were profound, mature.... and terrifying.

"What are these words you're saying to me? They are so adult-y."

For those of you new to The Hive, HRH is Her Royal Highness. She is my daughter. She's in The Middle School, now. A couple weeks ago, a boy asked her to be his girlfriend. The Boy claimed to have lost his cell phone and never found it over the course of their 2-3 week lackluster relationship. As a result, they rarely communicated except in the couple classes they had together.

 I called shenanigans, but I tend to be a bit of a conspiracy theorist.  

Fast forward to yesterday, she finds out that The Boy was actually engaged in a bet to see how long it would take HRH to break up with him.

Disclaimer:  I do not have all the data points. But from what I am able to cobble together, it appears the goal was to remain just close enough to keep her hooked but also remain cool and aloof to see how long she'd put up with it. An iron-clad "Guy Code" prevented him from revealing who was in on the bet with him.

Who wants to see my head spin off?

Interestingly, she was not that upset, yesterday. In fact, she didn't even mention it to me when I picked her up after school.  I only learned of the incident from other friends. When I asked her about it, she recounted the details like she were explaining the plot of a TV show and then went back to her homework. Admittedly, she has become expert at pretending she's cold and dead, inside, because she doesn't want me involved in her personal life. And by personal life, I mean "boy life".

I want to clarify that when I picked her up, yesterday, she talked, non-stop, about EVERYTHING else that happened during the day.

So what did she say, this morning, that knocked me over?

I asked her why she didn't tell me what happened. I was pretty crushed that she didn't trust me to come to me with this sort of thing. I have knowledge and advice just waiting to be deployed!

Conspiracy Theory Rule Number 1

"Because, Mom... I have to learn how to do this on my own. Some day, I won't have you. I have to have confidence that I can handle my own battles."

"Will you help me with some of my battles?"

And then she told me about her amazing friends. She recounted how they all rallied around her throughout the entire day... how they all had her back. They all banded together and rose up like a massive force that could NOT be taken down.

The Middle School Avengers

My baby-girl. She's not a baby, anymore.

"Mom. I want to tell him to fuck off. Would you be mad?"

"Nah, girl. It's just a stupid word with a shit-ton of emphasis behind it. Just don't get caught. I can't bail you outta that one. All the teachers and adults, they'll KNOW you learned that shit from ME!"

#TrueStory

I will not name The Boy because my intent is not for this to become a witch hunt, but rather to sing the praises of my not-so-baby-girl and her wonderful friends. I liken these years to a sort of Renaissance era of growth and discovery. They will all fuck up... every one of them. There is no need to slap a scarlet letter on any of them. Hopefully, one day he'll look back and admit to himself this was a major douche moment and he won't do it again. In the meantime, I'm proud to watch my girl rise up like a phoenix out of the ashes.

-B(Sting)

A Fitness Manifesto

Actually, this isn't a manifesto.  I don't even know what the hell a manifesto is or how to write one.  It's kind of a confession and a pledge and a renewal of vows.  This isn't a post about why you should KBfit. This is a post about why KBfit should KBfit. 

I'll start at the beginning...

Once upon a time there were 2 girls, Kay and Beth. They taught fitness classes at LA Fitness and the local college. 

Kay and I are those two girls. I can't keep writing in the 3rd person. 

We decided we wanted to go out on our own and teach our own way - with passion, compassion, experience, and music that contained swear words. Frankly, that was the big selling point for me. I didn't want to (keep) getting in trouble for my language and my eclectic taste in workout music. 

We created KBfit. Get it?  Kay. Beth. KB... Anyhoo, we obtained insurance, certifications, permits, and licensing and created an outdoor fitness group in our fairly large neighborhood.  It was a slow pick-up, but eventually we really got momentum and our little baby started to grow!  We watched on like proud parents when KBabyFit moved from crawling to walking.  We took lots of pics and obnoxiously posted them all over FB, too.  

(This baby-metaphor crap will be key, in a moment) 

Unbeknownst to us, fitness was about to explode in our little town. CrossFit Boxes, boot camps with a brick & mortar presence, personal trainers a-plenty, and 24-hour gyms were all gearing up to spring up. 

We didn't have a lot of money (or... ANY money), a building with cool equipment, or even the permission to advertise to the greater public. But we had heart. Unfortunately, heart wasn't enough to compete with the big guns. Yet, foolishly, we thought we could (and even more foolishly - needed to) compete. 

Eventually, our corporate gym-type schedule of classes burned us out and we had to scale back. We started losing members to other places that offered the schedule, workout type, and co-workout population that suited their interests and needs best... All legitimate reasons for moving on or bypassing us completely.

But remember how I referred to KBfit as our baby?  As first-time parents to a small business, we may have become a little nut-rolly about protecting our baby. Why would people want to go play with someone else's kid?  We lost our minds and, admittedly, common sense. We were trying to raise our baby to become a lawyer or doctor and eventually support us (I'm back to being metaphorical.  Stay with me). But good parents don't do that, do they. 

Whoopsie!

This weekend, we had to have a little "come to Jesus" with each other. Maybe we needed to fold our cards and leave the game to the high rollers. We aren't even in the same league. What on Earth made us think we could hold our own at this table?  Did we need to just go out of business and concede to the bigger guys?

After much soul searching, whining, and running new ideas up the flag pole; we decided it wasn't too late to be good parents to our little baby. We didn't need to compete in any game or with any player.

Alright. Enough with the parent/child and poker similes. You see the point I'm trying to make. 

We don't need to be everything to everybody. We don't need to go nutty when folks have needs that we can't meet. We do, however, need to focus on the needs that we CAN meet.

So... Here we are, back at the beginning (of this story as well as our original  intention of nearly 2 years ago).  Why are we KBfit?  Because we know the struggle.  We've been defeated then strong, then guilty and then re-empowered.  Because we also live in the cycle of fitness - that maddening drive that ebbs and flows in spite of a physical need that remains consistent.  Because as long as somebody needs us to be KBfit, we will be. 

-B(Sting)

Top 10.5 Things to List

While scrolling through Facebook, just now, I was presented with at least 10 links to blogs and articles of lists. Top 10 movies... 12 Things to never eat... Top 8 reasons your butt is big...

I like the listed type of article because it's nicely summarized, gets right to the point, and is manageable/actionable information. 

So here is my own list of listed articles I'd like to eventually create lists for:

1. How To Fold Thong Underwear in 5 Easy Steps

2. 4 Things You Do That Really Piss Me Off

3. 7 Reasons Now Is Not The Time To Put Away The Laundry

4. Top 3 Places To Nap

5. My 6 Favorite Ways To Use The Word "Bitch"

6. 3 Reasons Why We Overeat and 4 Ways to Shut That Shit Down In 2 Easy Steps, Bitch!

7. Top 37 Vodka Drinks

8. 101 Dalmation Names

9. The Number One Thing To Write That Will Keep People Reading

10. 50 Shades of Grey

11. The 5 Most Impactful Lists of 2013

-B(Sting)

Balance

In 2014, KBfit commits to:

·         End food-shaming

o   Carbohydrates are not the devil.  They give us energy, feed our brains, fuel our workouts, build muscle

o   Fruit does not make us fat.  Sitting on our asses, eating until we have to roll our pants down or over the gut makes us fat

o   Grains and dairy are bad for some people and not for others

o   Dietary fat does not lead to ass fat

o   Sugar is not equivalent to crack

o   Just eat the food, for chrissakes.  Elimination eventually leads to bingeing.  Let us know how that works out for you.

o   The key to a healthy body composition is a healthy balance.  We will support and assist that.  We will not help you starve yourself or deprive yourself.

·         End fat-shaming

o   Trying to lose a certain number of pounds within a certain time frame promotes putting off happiness.  Do NOT suspend happiness till you get “there” – because, sometimes, “there” is a moving target and happiness can’t wait.

o   Taunting you with the ‘threat’ of bikinis does not promote ‘willpower’.  It promotes anxiety, stress, and spikes in hormone levels that actually cause weight gain or inhibit fat loss. 

o   Clothes fitting tight?  So what.  Make a few healthy changes and move on.  Dwelling doesn’t burn fat.

o   KBfit offers bootcamps and guidance because it’s easier and more fun to adopt healthy habits in a group of fun(ny) people.  We are not focused on fat.  We are focused on health. 

·         End Internal Smack-Talk

o   Do you tell yourself you have no willpower?  Willpower is bullshit.  The power is not in the will.  The power is in the balance. 

o   Are you not doing things right now that will make you healthy and happy because you’re afraid you’re too fat?  Too slow?  Too weak?  You could get hit by a bus tonite.  Tomorrow is not a guarantee.  We live in the now.  Stop waiting to live!

o   Stop talking bad about your thighs.  You’re hurting their feelings.  They carry you around all day, every day and they don’t smack-talk you. 

o   Your belly keeps your guts from slopping onto the ground.  Why you gotta talk bad about it like it’s not even in the room?

Today is a new day.  What are you going to do with it?

Good Enough

Tonight, I had to channel my inner child psychologist for my beautiful 9-year old daughter, HRH.  She used to be the happiest little girl on the planet.  But lately, growing up is catching up. 

When she was younger, I could see the “I’m not good at anything” mentality was going to rear its ugly head.  My sweet, smiley Cheeks n’ Buns (a nickname assigned by El Jefe on her day of birth) was slow to walk, talk, read… and everything else.  In dance classes, she’s never really been on the beat.  She has to work hard to earn good grades in school.  She never learns anything instantly.  Things never just come to her or click.  She’s not developmentally delayed or in need of special assistance – she’s just not a “quick study”. 

In the beginning, she was never affected by her last-in-line status.  She didn't care... or even notice.  But now, as she gets older, she’s starting to recognize the self-imposed ranking system; and her reaction to it is spinning me back to my own youth – and adulthood. 

I recall standing in the kitchen as a young girl with my own mother; sobbing in her arms, crying about feeling left out, being left behind, and not being good enough.  Mom was my rock and she built me up.  Dad showed me how to be a leader and not take shit from anybody.  But, sometimes, outside forces can be stronger and can silence what our parents and mentors teach us. 

Unfortunately, as I got older I lost sight of what Mom and Dad tried to teach me and I practically sold my soul for acceptance. 

I am scared to death that will happen to HRH. 

Tonight, I sat on the bed for an hour and cradled her emotionally broken frame in my arms as her soul and sense of self poured onto my shoulders in the form of tears (and snot).  “Mom, I tried out for the play, today, and I’m pretty sure [my best friend] got the part.  She’s always better than me at everything.  She even always wins at Rock-Paper-Scissors!  How is that even possible?!  It’s a game of chance!!!!”

The audition confession was the cork that opened the flood gates.

“I’m not good at anything I do!  [Another friend] is a better dancer than me.  And I REALLY LOVE dance!  I love art but I’m not very good at it.  My best friend even corrects my art work.  It’s MY art work!  How can it be wrong??  I got 3^rd place in the spelling bee, today.  Third place didn't even get an honorable mention!  I always get picked last to be on teams – and sometimes, I don’t even get picked, at all!  Why am I here?  Why aren't I good enough?  Why can’t I do anything really good?”

“I think you mean ‘…really WELL’.  As in … Why can’t you do anything really well.”

(Nooooo… I didn’t really SAY that!  Even I’M not that douchebaggy)

It’s so painful to watch those steady streams of low self esteem streak down my child’s face.  Her voice catching in her throat… I wanted to cry with her. 

We commiserated; I told her she’s not alone.  I, too, feel the same way.  There’s better bloggers than me.  There are fitness instructors better than me.  There are women more beautiful than me.  There are better mothers than me.  There are better bodies than mine.  Better… better… better!!!! 

But why do we care?  Why do we compare ourselves to others?  WHY do we define ourselves by how we stack up against our peers? 

I don’t have the answer to that.  But I think the solution is to look inside rather than outside.

“Baby, who are you?  What do you think makes you important to your friends and family?”

“I have nice hair, Mama.”

“Yes.  Your hair is exquisite, indeed.  But there’s more.  You’re a good friend.  You’re giving.  You truly care about other people’s feelings.  You pride yourself on being a good girl.  You want people to be happy.  Do you ever recognize those things in yourself?”

“No.  That’s just who I am. Why would I spend time thinking about that?”

“Exactly.  It comes naturally to you – without even thinking about it.  And those are the very things that DO make you good enough.”

Eventually, the tears dried up and I think I convinced her that she IS good enough.  She – we – are not the sum of our abilities to one-up our peers.  Instead, we are the ability to hold up our peers. 

But I worry that our pep-talk won’t hold.  I know that our collective insanity raises the zombie self-doubts that we try to bury.  They rise up and feast on our brains until we’re empty shells, again.  

How do I teach her to stop comparing herself to others when I can’t even practice what I preach? Who am I trying to be?

I want to be the strong shoulder people can lean on and the person people can turn to when they need help pushing down the self-doubts.  I want to make people laugh – in ANY situation.  I want to BE solace. 

When I remind myself of those things - the perfect body; parental crafting skillz; and badass dance moves no longer matter (but I'm pretty sure I do, in fact, possess badass, Solid Gold dance moves).

Hopefully, I will keep reminding myself… and being… who I want to be; consequently, I can help her love who she is meant to be - without the need to sell her soul. 

-B (Sting)

Thankful

At the election party, the restaurant manager approached, “Matt is in the office.  He would like you and your daughter to go to him.”

I knew it was bad news.  I collected our 9 year old daughter and warned her that this was it.  This was the end.  She didn’t believe me, “Why?  Who wouldn’t like Daddy?”

We were lead through the hot kitchen into the back office.  There was Jefe, eyes red and glassy, “It’s done.  We’ve lost.”  And then he cried.  Our daughter cried.  She cried the hardest.  To her, it was personal. 

Matt had lost 60% to 40%.  The witch hunt was over.  The mayoral take-down had just begun.  All of the incumbents lost. 

Out of all the campaigning, all the mud-slinging, all the public shaming; I was proud of him.  Do you know what he did first in that hot, steamy back-office?  He called his opponent.  It went to her voice mail, but he left a message, anyways.  “Hi, Debra.  This is Matt Riedemann.” (as if she didn’t know who he was)  “I just want to congratulate you.  I know you will do a great job.  If you ever have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

Or something like that.

We had to tell the 50+ who had gathered to cheer us on.  Our little girl was a mess with her bloodied and battered heart splayed on her sleeve.  Matt barely kept it together as he delivered the news.  Every single person hugged us and congratulated him for being a good man and for taking the high road. 

He did take the high road.  He was given many pieces of information that could easily “take down” the other side, but he chose not to expose them.  Why?  Because two wrongs don’t make a right.  Ever.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Matt eventually took our girl out for a wound-healing ice cream while I stayed behind and said my final thank-yous. 

On my way home, I stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes.  That’s right.  F-U, proposed city-wide smoking ban.  I’m lighting up!  BAM!  In your face, suckers!

Pulling into our neighborhood, I decided to go past my house and drive around.  It was comforting to see all of his signs in all the yards.  I was told this was the biggest voter turn-out in our neighborhood ever.  I love that. 

It will be nice to have him back.  We’ve missed him at countless dinners.  For those who still believe a city council position is a part-time job, I assure you – it is not.  During his short term as councilman, Matt attended every ribbon-cutting and city event he could.  He loves this city and wanted to be there for her – in every way.  Selfishly, I am not THAT sad that we get him back.  But I am sad that he has been made the sacrificial lamb.  Our financial history is mottled – and, frankly, we’re not out of the woods, yet.  But his integrity is intact.  He… WE… would do it all, again.  Because that is who we are.  We are not perfect, but our love for you is. 

November 5, 2013:  I am thankful for Matt Riedemann.  I am thankful for friends and family who will rally to ensure we don’t slip into a dark depressing place of regret.  I am thankful our shit is all laid out and we no longer have to worry “who will find out that the crumbling economy got us, too”.  I am thankful the public lashings, stone-casting, and beatings are over. 

Xoxo

-B(Sting)

Why Lou Rawls and I Hate CrossFit

Recently, I read and shared on Facebook an article warning about the dangers of CrossFit… something about being attacked by bloody clowns, or something?  I don’t know.  I didn't read it very closely cuz I really just liked the fact that it appeared to be anti-CrossFit, so I hopped on the bandwagon.  In fact, I hopped on that bandwagon like an f-ing pie-in-the-sky box jump, bitches! 

I bet you’re wondering why I dislike CrossFit, so much?

The reality is my hatred for the hottest craze to buck the fitness industry is purely emotional and backed by completely unscientific and mostly-made-up research.

 

Lou Rawls’ song is looping in my brain as I write this.  I virtually cradle the chrome microphone between my cupped hands and remorsefully sing to you…

“You'll never find, as long as you live

Someone who loves you tender like I do.

You'll never find, no matter where you search

Someone who cares about you the way I do…”

I joined the fitness industry more than 7 years ago, after about a decade of being an unhealthy, lazy fat-ass.  I was never athletic.  Shit!  I’m still not “athletic”.  I wanted to be able to scale rock walls, jump high, flip my body like I had springs for feet, and run faster than the wind.  But my body mechanics – and sad, sad lack of coordination – would not allow it.  Instead, I dug deep and learned to work with what I CAN do… and then master the shit out of it! 

I became certified to teach every possible fitness discipline I could handle.  Eventually, one of my besties, Kay, and I created a fitness business and named our new baby KBfit.  We dug deep into our souls, hearts, and finances to help everybody we could touch through the power of physical fitness.  It had changed our lives and we had a vision to change their lives.  We wanted to show people how to be their best in spite of injuries, age, and… fear.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a new fitness phenomenon was rising up.  Friends were joining CrossFit boxes and telling me all about their cool workouts.  I really wanted to try it.  But then I saw how much it cost.  That was a deal-breaker for me.  That and my own previous injuries including but not limited to a 2-level spinal fusion.  *Le Sigh* 

Kay and I bought equipment, attended conferences, and obtained certifications and licensing.  We designed workouts that could challenge people at every fitness level.  More than a year and a half later, KBfit is still kicking.  We research and scheme to keep workouts fresh.  We strive to add a personal touch and really get to know every single one of our members.  We make ourselves available all day – every day .  We try to accommodate as many needs as we can. We truly love our business and – even more – we truly love our members.  That’s all we want to do.  Love our members and deliver something that is neither cost-prohibitive nor injury-inducing.  We just want to exist and do our thing  - changing lives and promoting wellness. 

Here’s the thing:  We love our members and our business so much that we are like jealous lovers. 

And there it is, readers.  THAT is why I hate CrossFit!  CrossFit (CF) threatens the sanctity of our love. 

I hate competing with an entity that threatens to steal my people… my loves.  I hate competing for you.  I just want to love you.  Just relax and let me love you, baby. 

 “… Whoa, I'm not braggin' on myself, baby

But I'm the one who loves you

And there's no one else, no-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh one else…”

Let me repeat that.  No… One… else!!!

Am I a CF-hater because I “can’t hang”?  Yeah.  I guess so.  I have titanium rods in my back and now half my plantar’s fascia has been severed. You’re damn right I can’t jump up and down off a box that’s 2-4 feet high!  And I shouldn't have to, either!  Why you gotta make me and my people feel bad for not wanting to jump around like a damned fart in a bottle, risking a torn Achilles’ tendon or ACL?

Am I jealous?  How ‘bout yes!  I’d love to be able to do a zillion un-assisted pull-ups.  But I can’t.  Maybe I’m too tall.  Maybe I’m too weak.  Maybe I’m too fat.  But why you gotta make me cry and hate myself for it?  Why can’t you just hug me and help me find a workaround so I can feel GOOD about myself?

I believe fitness should make us feel good.  Not make us compete with our own peers so hard out of our realm of safety that we barf or get hurt… or piss ourselves… really, CrossFit?  REALLY?!  That’s not even sanitary!

“You'll never find, it'll take the end of all time

Someone to understand you like I do

You'll never find the rhythm, the rhyme

All the magic we shared, just us…”

I understand you, baby.  I know your trials and tribulations.  I know when you want to quit and when you need to quit.  That CrossFit coach SAYS he loves you, but does he give you his cell number and tell you to text him anytime you need someone to talk you down from the ledge?  Does he let you bring your kids to class cuz you’re strapped for a sitter?  Does he give you a price break cuz you’re strapped for cash?  Does he give you a hug cuz you’re strapped for answers why you’re not losing weight? 

Now, I have lots of friends who do CF and they are good people.  They don’t make me cry or taunt me when I walk by and call me names like, “Sissy bootcamper” or anything like that.  I know, I know… I know my hatred is not rational or even scientifically founded.  I know not all CF boxes and CF people are evil.    But I still feel the divide.  I still pick up the condescension.    

“Whoa, I'm not tryin' to make you stay, baby

But I know some how, some day, some way

You are (you're gonna miss my lovin')…”

You will, you know.  Some day… you will miss my lovin’.  You’ll miss the good times we had.  You’ll miss how much I cared for you.  You’ll miss how hard I worked to make you smile. 

So, that’s it.  That’s why I hate CrossFit.  I hate all the rhetoric about how it’s tougher than errthing else.  You know what?  It’s NOT better than all the other fitness entities.  It’s just different.  So stop bragging like it’s better than us, stronger than us, and sexier than us.  Just like all the other crazes, it WILL eventually be replaced by a newer take on the same damn thing.  And I’ll still be here… doing MY thing…. Loving you.

Disclaimer:  Lou Rawls doesn't really hate CrossFit.  I totally made that up.  

Runner’s High OR Runners Are High

Previously Posted on November 17, 2011

3

Without doing the actual math, I would venture to guess that 80% or more of my friends are runners – albeit, various stages of runnership. ‘G’ is a badass marathoner. Her SUVcould be completely covered in those 26.2 decals like some sort of bizarre math autowrap. Meanwhile, ‘S’ just completed the Couch to 5K program, ending in a neck-jarring 5K. Seriously. She injured her neck. She doesn’t even know how she managed to pull that feat off, either. But most importantly, she trained daily and completed her first 5k!

Sidebar: why are races labeled in kilometers until they reach marathon status? 5K, 10K, 13.1 miles, 26.2 miles. Is it because 3.1 miles doesn’t sound nearly as kickass as 5k? Or maybe it’s because 42.195k sounds ridiculous compared to 26.2 miles.

I’m kind of jealous. I would love to be able to run (without pain). Don’t waste your typing skillz on explaining to me exactly how I, too, can do it. I’ve tried. And I now have titanium trophies implanted in my back. Let me back up and regroup (like our kids’ obnoxious “new” math)…

Rewind to October, 2003. I am working out with my trainer and we’re discussing her training me for an amateur figure contest. She thinks I can do it. I think I can do it. Let’s do it! But first let’s do some dead lifts! And then *POP*… poor form, shoulders rounded, lumbar disc is blown from my spine to the opposite wall. November, 2003: Laminectomy and partial discectomy (which is surgical speak for snapping off a piece of the vertebrae and plucking the bulging disc from the spinal column).

Full recovery! Hurray! Then I got knocked up, had a baby, and got fluffy(er). What gets rid of excess fat faster than anything? Say it with me… RUNNING!!! So I tried it: Walk for an hour, jog for 1 second. Walk for 30 minutes, jog for 2 seconds. I hated running. It hurt me from head to toe. My lungs burned with the intensity of a thousand forest fires. I had to keep stopping to re-light my cigarette. My toe nails hurt from being repeatedly slammed into the toebox of my shoes. My knee caps filled with water and felt like they were sliding right down my legs. I swear my shins cracked like aged tree bark. But I kept at it cuz I just needed to “work through it”, right?

It took me a while at this pace, but eventually I was jogging upwards of 3 CONSECUTIVE miles! AY DIOS MIO!! I was a RUNNER!!! At 6 feet tall, you’d think I’d look like a blonde gazelle bounding across the concrete Serengeti wearing cool running pants and slick running shoes. Smooth, fast, graceful!

No.

At 6 feet tall, painfully uncoordinated, and comically awkward; I more resembled an ostrich with a broken leg, flightless wings outstretched to help maintain balance – limp/running to safety.

Sadly, I would never pass the 3-mile marker. One day, while shaving my legs, I noticed I couldn’t feel the razor glide up my shin or the ledge supporting my foot. “Weird,” I thought. “Should I be able to feel that?” So I tested it on the other leg. Yep. I should be able to feel that.

August, 2007. 2-level Anterior Lumbar Interbody Fusion (ALIF). Apparently, the impact of my ‘long-distance’ running had caused a domino effect of crushed discs up my already-compromised spine. No more running for me. Ever. Again.

I felt like the poor, dorky kid in gym class (who was always picked last for EVERYTHING) was just handed a permanent “Excused From Gym Class” note. It was awesome! I was told to never run again! I didn’t have to try, anymore. I didn’t have to beat myself up because everyone else was doing it. I had a legitimate excuse!

Oh, man! That was liberating. I discovered less painful forms of exercise and even became a fitness instructor (I know. I still can’t believe it, either). But somehow, over the years, I managed to surround myself with a passel of runners. The gnawing feeling that I should be running with my crazyass friends has plagued me for years. Ohhhh… I don’t evny them! Ohhhh I DO envy them!

I like to get into their heads and learn all about the process of the long distance runs. What is training like? What happens to your body during the process? Do you get bored after THE FIRST TWO HOURS? What kind of illegal drugs would I have to administer to motivate myself to run for fucking 2+ hours?

Here’s what I’ve learned – beyond the obvious knee, ankle, foot ailments:

• Toes get banged around in running shoes, a lot, resulting in bruised nails that turn black and fall off. Awesome! Are pedicures discounted if you don’t have all 10 toenails??
• While running long distances, the friction of clothing (and even rubbing skin) can and will cause chapping and rashes. Brings a whole new meaning to the “That really chaps my ass” saying, doesn’t it? Locations that make me cringe the most: nipples (from prolonged rubbing of shirts/sports bras), armpits, inner thighs.
• Research has documented links between marathons and increase of cardiac events immediately following and for up to 24 hours after a marathon.

(http://www.active.com/running/Articles/New_study_cites_link_between_marathon_running_and_some_heart-attack_factors.htm)

Bonus! Why wouldn’t I run a marathon?!

Interestingly, the marathon finds its origins in the legend of Pheidippides – a Greek messenger, who ran the entire distance from Marathon to Athens to watch a Georgia Bulldogs game, got drunk, collapsed, and died. Or something like that.

So, it appears running isn’t all cupcakes and candy canes. It’s grueling, painful, and – in rare instances – fatal. So why the hell do so many people ‘just do it’? Repeatedly?

Accomplishment. I get it. I mean, I’ll never “get” it… but I get it.

I’ve heard of the runner’s high. I kept waiting for the runner’s high. I never achieved it, but surely everyone else does or they wouldn’t keep at it. Maybe I have some sort of odd immunity to the runner’s high. What does it feel like? Does it occur before or after you throw up?

I have a friend who was recently talked into training for a half-marathon. While I outwardly called her a sucker; inwardly, I am in awe and fairly jealous. Nevertheless, I haven’t loosened my death grip on my permanent doctor’s note.

-B(Sting)

An Open Letter to Mike Linch

An Open Letter to Mike Linch – Sr. Pastor at NorthStar Church

Previously Posted on February 23, 2012

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Rumor has it that my great grandmother renounced Judaism out of fear.  She became Lutheran, apparently.  Quite a jump, right?  As a result, my mother was raised in the Lutheran church, but in the ELC (Evangelical Lutheran Church) synod.  As children, she and her brother were told by a Lutheran priest of the WELS (Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran) Synod that they were going to Hell because – while they were Lutheran – they belonged to the wrong (lesser quality?) synod.

Wait.  What?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my father was being raised Catholic.  While at Catholic schools, he was periodically punished (with a wooden ruler) for 1) being left-handed – which was considered ‘The Hand of  The Devil’ in those days;  2) outwardly questioning the concept of indulgences (because why wouldn’t we all be able to just buy our way into Heaven?  Sweet!); and 3) frequently pointing out – during class time – the corruption of The Papacy (Pope… politician… whatever).

If you ever met Dad, you would quickly ascertain he was punished A LOT (he’s an ordained button-pusher).

Dad was quick to leave the Catholic Church to marry Mom and they lived happily ever after in the Lutheran Church (but, of course, among the Hell-bound ELC synod folks).

Fast forward to the birth of my brother and me.  While we were both baptized into the Lutheran Church, we never actually attended church.  Mom and Dad had enough of church ‘values’ (aka hypocrisy) crammed down their throats, so they mutually decided not to cram it down our throats.

Growing up, I always wanted to attend church on a regular basis.  It seemed so beautiful and structured. To me, structure equaled love.  Not that I’m Type A, or anything (yes I am).  I would go to church with my (Catholic) grandmother.  Man!  I loved the pomp and circumstance of those services.  Sure, I had no idea what the Priest was saying… but who did?  Just being there ROCKED!  And that incense?  I would inhale deeeeeeeply when they’d walk by, swinging that lantern-thing on the chain; smoke billowing from within.  I didn’t know what its significance was, but I told myself it was all part of The Salvation Experience.  Next-up:  Communion!  Bring it!  The Priest called us up, pew-by-pew, to receive the ‘piece of Christ’ (or was it supposed to be ‘Peace of Christ’?  Saaaay, was that intended to be a double entendre?  Those clever bastards!) and the ‘blood of Christ’.  But as I stepped out to get in line, Gram stopped me, “No, dear.  You cannot take Communion.  You’ll go to Hell because you’re not Catholic.”

Wait.  What?

I became very disenchanted with The Church and religion, as a whole (or should I say ‘hole’?), on that day.  Nobody could seem to get their story straight.  Mind you, I still believed in God.  But religion?  WhatEVER!

Fast forward to my adult years.  El Jefe and I are newly married and trying to have a baby.  Trying.  Trying.  Trying.  Each year, my faith in (even) God waned.  And then I had ectopic pregnancy #1 on my 30th birthday.  Ectopic pregnancy #2 occurred on Matt’s 31st birthday.  Was I being punished?  Is this because I never went to Church?  Is this because I wasn’t Catholic?  Maybe because I wasn’t WELS Lutheran or Jewish.  Is this because I lied, that one time, about having horses in my backyard (in inner city Milwaukee) when I was in kindergarten?  Yes,  I told lies in my past.  Other than that, I was a pretty good person, God!  What gives?!

Let me state for the record, 7 years of infertility is hard.  It’s hard on a soul, it’s hard on a marriage, it’s hard on one’s faith in God.

Eventually, I became bitter and dark.  I still believed in God… sort of… barely… but certainly not The Church… not any church.  El Jefe would try to get me to go to churches with him.  Reluctantly, sometimes I would; but I would hate every moment of it, scoffing at the sermon.  Yeah, yeah.  God loves me.  All I have to do is pray.  Blah, blah, blah.  I’ll put that on my to-do list. I would think to myself, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Priest!  I HAVE prayed!  I prayed HARD!  You think I didn’t pray for a baby??  And look where I am after all that praying.  No baby and I’m down one ovary.  Thanks.  Thanks for the advice, dumba….” (well, I’m sure you can guess how that rant ended).

My bitterness drove a wedge between El Jefe and me.  We nearly divorced because of the darkness in my heart and soul.  Somehow, we eventually yanked our heads out of our butts and got back on track.

And then… (wait for it)… we became pregnant with Her Royal Highness (HRH).  The conception was a bit miraculous, if I do say so, myself.  Without boring you with medical details, suffice it to say the chances of conception in my circumstance were very slim.  But here we are, today, with a 7-year old royal spitfire daughter!

While my distrust in God, religion, and The Church were eased over time; it was not resolved.

Then some friends (Dina and Neil) lured us to NorthStar under the guise of some sort of couples nite out event the church was hosting.  El Jefe was hooked.  We began attending services… occasionally.  I still dug in my heels on the mornings he’d announce we would be attending, “Am I gonna have to sing?  I’m not singing.  Rock band at church!  Seriously?!?” (Remember, what little church exposure I had was quite formal)

Here’s the thing:  I really liked the feel, the message, and that I knew a whole slew of people that already attended.  But most of all, I liked you, Mike.  You spoke to us like we WEREN’T on the fast-track to Hell AND you demystified passages in the Bible.

Wait.  What?!?

Sure, I still scoffed and questioned and thought, “yeah, but that doesn’t even make sense and is even contradictory” – and I certainly did NOT sing; but I was hooked on your talks.  That singing-to-a-rock-band-at-church-thing, though… No.  Just…. No.

Now we attend (almost) every Sunday, El Jefe is involved in church groups, and we are (for the first time ever) attending church events as a couple (the retreat AND a couples group).  What is happening to me?!

But wait!  There’s more!

Recently, we attended NorthStar’s 15th anniversary service.  As mandated, we brought HRH (Her Royal Highness).  As expected, she was bored out of her mind.  But when we stood up to sing, I looked down and SHE was singing along.  She was unabashedly, open-heartedly singing with (God help me) The Rock Band!  And do you know what happened next?

I.  Sang.

True Story.

-B(Sting)

PS

I’ve regressed, a little.  Singing along still doesn’t happen very much.  But I DO tap my toes.

Fifty Shades of Grey: Introduction

Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy Review Overview

Previously Posted on April 19, 2012

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The Fifty Shades trilogy by EL James (Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed) has been dubbed by the author’s fans as ‘Mommy Porn’.  Admittedly, I devoured all three books within 1 ½ weeks (would have been done sooner, but El Jefe and Her Royal Highness (HRH) needed dinner and shit).

Once done with the books, I found myself meandering around the house, feeling empty and lost.  I wondered if Anastasia and Christian even do stupid laundry. Or do they just roll around in it?

I'll break book 1 down into three easy posts, but first let's begin with a quick and dirty run-down of data...

Characters: 

• Christian Grey :  Mid-to-late 20s and self-made gazillionaire.  Devastatingly handsome.  Dark, luxurious hair that apparently requires a lot of ‘raking’.  As the 4-year old child of a crack whore, he was abused by mom's pimp and then left for days with her dead body.   Christian has some emotional baggage and a sexual dark side.
• Anastasia Steele (Ana):  Early 20s (21 or 22?), just graduating from college.  Bland, at first, but proves to be alluring.  Shy but sassy.  She blushes a lot.
• The Others:  Don't pretend you give a rat's ass about character development.   

Basic Story Line:

Essentially, these books are erotica with a more developed plot than your typical erotica genre.  Christian Grey is a control freak who knows what he wants and always gets it.  Ana is unassuming and quiet.  She's one of those quiet-types that blows people's minds when they drop the f-bomb.  Christian Grey can't figure out what it is about this plain-Jane that rocks his socks, but he suspects it has something to do with that hidden f-bomb.  In other news, Ana is a virgin and Christian is a sexy sexual deviant.  

Buckle up, bitches, cuz we’re goin’ in… and so is Christian. 

-B (Sting)