Oh (heavy thigh), Woe is Me?

No, I have not developed a blog-lisp.  This post is about the dreaded thigh and other closely connected parts about which women lament.

I was at the gym (shocker, I know) changing after a grueling great 2 1/2 hour workout.  Since I was in the women's locker room, there were other women changing at the same time.  One of which was standing practically in my face (way on the other side of the locker room), bent over, changing her pants and the like.  Of course, I looked.  Her ass was perfect.  It was smooth, round, muscled.  Dammit.  It just pissed me off and ruined my day. 

Don't judge.  And don't pretend you don't look or wouldn't look, too. It's like a knee-jerk reaction.  Something beautiful or ghastly is in your field of vision and you're going to look and assess (HA!  Get it?  ASSess?  Sorry.  Moving on...).  This knee-jerk reaction is why I don't like to change in the locker room.  The sneak-a-peak instinct cannot be denied.  And I know that someone will or has looked at me... but with a different reaction, "Oh dear GOD!  What the hell happened there???  Is that bubble wrap or is that her ass and thighs?"

Of course, it's really not that bad.  Bubble wrap?  No.  Is it?  No.  Don't tell me.

But women tend to think it really is that bad.  Even if they are the owner of the perfect butt that ruined my day, they think their condition is much worse than it really is. What I can't get my head around is why?  Why do we see ourselves in a circus mirror? 

I workout every day, sometimes 2-3 hours/day.  I coat my legs and cheeks in so much over-priced cellulite-reducing cream, it's a wonder I don't slide right off my chair when I sit down.  I'm not too proud to buy those goofy leg-shaping tennis shoes or the uber-tight "massaging" leggings that claim to squeeze the cellulite into submission.  Hell, if I could get the green-light on the expense, I'd go under for liposuction.  But apparently paying the mortgage and putting food on the table is, like, 'priority' or something lame like that (whatEVER).

So I walk around, with my eyes averted just a little bit, sighing, "Woe is me.  Why can't I win this battle?"

But the answer is surprisingly in our faces, isn't it?  We have won the battle.  We're alive and we're loved.  Bubble wrap butt and all.  Loved and alive. 

So no more 'heavy thighing'.  Gimme the smack-down if you hear (or read) me pissing and moaning about my shape.  And I will do the same for you.  Change what you can and just embrace the rest.  Besides, bubble wrap is protective.  Right?


-B (Sting)

Iron Fist

What was your New Year's resolution?  What are you giving up for Lent?  Do you find that these two endeavors tend to support each other?  Lose weight - give up candy/chocoloate/wine; Be a better person - no yelling at the strangers who cut me off in traffic (in front of my kids).  The list(s) go on. 

My NY resolution and Lent sacrifice are also symbiotic.

Blogger's Note:  I'm not Catholic, but my father was Catholic (before he converted to Lutheranism to marry my mom... who will forever be considered "that lascivious Lutheran whore" by his (devoutly Catholic) mom).  So, genetically I'm Catholic, right?  I have Catholic heritage?  Catholic roots?  What do you mean, Catholicism is not a nationality or a race????  I'm claiming this one, so lemme be!

My NY resolution was to stop wasting time on things that aren't important (like shaving my legs in the winter... Matt loves this one; wearing makeup just to sit - alone - at my computer at home; making dinner for my family, etc).  My Lent sacrifice fully supports my NY resolution:  no ironing of the sheets!

Now don't start jumping to conclusions and assuming that this is no sacrifice, at all.  I assure you, it is a giant sacrifice for me.  Several years ago, a pair of sheets emerged from the dryer in a horrible state of wrinkliness, so I ironed the pillow case hems.  But once I saw how lovely that pressed hem looked, I ironed the whole pillowcase.  But I couldn't have neatly pressed pillowcases and a shabby, wrinkled top sheet!  So I ironed just the edges of the top sheet.  Do you see where this eventually went?  Before I knew it, the entire set was pressed with beautiful crease marks at the folds.  And what do you think happened on 'clean sheet nite'?  The angels sang when we pulled back the comforter to reveal crisp, perfectly pressed linens!  Oh dear God, it was heaven in the form of 1000 thread count...

... and I was hooked.

Eventually, I ruled the whole house with an iron fist... literally... a gnarled, arthritic fist clutching a heavy, hot iron. 

Soon, it became an obsession and a burden.  I couldn't keep up!  I was staying up till 2 or 3am to get the sheets ironed before the cleaning lady would come at 8am and change the beds.  And let me just tell you, Hell hath no fury like a woman whose cleaning lady pulled WRINKLED sheets from the dryer and put those on the bed instead of the NEATLY PRESSED linens from the linen closet!!!!  WHO THE HELL DOES THAT???  WHO???  WHO???  TELL ME!!!!

It was recommended to me (by everyone with an ounce of sanity) that perhaps this was not the best use of my time.  So here I am, overcoming my ironing addiction for Lent. 

I just pulled 2 sets from the dryer.  I was shaking in a cold sweat as I folded them.  I snapped those bastards as hard as I could to try to release the wrinkles into submission.  I smoothed my hand across the seams so swiftly, I think I have sheet burns on my palms.  And do you know that I actually considered plugging in the iron and "just swiping it across the hems of the pillowcases"???  "Just the hems", I muttered to myself, swaying back and forth slightly while clutching the pillowcase in my sweaty, burned hands.  "Just the hems.  Just the hems.  Justthehemsjustthejustthejustthe...".

I didn't do it.  I crammed them into the linen closet and came right here, to you, for support.  To confess my near-sins and purge my soul.  My Lenten sacrifice has been laid out on the table for you to hold me accountable. 

Now, if you will excuse me while I say the rosary and hover over the bed.... sheets...

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...

-B

Stomach Blog

You read that right.  Stomach BLOG... but it is about stomach bugs.  I just couldn't think of a catchier title  so I rolled with it.  In keeping with the theme, this blog will roll like a bug.  Once it starts, you can't stop it and there's no relief except to get to the other end...

Dot (which, henceforth, is how I shall refer to The Daughter) is in elementary school.  The elementary school is an incubator - Bioterror Central.  One kid is released into gen-pop with some sort of ailment and within minutes, the tri-county area is dropping like dead, putrid flies. 

This is the case, most recently, in our area.  Some sort of wicked stomach bug has been making the rounds.  This thing is Satan-spawn, turning our loved ones into Reagan from the Exorcist - hurling gallons of frothy puke from gray, crusty faces.   Nothing scares me more than a stomach bug.  Bring on the H1N1.  I laugh at Strep.  Screw you, ear infections!!  You can take a pill or an elixir to ease the symptoms of nearly any other school-borne illness.  But you're shit outta luck if you contract a lower GI "thing" (pun fully intended).  If I just READ about the stomach bug, I swear I start to feel the symptoms immediately.  It's like a self-fulfilling prophecy.  And then the barrage of Facebook updates begin:  Vomit on the bus, vomit while disembarking the bus, vomit in the lunchroom, nurse's office flooded with vomit, vomit in the hallways.  It reads like a terrifying headline, "Hartsfield Jackson International Airport Shuts Down as Train Fills With Vomit, Trapping Passengers".

I can't get away from it!  Then... it's IN MY HOUSE!!!!  The husband has it and is expelling it, repeatedly, from every possible escape route.  I break out into a cold sweat.  "Oh God!  It's here.  Did I drink from his cup?  When did I kiss him last?  Has he shared food with Dot???"  I alert the appropriate authorities (Facebook, Twitter, my parents, his personal trainer) and then go about the business of retracing his steps throughout the house while spraying every possible surface with Lysol, rubbing alcohol, and Clorox.  I briefly consider setting the bed on fire, but he's still in it... and it's a descent bed (a Sleep Number).  I settle on bleaching the sheets, instead.  Then I watch Dot like a hawk and pray.  A LOT. 

Every time Dot goes to the bathroom, I appear from around the corner, "Do you have diarrhea?  ANSWER ME!  DO YOU????" 

When she's done eating, "WHY?  How's your belly?  Do you feel like you're going to throw up???" 

If my own belly stirs ever so slightly, I think, "Game on."

I (sort of) recognize my neurosis, but I can't explain why it sends me running for a sealed room at the CDC.  Am I the only one like this?  Do you just ignore the reports and then weather the storm?  Or will I have to trip you to get to the sealed room before you?


I would like to take this opportunity to make a Public Service Announcement:  If your child has a fever (even if only low-grade), yakked, or spewed liquid from their butt with the last 24 hours; it is NOT acceptable to cram an ibuprofen chewable down their gullet, tape the orifices closed, and send them trotting into school!  If I ever learn that you did that; I will knock on your front door, vomit into your foyer, and walk away.  You have been forewarned.