Seven years ago, my husband and I moved from the urban home in Denver that we adored to a bigger home in suburbia. We had an 18 month old son and a child-to-be-named-later on the way and we knew that we would not want our kids riding their bikes on the busy city streets around our home. We wholeheartedly believed that a move to the suburbs (a move we would have eschewed just a couple years earlier) would be the best way to give our children the fun, peaceful childhood we’d each had.
What we didn’t realize at the time was that moving would present even greater, hidden danger. It was in our idyllic neighborhood that I first fell victim to a frightening disease, the affliction of overparenting. Up until that point in my parental career, I was admittedly rather haphazard. I bumbled along trying to figure out who my children were, where they fit into our lives, and how we functioned as a family. I left my son in the playpen while I cleaned. When he wouldn’t nap, I just gave up and let him stay awake. I owned just one book on parenting and its main function was to collect dust. All that was about to change.
Shortly after joining the play group in our new neighborhood, another mom asked where I intended to enroll my son for preschool. The look on my face must have been pure deer-in-headlights naivete.
“Preschool? He’s just two.” I gasped.
Surely I didn’t need to be worrying about that yet, did I? After all, I had no formal schooling until I got on the bus on my first day of kindergarten. (Yes. On the school bus. At age 5. Alone. No mommy to accompany me. Shocking, I know. My heartless mother let me get on the bus while she stood on the curb and waved goodbye before heading home to a cup of coffee and Days of our Lives.) Much to my dismay, all the other mothers in the play group started discussing how vital it was to get your small children, especially if they were boys, into a good preschool. It was September. Registration began in January. I had four months to research, visit, interview, and determine the best school for my son. My rapid descent into parental onset insanity began.
While the play group was a good setting in which to make new friends, a place where I could commiserate about exhaustion and the lack of nearby drive-thru Starbucks stores to remedy that exhaustion, it was also the school where I began my formal education in modern-day overparenting. Nearly immediately, I ingested the “good mom” Kool-Aid provided and started pulling out the Baby Einstein tapes and buying organic baby food. I devised appropriate responses to head off criticisms regarding why I bottle fed my infant son...although I wasn’t quite sure when bottle feeding my children became a public concern. I began taking my young boys to story time (which they wouldn’t sit still for), to the Museum of Nature and Science (where I once lost my youngest son for 3 minutes of utter terror), and to weekly play group where they would hopefully learn to play nicely with others. It was all part of my new role as stay-at-home mom. After all, parenting was now my only job, so my Type A personality applied the same diligence that I had applied to college and my career. My children were my new career, and parenting them to the hilt became my chief job description.
I made sure they were in infant swim class. I childproofed the entire house with baby gates, outlet plugs, cabinet locks, and doorknobs that even adults struggled with on occasion. I read to them daily. I counted to ten with them in four languages. We limited television and made sure that they only watched “educational programming.” And, yes, both boys began preschool at age 3 so they could sing songs, learn to sit on a line, follow instructions, cut with safety scissors, and begin their formal education with an education in how to be educated.
As I trudged along, however, something did not feel right. My body had clearly been hijacked by an alien being. I was on autopilot. I felt nothing but inadequate as my boys failed to meet crucial milestones in the baby book in a timely fashion. Our house was filled with workbooks, games, crafts, art supplies, and educational tools, all representing my boys’ hidden potential. Yet, I never took the time to ponder how I became the self-sufficient, independent, capable person that I am without all the advantages of art classes, weekly museum trips, play groups, infant swim classes, a preschool education, child safety seats, or even seat belts. Even more rarely did I take the time to sit and enjoy my children for who they were because I was too busy comparing them to other children and wondering why they were different. As a parent, I was perpetually stressed out and wholly consumed with offering my kids everything that society was telling me they needed.
Something had to give. Recently, hubby and I decided to move consciously away from helicopter parenting and to stop hovering perpetually over our children. We’re choosing to give them more space, space in which they will perhaps struggle occasionally but will eventually grow into independent, autonomous, creative thinkers. It’s been difficult to let go, but what has surprisingly been more troubling is that we find ourselves worrying about what our peers will say. Last week we walked with the boys to the park; once there, we left them on the playground to walk around the lake trail there. As we left, a couple other parents made a mental note of our departure. Our boys are 6 and 8, plenty old enough to play for 10 minutes without constant parental supervision, especially when they can see us and know where we are. Still, we felt self-conscious about our decision, despite the fact that by the time we were 8 years old both hubby and I had been left to ride our bikes off alone to our friends’ homes, to school, and even to the store to buy a few things. The watching eyes of judging and all-knowing Big Brother follow us mightily in suburbia.
My parents may have been the King and Queen of Tough Love, but they did me a favor in requiring from me a measure of sacrifice, hard work, struggle, and failure during my first 18 years. When I would miss a 4.0 grade point by garnering a B-grade in a course, my mom’s standard response inevitably referred to where I had failed instead of where I had succeeded. I didn’t get paid for my good grades; I was merely expected to achieve them. My parents didn’t give me an allowance either. I was part of a family and as such I had responsibilities. When I felt uncomfortable about something, my mother forced me to face it; she never once called my teachers and asked them to give me a make-up test or yelled at my coaches when they only let me play right field in softball. If I forgot my coat, I was cold. Left my lunch on the counter? I had to sit hungry while other kids ate. When I didn’t get into my first-choice college right off the bat, my parents asked me to figure out what I could do to change that situation. They repeatedly requested that I rise to the challenges I encountered and they made sure I had the space to do it. And, guess what? Not only did I survive the things I feared most, but I gained self-confidence and self-esteem for enduring them. Funny how that works. Yes. They had to watch me struggle sometimes, and I understand now with my own children how that must have broken their hearts; but the payoff is that they have three intelligent, hard-working daughters who have all earned master’s degrees and aren’t living in their basement.
Parents today are far too fearful. We spend too much time worrying about what we can do to make the most of our young children’s early brain development. We start pondering what we can do to get them to college before we even get them potty trained. We’re getting it all wrong. Children only get one childhood, and we eviscerate it by bombarding them with non-stop activity and not allowing them to get bored and find their own amusement once in a while. We’re so busy planning for them that we don’t listen to them. And, we treat them as if we know their destinies instead of being silent enough to let them discover their own. Our kids will go as far as we allow them to go which, judging by many of the parents I know these days, may mean they never make it beyond the end of the driveway alone. Personally, I’m hoping mine get to the moon without me.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Modern Day Thanksgiving
Recently, a friend sent me a forwarded email that outlined for those individuals under the age of 30 how lucky they are to have all the modern conveniences they take for granted. It was a sarcastic, flippant message, the kind I wish I had written myself. Even though my kids are a bit young for it, I read it aloud to them (omitting the choice language I’d rather not hear repeated). The responses from my oldest son were both incredulous and terrifying.
When told that when I was a child if I wanted an answer to a question I would have to go to the library, research the topic in the card catalog, and then go find the book and READ through it for the answer, he responded: “You didn’t have computers? Seriously?”
When told that we didn’t have handheld Nintendo DS video games with 3-D graphics, and that we had to play Atari where our “guy” was a little square and the screen stayed the same and there was no way to win so we just had to try to keep playing while the game got faster and faster, he gasped: “That sounds horrible.”
While his comments amused me somewhat, I found myself actually feeling a bit sad for him. Children born in the 21st century have to do so little for such an easy, quick payout. It got me to thinking about how grateful I am for the things I had to learn how to do while I was growing up. These are the things, I realize now, that make it possible for me to problem solve when the high tech solutions are not available. I was actually in an airport restaurant once when they were having a trouble with their ordering and payment software. We needed to catch a plane so we asked for our bill, only to be told that we’d have to wait because their system was down. We couldn’t believe that it never occurred to any of them to write out a bill, figure the total manually, and hand it to us so we could pay cash. Sometimes that thinking-out-of-the-box thing we learned growing up comes in handy. You know, the kind of thinking out of the box that you acquired when you didn’t have cartoons available 24/7, and you had to use your MacGyver brain to imagine that the braided oval rug in front of the kitchen sink was actually a ship sailing on an ocean of linoleum. After my son's comments, I couldn’t help but wonder if our children will ever be able to extrapolate solutions to the tough problems facing our planet when they are adults because so much has just been handed to them, and I kept feeling grateful for having been raised in the world I was raised in.
With Thanksgiving nearly here, I thought it would be timely to write a few quick notes of gratitude for things I feel incredibly fortunate to have in my life. However, instead of reaching deep into my heart and recounting the blessings that come to mind first (my loving and patient family, my incredible friends, my health, our warm and comfortable home), I thought I’d be a bit more shallow and give thanks for the things I could do without if I had to, but I’d really hate to have to do without. Might as well celebrate the conveniences that my children don’t realize are true conveniences.
First, I am grateful for my cordless telephone, the one that allows me to wander aimlessly around my house during a conversation without becoming entangled in a 100-foot cord that I then have to stand on a chair with receiver dangling to unwind again before the next call. I’m thankful that when I want to have a private conversation, I can actually disappear with that phone knowing that there is no cord by which someone could track me through the house and ultimately to the closed door behind which I am hiding.
I am uber-thankful for our DVR, which provides me the opportunity to pause television to shush my kids so I don’t miss one hilarious word Tina Fey is uttering on 30 Rock. That DVR is my lifeline during episodes of LOST; how invaluable it is to be able to rewind the show 5 minutes to point out to my less-detail-oriented husband how the numbers on the soccer players’ backs are, in fact, the LOST numbers of 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, ad 42. And, I’d be remiss if I failed to mention how our DVR assisted in potty training our children by making anytime during a show a good time to visit the bathroom.
I am thankful for my luxury SUV. I pay homage to its heated seats that warm my backside in the winter, its back-up camera that ensures I do not run over my boys’ bicycles while backing out of the driveway, and its computerized gauge that warns me that I will be walking with gas can in hand if I do not hit a service station in the next four miles. The remote-operated rear door that I can open as I am walking to the car with my groceries rocks. The automatic sunroof and the in-dash CD changer are also treasured, but what I love the most are the two easily accessible plug-ins for my technology so I can listen to and charge my iPod Nano while simultaneously using my GPS to direct me to the nearest Starbucks.
Speaking of, I need to give a grateful shout out to that mega-giant of coffee and espresso convenience. Starbucks, thank you for rescuing me when I realized that I would never survive staying home with two, non-napping boys full-time without a ubiquitous fountain of caffeinated goodness. Thanks too, Starbucks, for the WIFI, the story time hours for kids, the numerous drive-thru locations, the personalized Starbucks cards (the one I got from a dear friend reads: “Given enough caffeine you could rule the world” -- and it’s true!), and for the invention of the Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte that is my life’s blood.
I am grateful for the Victoria’s Secret Miraculous bra that gifted me with an absolutely ludicrous (and yet totally awesome) D-cup and saved me thousands on surgery that would have appointed my girls the only not-sagging part of my body twenty years from now. I give thanks for the iPhone apps that make life less frustrating, apps like Shazam (so I can figure out who the heck is singing the song I can’t get out of my head) and Video Poker (so I can practice for Vegas while I’m on the flight out there). I am thankful for debit cards, pay at the pump gasoline, and satellite television on airplanes. And, I give thanks for the ultra-quiet dishwasher with a timer that washes dishes for me while I sleep.
There are so many modern inventions that I am grateful for and for good reason. While my life is more complicated than my grandmother’s life ever was, it’s also full of travel and adventure, which hers was not. And, I know, that someday when my sons are grandparents they will sit down and tell their grandchildren about how hard things were for them when they were kids in the days before hovercrafts. I’m sure they’ll also tell them about how in the olden days their mom used to tell them stories about how hard life was when there was no Caller ID or voicemail, just the same way my mom used to tell me stories about how she had to walk uphill in the snow both ways to school. I’m thankful that some things will never change.
When told that when I was a child if I wanted an answer to a question I would have to go to the library, research the topic in the card catalog, and then go find the book and READ through it for the answer, he responded: “You didn’t have computers? Seriously?”
When told that we didn’t have handheld Nintendo DS video games with 3-D graphics, and that we had to play Atari where our “guy” was a little square and the screen stayed the same and there was no way to win so we just had to try to keep playing while the game got faster and faster, he gasped: “That sounds horrible.”
While his comments amused me somewhat, I found myself actually feeling a bit sad for him. Children born in the 21st century have to do so little for such an easy, quick payout. It got me to thinking about how grateful I am for the things I had to learn how to do while I was growing up. These are the things, I realize now, that make it possible for me to problem solve when the high tech solutions are not available. I was actually in an airport restaurant once when they were having a trouble with their ordering and payment software. We needed to catch a plane so we asked for our bill, only to be told that we’d have to wait because their system was down. We couldn’t believe that it never occurred to any of them to write out a bill, figure the total manually, and hand it to us so we could pay cash. Sometimes that thinking-out-of-the-box thing we learned growing up comes in handy. You know, the kind of thinking out of the box that you acquired when you didn’t have cartoons available 24/7, and you had to use your MacGyver brain to imagine that the braided oval rug in front of the kitchen sink was actually a ship sailing on an ocean of linoleum. After my son's comments, I couldn’t help but wonder if our children will ever be able to extrapolate solutions to the tough problems facing our planet when they are adults because so much has just been handed to them, and I kept feeling grateful for having been raised in the world I was raised in.
With Thanksgiving nearly here, I thought it would be timely to write a few quick notes of gratitude for things I feel incredibly fortunate to have in my life. However, instead of reaching deep into my heart and recounting the blessings that come to mind first (my loving and patient family, my incredible friends, my health, our warm and comfortable home), I thought I’d be a bit more shallow and give thanks for the things I could do without if I had to, but I’d really hate to have to do without. Might as well celebrate the conveniences that my children don’t realize are true conveniences.
First, I am grateful for my cordless telephone, the one that allows me to wander aimlessly around my house during a conversation without becoming entangled in a 100-foot cord that I then have to stand on a chair with receiver dangling to unwind again before the next call. I’m thankful that when I want to have a private conversation, I can actually disappear with that phone knowing that there is no cord by which someone could track me through the house and ultimately to the closed door behind which I am hiding.
I am uber-thankful for our DVR, which provides me the opportunity to pause television to shush my kids so I don’t miss one hilarious word Tina Fey is uttering on 30 Rock. That DVR is my lifeline during episodes of LOST; how invaluable it is to be able to rewind the show 5 minutes to point out to my less-detail-oriented husband how the numbers on the soccer players’ backs are, in fact, the LOST numbers of 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, ad 42. And, I’d be remiss if I failed to mention how our DVR assisted in potty training our children by making anytime during a show a good time to visit the bathroom.
I am thankful for my luxury SUV. I pay homage to its heated seats that warm my backside in the winter, its back-up camera that ensures I do not run over my boys’ bicycles while backing out of the driveway, and its computerized gauge that warns me that I will be walking with gas can in hand if I do not hit a service station in the next four miles. The remote-operated rear door that I can open as I am walking to the car with my groceries rocks. The automatic sunroof and the in-dash CD changer are also treasured, but what I love the most are the two easily accessible plug-ins for my technology so I can listen to and charge my iPod Nano while simultaneously using my GPS to direct me to the nearest Starbucks.
Speaking of, I need to give a grateful shout out to that mega-giant of coffee and espresso convenience. Starbucks, thank you for rescuing me when I realized that I would never survive staying home with two, non-napping boys full-time without a ubiquitous fountain of caffeinated goodness. Thanks too, Starbucks, for the WIFI, the story time hours for kids, the numerous drive-thru locations, the personalized Starbucks cards (the one I got from a dear friend reads: “Given enough caffeine you could rule the world” -- and it’s true!), and for the invention of the Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte that is my life’s blood.
I am grateful for the Victoria’s Secret Miraculous bra that gifted me with an absolutely ludicrous (and yet totally awesome) D-cup and saved me thousands on surgery that would have appointed my girls the only not-sagging part of my body twenty years from now. I give thanks for the iPhone apps that make life less frustrating, apps like Shazam (so I can figure out who the heck is singing the song I can’t get out of my head) and Video Poker (so I can practice for Vegas while I’m on the flight out there). I am thankful for debit cards, pay at the pump gasoline, and satellite television on airplanes. And, I give thanks for the ultra-quiet dishwasher with a timer that washes dishes for me while I sleep.
There are so many modern inventions that I am grateful for and for good reason. While my life is more complicated than my grandmother’s life ever was, it’s also full of travel and adventure, which hers was not. And, I know, that someday when my sons are grandparents they will sit down and tell their grandchildren about how hard things were for them when they were kids in the days before hovercrafts. I’m sure they’ll also tell them about how in the olden days their mom used to tell them stories about how hard life was when there was no Caller ID or voicemail, just the same way my mom used to tell me stories about how she had to walk uphill in the snow both ways to school. I’m thankful that some things will never change.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Incredible Shrinking Woman
Something crazy happened to me yesterday. I was shopping for Christmas gifts, when a plaid miniskirt began shouting my name. I’m not often approached by random outfits in a retail store, so I’ll admit my curiosity got the best of me and I allowed it to drag me into a fitting room. I am not a fan of clothes shopping. I hate crowded retail stores with fashionable young people wearing name tags pestering me about all the help they can provide. Internet shopping was invented for people like me, people who avoid other people when possible. There’s something so satisfying about seeing the perfect outfit online and having it magically appear (okay, not completely magically) at your front door via a large, brown truck. But, this was clearly no ordinary skirt. So, I grabbed it and a couple of its friends and wandered back to the unisex fitting rooms in The Gap.
The fitting room was being managed by a way too attractive, twenty-something year old guy with striking blue eyes. I have to admit that this always throws me for a loop. I have been around long enough to remember when there were both men’s and women’s fitting rooms. And, after 14 years of marriage, I’m no longer accustomed to having a random guy nearby to assist me with my clothing. I guess I should learn to appreciate that luxury these days since fitting rooms at The Gap are as close as I’m going to get to reliving my college days.
But, I digress. The skirt and its buddies were all lined up, so I chose the biggest one to try on first. In a perfect world, I am still the same size 6 that I was in college. Well, the size 6 I had brought into the fitting room with me more or less fell down off of me as soon as I put it on. Interesting, I thought. So, I went to the size 4, which also proved to be too big. I scoffed at the size 2, but put it on only to discover that I could spin the entire skirt around on my waist. It was still too loose, and I had run out of sizes. I had to go to the laughable next step of asking the blue-eyed fitting room hottie to retrieve for me a size ZERO item of clothing. Yes. A size 0. My husband laughed.
“How can you be a size 0? By virtue of the fact that it’s a 0, doesn’t that mean you don’t actually exist? Wait. When you turn sideways, do you disappear?”
All joking aside, I was a bit perplexed at this point. I mean, seriously. Let’s get real here. I am 5‘5” tall and just under 130 pounds. I do not have an eating disorder, nor do I abide by some movie-star macrobiotic diet or Diet Coke and cigarette weight loss plan. I do not do 1000 sit-ups a day. I do not have a personal trainer. I am a fan of high-fat dairy cheese in all its forms, and I do eat dessert nearly every day. Yes. I live in the fittest state in the nation, and I do a reasonable workout 4 days a week. But there is absolutely no fathomable reason that I should be three sizes smaller now than I was twenty years ago.
Still, hottie returned with the size 0 skirt and I tried it on. It fit. What? How? Am I shrinking? If I am a size 0, then surely the young women on Gossip Girl must be wearing toddler clothing, right? Barbie clothing, perhaps? If I wasn’t a size 0 when I weighed 15 pounds less than I do now, how is this possible? Retailers have figured out that people will buy more clothing if they feel better about themselves. And, who doesn’t feel better about herself when she discovers she’s miraculously a smaller size without having lost any weight? Let’s face it. If you have to get a bigger size than you wore last season, you may not feel like shopping: you might actually feel a trifle nauseous. It’s depressing. But, if you get a smaller size, you figure that you’d better get two other things in this exceedingly small size as proof and then go out for a celebratory cheeseburger because, after all, you’re so skinny you must not be eating enough.
Yet, this country is getting fatter. You needn’t go any further than your local mall or grocery store for adequate proof. Our sedentary lifestyle, combined with an abundance of “convenience foods” heavy on fats, sugar, and refined carbohydrates, has been working against us for decades now. I spend a lot of time at home perched on a stool in front of my laptop, mere feet from a giant stainless steel box full of food, and this could be a huge obstacle in the road to thinness. However, I am also fortunate to have the time, flexibility, and income to afford active hobbies. Our family hikes, bikes, skis, snowshoes, and inline skates. There are miles of open space trails behind my house for running and climbing. I have a gym membership and the time to use it. I realize not everyone has the same good fortune I’ve had. I was blessed with a fairly high metabolism, good health, an apathy towards chocolate, and an honest love of being active. But many people in this country are not as fortunate as I am. And, this is why clothing manufacturers have changed their sizing to increase their sales.
I’m not downplaying the positive, albeit ephemeral, effect achieved by suddenly and inexplicably seeing a size 0 on your clothing tag. It did make me temporarily euphoric and self-confident. But, it’s not realistic and it’s simply not true. Nearly twenty years ago, when I was what was then a size 6, I bought a gorgeous velvet cocktail dress at a vintage store. It was labeled size 12, and it was a tight fit. It threw me to try on a size 12 dress only to discover that it was nearly too tight to wear. But, that experience stuck with me. I’ve never forgotten that dress or the lesson that obviously I was not the size 6 my clothes proclaimed me to be.
This downsizing clothing (while we’re all upsizing everything else) is troubling to me. We’re deluding ourselves into believing that the status quo is not only good but it’s better than good. What’s not to like about putting on 20 pounds since high school but still being able to wear the same size you wore to chemistry class? The reality is, however, that 34 percent of Americans are obese and nearly another 33 percent are overweight. We’re not healthy. Maybe if we stopped focusing so much on sizing each other up and focused instead on helping each other out we’d make some progress?
While I’m not sure what the solution to this clothing dilemma is, I do know this much: I am not the Incredible Shrinking Woman, and I didn’t buy the super cute, plaid, size 0 miniskirt that called me by name. I knew every time I’d put it on, I’d feel at best a bit disingenuous and at worst like a complete fraud. Perhaps that sounds silly, but it’s the truth. Before you judge me, just remember that a zero is merely a number. I’d like to believe I’m a bit more than that. We all are. And we should start treating ourselves and each other that way. I think we’d be a lot happier.
The fitting room was being managed by a way too attractive, twenty-something year old guy with striking blue eyes. I have to admit that this always throws me for a loop. I have been around long enough to remember when there were both men’s and women’s fitting rooms. And, after 14 years of marriage, I’m no longer accustomed to having a random guy nearby to assist me with my clothing. I guess I should learn to appreciate that luxury these days since fitting rooms at The Gap are as close as I’m going to get to reliving my college days.
But, I digress. The skirt and its buddies were all lined up, so I chose the biggest one to try on first. In a perfect world, I am still the same size 6 that I was in college. Well, the size 6 I had brought into the fitting room with me more or less fell down off of me as soon as I put it on. Interesting, I thought. So, I went to the size 4, which also proved to be too big. I scoffed at the size 2, but put it on only to discover that I could spin the entire skirt around on my waist. It was still too loose, and I had run out of sizes. I had to go to the laughable next step of asking the blue-eyed fitting room hottie to retrieve for me a size ZERO item of clothing. Yes. A size 0. My husband laughed.
“How can you be a size 0? By virtue of the fact that it’s a 0, doesn’t that mean you don’t actually exist? Wait. When you turn sideways, do you disappear?”
All joking aside, I was a bit perplexed at this point. I mean, seriously. Let’s get real here. I am 5‘5” tall and just under 130 pounds. I do not have an eating disorder, nor do I abide by some movie-star macrobiotic diet or Diet Coke and cigarette weight loss plan. I do not do 1000 sit-ups a day. I do not have a personal trainer. I am a fan of high-fat dairy cheese in all its forms, and I do eat dessert nearly every day. Yes. I live in the fittest state in the nation, and I do a reasonable workout 4 days a week. But there is absolutely no fathomable reason that I should be three sizes smaller now than I was twenty years ago.
Still, hottie returned with the size 0 skirt and I tried it on. It fit. What? How? Am I shrinking? If I am a size 0, then surely the young women on Gossip Girl must be wearing toddler clothing, right? Barbie clothing, perhaps? If I wasn’t a size 0 when I weighed 15 pounds less than I do now, how is this possible? Retailers have figured out that people will buy more clothing if they feel better about themselves. And, who doesn’t feel better about herself when she discovers she’s miraculously a smaller size without having lost any weight? Let’s face it. If you have to get a bigger size than you wore last season, you may not feel like shopping: you might actually feel a trifle nauseous. It’s depressing. But, if you get a smaller size, you figure that you’d better get two other things in this exceedingly small size as proof and then go out for a celebratory cheeseburger because, after all, you’re so skinny you must not be eating enough.
Yet, this country is getting fatter. You needn’t go any further than your local mall or grocery store for adequate proof. Our sedentary lifestyle, combined with an abundance of “convenience foods” heavy on fats, sugar, and refined carbohydrates, has been working against us for decades now. I spend a lot of time at home perched on a stool in front of my laptop, mere feet from a giant stainless steel box full of food, and this could be a huge obstacle in the road to thinness. However, I am also fortunate to have the time, flexibility, and income to afford active hobbies. Our family hikes, bikes, skis, snowshoes, and inline skates. There are miles of open space trails behind my house for running and climbing. I have a gym membership and the time to use it. I realize not everyone has the same good fortune I’ve had. I was blessed with a fairly high metabolism, good health, an apathy towards chocolate, and an honest love of being active. But many people in this country are not as fortunate as I am. And, this is why clothing manufacturers have changed their sizing to increase their sales.
I’m not downplaying the positive, albeit ephemeral, effect achieved by suddenly and inexplicably seeing a size 0 on your clothing tag. It did make me temporarily euphoric and self-confident. But, it’s not realistic and it’s simply not true. Nearly twenty years ago, when I was what was then a size 6, I bought a gorgeous velvet cocktail dress at a vintage store. It was labeled size 12, and it was a tight fit. It threw me to try on a size 12 dress only to discover that it was nearly too tight to wear. But, that experience stuck with me. I’ve never forgotten that dress or the lesson that obviously I was not the size 6 my clothes proclaimed me to be.
This downsizing clothing (while we’re all upsizing everything else) is troubling to me. We’re deluding ourselves into believing that the status quo is not only good but it’s better than good. What’s not to like about putting on 20 pounds since high school but still being able to wear the same size you wore to chemistry class? The reality is, however, that 34 percent of Americans are obese and nearly another 33 percent are overweight. We’re not healthy. Maybe if we stopped focusing so much on sizing each other up and focused instead on helping each other out we’d make some progress?
While I’m not sure what the solution to this clothing dilemma is, I do know this much: I am not the Incredible Shrinking Woman, and I didn’t buy the super cute, plaid, size 0 miniskirt that called me by name. I knew every time I’d put it on, I’d feel at best a bit disingenuous and at worst like a complete fraud. Perhaps that sounds silly, but it’s the truth. Before you judge me, just remember that a zero is merely a number. I’d like to believe I’m a bit more than that. We all are. And we should start treating ourselves and each other that way. I think we’d be a lot happier.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Which Witch?
Before trick-or-treating last night, as I was putting on my costume, I offered my yearly address regarding Halloween etiquette to my children. It is remarkably similar to the speech my mother would deliver to my sisters and I before we would embark on our trick-or-treating romps through the old neighborhood. In my perfect world, I imagine other parents recite similar words to their children before sending them off into the night.
So, as I was adjusting my pointy, black hat with the silver stars, I gently but firmly reminded them that there are a few Halloween rules by which they must abide if they want to be permitted to trick-or-treat. The mandatory, non-negotiable Halloween rules in our house are:
Only approach houses with porch lights on.
Say “trick or treat” when someone answers the door.
Say “thank you” when the candy is given.
Do NOT not balk at what you are given. You’re lucky you’re getting anything.
The boys pretended to listen and promised to be good, and I sent them on their way with their father so I could hand out candy from our house. As I finished lighting the jack-o-lanterns on the porch, I was feeling as optimistic as a couple of pear ciders will usually convince me to feel. I dumped the last of our ginormous Costco bag of assorted candies into the pumpkin bowl, turned off the lights inside the house, and donned my purple gloves just waiting for the costume-clad hordes to arrive.
I like being in costume to hand out Halloween candy. It’s unexpected; the majority of trick-or-treaters are genuinely thrown off when I open the door and they see I’m in costume. I’m normally a fairly predictable person so I revel in my chance to confuse someone, even if that someone happens to be a 4-year old dressed like a bumble bee. But, wearing a costume also puts me into the Halloween spirit. Although I am usually somewhat reserved around people I do not know, a costume gives me the freedom to be a bit more bold.
As the doorbell rang for the first time, I hadn’t yet decided which witch I was going to be for the evening, the good witch or the wicked witch, but I didn’t have to wait long for my character to develop. I opened the front door and stood there in my costume and standing there staring back at me were a princess, a knight, and a vampire, all approximately age 6. They said nothing. I stood there staring back at them until one of them finally offered up a feeble “trick or treat.”
I opened the storm door and started to put multiple treats into the bags, and one of the children questioned me.
“Do you have any gum?”
Trying to be as polite as possible while not letting on that I was slightly annoyed by the blatant request I replied, “Sorry, sweetie. No gum.”
He replied, “It’s okay. I don’t like gum. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to give me any.”
Then they wandered off my porch without a second glance while I stood there incredulously. I found myself wondering when children got so brash as to make requests for what they want in their plastic pumpkins or pillowcases. Should I be impressed that he’s a kid who knows what he likes (or doesn’t like) or is it okay that I found his attitude a bit troubling? One of the best parts of Halloween when I was a kid was spilling the loot out onto the table after trick-or-treating and trading treats with my sisters or friends. I don’t like Butterfingers, so I was more than happy to trade them to my sister for her Almond Joys. The negotiations were brutal, but we always ended up with what we wanted. What was this kid’s plan if I had dropped gum into his bag? Was he going to take it out, hand it back, and ask for something better? I felt myself starting to turn a bit green.
I placated myself with the thought that surely my children would never do such a thing and hoped the next group would make me feel better. The doorbell rang a few minutes later with a parcel of five children. This group also stood there looking at me without uttering trick or treat. When I finally requested the obligatory phrase, they acquiesced.
As I started putting candy in their bags one child at a time, I noticed a little hand begin to creep towards my stash of treats. I stopped what I was doing, turned sharply, stared the child down, and stopped just short of smacking his hand (although I really wanted to).
In a voice that was gravelly and somehow not my own, I scolded him sharply. “I hand out the candy.”
He quickly withdrew his grubby little paw and I went about finishing my task. This group at least did manage a couple “thank you” comments as they walked away.
I walked back into the house pondering when it became acceptable for a child to reach into the candy bowl as an adult was actively passing out candy. Did I miss the memo? I mean, I was standing there in costume with my own hand in the bowl. Did he not understand why I was there? Was he afraid I was going to skip him somehow or was he, like the previous child, just trying to grab what he wanted? Whatever happened to children like the kind I was, the kind who was afraid of adults and wouldn’t have had the nerve to just grab candy from the bowl? Are all children so brazen these days?
Before I had time to think any further on that, the doorbell rang again. This time there were two 10-year-old girls on my doorstep. They were clever enough to sing-song a cheery “trick or treat”. As I opened the door to hand out the candy, the princess heard something from within her treat bag and started rooting around in there.
“It’s my cell phone,” she told me. “Hold on one second.” And, she put her forefinger up to let me know she’d be with me in a minute.
Galloping ghosts! Did this little girl just put me on hold on my own front porch? I am fairly certain I looked around for the hidden camera. This had to be a joke, right? I stood there for a minute while she had a conversation with her friend, Henry. Apparently, Henry was trying to meet up with them but couldn’t figure out where they were. At last, she ended her call, dropped her phone back into her bag, and then presented her bag to me. I dumped something in and as I did I noticed that my fingers seemed somewhat longer and bonier than they had before.
One 8-year-old child asked me why I didn’t have any lights on inside my house. I didn’t understand where he was going with that question. Perhaps he was implying that it looked as if no one was home (despite the porch lights being on, the lit pumpkins sitting on the porch railing, and candlelit paper bags that were illuminating a pathway to my doorstep)? Still I found myself answering this child, as if I owed him an explanation. Maybe if he had been dressed like a cop I would have been clever enough to invoke my miranda rights? As it was, however, by the time I had finished elaborating regarding the non-illumination of my household, I noticed a broom leaning against the corner of the porch.
As the evening progressed, I became depressed by the number of children who did not feel it necessary to grace me with a “trick or treat” when I opened the door. I thought that was standard Halloween protocol. Amazingly enough, it was the teenagers who made me feel better; most of them came to my door with better manners than some of the younger children who had parents standing nearby. At least the majority of the teenagers seem to comprehend how the whole Halloween thing is supposed to work. I don’t mind teenagers trick-or-treating. I realize that some folks think there is an age at which one should stop the charade and move on, but I like Halloween and feel that if you’re willing to get dressed up to ask for candy when you’re sixteen then you deserve a flipping Kit Kat.
I could cackle bitterly on and on about my experiences last night. I could tell you how no more than half the children who darkened my doorstep bothered to say “thank you” or how some of their equally rude and lazy parents actually followed their children around the neighborhood in their cars so they wouldn’t have to walk in the 50-degree temperatures. But, maybe it would just be better at this point merely to straighten my hat, tie a double knot in my cape, and fly out of here on that broom. Who said the Wicked Witch of the West is dead?
So, as I was adjusting my pointy, black hat with the silver stars, I gently but firmly reminded them that there are a few Halloween rules by which they must abide if they want to be permitted to trick-or-treat. The mandatory, non-negotiable Halloween rules in our house are:
Only approach houses with porch lights on.
Say “trick or treat” when someone answers the door.
Say “thank you” when the candy is given.
Do NOT not balk at what you are given. You’re lucky you’re getting anything.
The boys pretended to listen and promised to be good, and I sent them on their way with their father so I could hand out candy from our house. As I finished lighting the jack-o-lanterns on the porch, I was feeling as optimistic as a couple of pear ciders will usually convince me to feel. I dumped the last of our ginormous Costco bag of assorted candies into the pumpkin bowl, turned off the lights inside the house, and donned my purple gloves just waiting for the costume-clad hordes to arrive.
I like being in costume to hand out Halloween candy. It’s unexpected; the majority of trick-or-treaters are genuinely thrown off when I open the door and they see I’m in costume. I’m normally a fairly predictable person so I revel in my chance to confuse someone, even if that someone happens to be a 4-year old dressed like a bumble bee. But, wearing a costume also puts me into the Halloween spirit. Although I am usually somewhat reserved around people I do not know, a costume gives me the freedom to be a bit more bold.
As the doorbell rang for the first time, I hadn’t yet decided which witch I was going to be for the evening, the good witch or the wicked witch, but I didn’t have to wait long for my character to develop. I opened the front door and stood there in my costume and standing there staring back at me were a princess, a knight, and a vampire, all approximately age 6. They said nothing. I stood there staring back at them until one of them finally offered up a feeble “trick or treat.”
I opened the storm door and started to put multiple treats into the bags, and one of the children questioned me.
“Do you have any gum?”
Trying to be as polite as possible while not letting on that I was slightly annoyed by the blatant request I replied, “Sorry, sweetie. No gum.”
He replied, “It’s okay. I don’t like gum. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to give me any.”
Then they wandered off my porch without a second glance while I stood there incredulously. I found myself wondering when children got so brash as to make requests for what they want in their plastic pumpkins or pillowcases. Should I be impressed that he’s a kid who knows what he likes (or doesn’t like) or is it okay that I found his attitude a bit troubling? One of the best parts of Halloween when I was a kid was spilling the loot out onto the table after trick-or-treating and trading treats with my sisters or friends. I don’t like Butterfingers, so I was more than happy to trade them to my sister for her Almond Joys. The negotiations were brutal, but we always ended up with what we wanted. What was this kid’s plan if I had dropped gum into his bag? Was he going to take it out, hand it back, and ask for something better? I felt myself starting to turn a bit green.
I placated myself with the thought that surely my children would never do such a thing and hoped the next group would make me feel better. The doorbell rang a few minutes later with a parcel of five children. This group also stood there looking at me without uttering trick or treat. When I finally requested the obligatory phrase, they acquiesced.
As I started putting candy in their bags one child at a time, I noticed a little hand begin to creep towards my stash of treats. I stopped what I was doing, turned sharply, stared the child down, and stopped just short of smacking his hand (although I really wanted to).
In a voice that was gravelly and somehow not my own, I scolded him sharply. “I hand out the candy.”
He quickly withdrew his grubby little paw and I went about finishing my task. This group at least did manage a couple “thank you” comments as they walked away.
I walked back into the house pondering when it became acceptable for a child to reach into the candy bowl as an adult was actively passing out candy. Did I miss the memo? I mean, I was standing there in costume with my own hand in the bowl. Did he not understand why I was there? Was he afraid I was going to skip him somehow or was he, like the previous child, just trying to grab what he wanted? Whatever happened to children like the kind I was, the kind who was afraid of adults and wouldn’t have had the nerve to just grab candy from the bowl? Are all children so brazen these days?
Before I had time to think any further on that, the doorbell rang again. This time there were two 10-year-old girls on my doorstep. They were clever enough to sing-song a cheery “trick or treat”. As I opened the door to hand out the candy, the princess heard something from within her treat bag and started rooting around in there.
“It’s my cell phone,” she told me. “Hold on one second.” And, she put her forefinger up to let me know she’d be with me in a minute.
Galloping ghosts! Did this little girl just put me on hold on my own front porch? I am fairly certain I looked around for the hidden camera. This had to be a joke, right? I stood there for a minute while she had a conversation with her friend, Henry. Apparently, Henry was trying to meet up with them but couldn’t figure out where they were. At last, she ended her call, dropped her phone back into her bag, and then presented her bag to me. I dumped something in and as I did I noticed that my fingers seemed somewhat longer and bonier than they had before.
One 8-year-old child asked me why I didn’t have any lights on inside my house. I didn’t understand where he was going with that question. Perhaps he was implying that it looked as if no one was home (despite the porch lights being on, the lit pumpkins sitting on the porch railing, and candlelit paper bags that were illuminating a pathway to my doorstep)? Still I found myself answering this child, as if I owed him an explanation. Maybe if he had been dressed like a cop I would have been clever enough to invoke my miranda rights? As it was, however, by the time I had finished elaborating regarding the non-illumination of my household, I noticed a broom leaning against the corner of the porch.
As the evening progressed, I became depressed by the number of children who did not feel it necessary to grace me with a “trick or treat” when I opened the door. I thought that was standard Halloween protocol. Amazingly enough, it was the teenagers who made me feel better; most of them came to my door with better manners than some of the younger children who had parents standing nearby. At least the majority of the teenagers seem to comprehend how the whole Halloween thing is supposed to work. I don’t mind teenagers trick-or-treating. I realize that some folks think there is an age at which one should stop the charade and move on, but I like Halloween and feel that if you’re willing to get dressed up to ask for candy when you’re sixteen then you deserve a flipping Kit Kat.
I could cackle bitterly on and on about my experiences last night. I could tell you how no more than half the children who darkened my doorstep bothered to say “thank you” or how some of their equally rude and lazy parents actually followed their children around the neighborhood in their cars so they wouldn’t have to walk in the 50-degree temperatures. But, maybe it would just be better at this point merely to straighten my hat, tie a double knot in my cape, and fly out of here on that broom. Who said the Wicked Witch of the West is dead?
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Braying No More
Well, I’m mostly certain hell has frozen over. How do I know? Because I actually give a flying fig if the Denver Broncos win their football game tonight. I haven’t been a fan of the Broncos since my family moved here from Buffalo, New York, back in 1977. Orange Crush fever was alive as Denver fought for its first Super Bowl title. I was 9 years old. I had the Orange Crush t-shirt on and drank Orange Crush soda as we watched the game at our friends’ home. It could have been the beginning of something beautiful. Instead, the only crushing thing on January 15th, 1978 was our 27-10 loss to the Dallas Cowboys in Super Bowl XII. And so, my brief fling with the Denver Broncos football franchise ended long before it truly began. Picking up the pieces of my shattered heart, I did what any fickle, young woman scorned would do: I started calling my ex names and reveling in the bad things that happened to them. And, I ceased all interest in the National Football League, save for Super Bowl Sunday each year when I was at least guaranteed an abnormal amount of unhealthy food and a few memorable commercials for my time and attention.
My visceral distaste for the NFL continued for most of my life until last year when a friend asked me if I wanted to join a fantasy football league. I must confess that in the years directly preceding this invitation I wholeheartedly made fun of my husband (and anyone else) who thought fantasy football was a worthwhile endeavor. I can hear myself clearly now:
“So, wait...you pick real players, put them on an imaginary team, and then play other make believe teams? What is this? Never Never Land? Seriously? Do you not HAVE a life?”
Still, since my husband was participating in a couple fantasy leagues and seeming genuinely excited about the prospect of Sunday football for the first time in years (and dragging me through the whole experience whether I liked it or not), I decided to join my friend’s no-money-wagered, all-female fantasy football league for the 2008 season. I knew nothing about football other than the basics. I could tell you how most of the scoring worked, what the object of the game was, and that the phrase “a flag was thrown on the play” meant “hold on...something’s up.” I didn’t understand what a “safety” was or what role a tight end played, but I figured that since I was going to play with seven other women in this league it was a safe bet that some of them didn’t know those things either. And, all I really wanted was to be able to share in the excitement on game days with my husband since the television was going to be tuned to football anyway.
So, my friend Kris set us up with Yahoo’s fantasy football online. She emailed me a date and time for the draft. Thirty minutes before the draft, I printed out a couple online cheat sheets with names of players I might want to draft, poured a glass of red wine, and logged into the site. I chose a name (the Colorado Cougars -- why not? I’d just turned 40) and watched the seconds tick down. I stumbled my way through my first fantasy draft. In the first round, I got to choose fourth. I immediately swiped up Tom Brady who, in addition to holding a top-five spot on my “Sports Stars I’d Love to Hook Up With” list, had been the winning quarterback in the previous SuperBowl. By the time the draft was over, I felt I had assembled a fairly competent team. As I compared notes with a friend’s husband and my own, I registered that they seemed suitably impressed with my choices. As a coach, I was feeling tentatively optimistic. This was going to be a good season.
But, no sooner had my about-to-be-stellar, first-ever fantasy football season begun then tragedy struck my fledgling Cougars. During the first game of the season in Foxborough, I watched my Super Bowl MVP quarterback Tom Brady go out with a torn anterior cruciate ligament.
My first reaction was an audible “Are you kidding me? Having sex with Tom is going to be a lot more difficult if I have to worry about his stupid cast!” which was then followed by “ACK! I can’t believe my number one draft pick is going out for the entire season!”
I was out of it before I even got started. I struggled to pick another quarterback since the good ones had been swiped up during the draft, but settled upon Aaron Rogers, Brett Favre’s replacement in Green Bay. I just hoped I could hold my own. I ended my season in 6th place. It was not the awesome season I had planned on with Tom, but the experience provided what I had hoped it would...a reason to become invested in the NFL again. And, even if my 6th-place finish put a permanent rift in my relationship with Tom Brady (well...okay, it was a combination of his thoughtlessness in becoming injured and effectively trashing my first season as head coach and his oh-too-public relationship with that flawless and omnipresent Supermodel Who Must Not Be Named), I learned a lot and enjoyed the competition.
When the opportunity arose to play again this season with the same gals from last year, I signed up. I changed my team name from the Colorado Cougars to the Carefree Cougars (because I’m 41 now and I’ve grown less competitive and more zen through last year’s losses -- yeah, right). I ended up with third round choice in this year’s draft and prepared for a new season of football. I actually looked forward to the start of football season this year for the first time in my life. My new team, led by Peyton Manning, has some incredible talent at running back and wide receiver. And, as we’re now 6-0 going into next week’s tough match up against the number two team, the Denver Doll, I am fully reinvested in the NFL. Hubby and I are having fun commiserating, celebrating, and consternating each week over the games and our teams.
So, as the Denver Broncos battled the San Diego Chargers tonight, I found myself both watching the game and following it on ESPN Live with a born-again interest in my home team. I feel as if I’ve come full circle. I will admit that I resurrected that fickle, young woman scorned briefly last week when the Broncos beat Tom Brady and the New England Patriots, and I smiled and cheered at their defeat (that will teach you to go out on me, Tom). Thirty-one years ago when I was just a kid, the Denver Broncos broke my heart. This year they are attempting to renew my faith in them. I feel a kinship with Denver coach Josh McDaniels. I’m just starting out with my team too, and no one really expected much out of us either. But, now we’re both 6-0 and we get to celebrate a bit tonight. And, although I’m not quite ready to reclaim my status as a Broncos fan (I refuse to be one of those pathetic bandwagon hoppers), I henceforth promise to stop referring to the Broncos as “the Donkeys” and let go of my long-held grudge. Wishing you continued luck, Josh, but when Kyle Orton plays my team (via Ali’s Gators in our fantasy league) I vow to crush you both like an empty can of orange soda. Game on!
My visceral distaste for the NFL continued for most of my life until last year when a friend asked me if I wanted to join a fantasy football league. I must confess that in the years directly preceding this invitation I wholeheartedly made fun of my husband (and anyone else) who thought fantasy football was a worthwhile endeavor. I can hear myself clearly now:
“So, wait...you pick real players, put them on an imaginary team, and then play other make believe teams? What is this? Never Never Land? Seriously? Do you not HAVE a life?”
Still, since my husband was participating in a couple fantasy leagues and seeming genuinely excited about the prospect of Sunday football for the first time in years (and dragging me through the whole experience whether I liked it or not), I decided to join my friend’s no-money-wagered, all-female fantasy football league for the 2008 season. I knew nothing about football other than the basics. I could tell you how most of the scoring worked, what the object of the game was, and that the phrase “a flag was thrown on the play” meant “hold on...something’s up.” I didn’t understand what a “safety” was or what role a tight end played, but I figured that since I was going to play with seven other women in this league it was a safe bet that some of them didn’t know those things either. And, all I really wanted was to be able to share in the excitement on game days with my husband since the television was going to be tuned to football anyway.
So, my friend Kris set us up with Yahoo’s fantasy football online. She emailed me a date and time for the draft. Thirty minutes before the draft, I printed out a couple online cheat sheets with names of players I might want to draft, poured a glass of red wine, and logged into the site. I chose a name (the Colorado Cougars -- why not? I’d just turned 40) and watched the seconds tick down. I stumbled my way through my first fantasy draft. In the first round, I got to choose fourth. I immediately swiped up Tom Brady who, in addition to holding a top-five spot on my “Sports Stars I’d Love to Hook Up With” list, had been the winning quarterback in the previous SuperBowl. By the time the draft was over, I felt I had assembled a fairly competent team. As I compared notes with a friend’s husband and my own, I registered that they seemed suitably impressed with my choices. As a coach, I was feeling tentatively optimistic. This was going to be a good season.
But, no sooner had my about-to-be-stellar, first-ever fantasy football season begun then tragedy struck my fledgling Cougars. During the first game of the season in Foxborough, I watched my Super Bowl MVP quarterback Tom Brady go out with a torn anterior cruciate ligament.
My first reaction was an audible “Are you kidding me? Having sex with Tom is going to be a lot more difficult if I have to worry about his stupid cast!” which was then followed by “ACK! I can’t believe my number one draft pick is going out for the entire season!”
I was out of it before I even got started. I struggled to pick another quarterback since the good ones had been swiped up during the draft, but settled upon Aaron Rogers, Brett Favre’s replacement in Green Bay. I just hoped I could hold my own. I ended my season in 6th place. It was not the awesome season I had planned on with Tom, but the experience provided what I had hoped it would...a reason to become invested in the NFL again. And, even if my 6th-place finish put a permanent rift in my relationship with Tom Brady (well...okay, it was a combination of his thoughtlessness in becoming injured and effectively trashing my first season as head coach and his oh-too-public relationship with that flawless and omnipresent Supermodel Who Must Not Be Named), I learned a lot and enjoyed the competition.
When the opportunity arose to play again this season with the same gals from last year, I signed up. I changed my team name from the Colorado Cougars to the Carefree Cougars (because I’m 41 now and I’ve grown less competitive and more zen through last year’s losses -- yeah, right). I ended up with third round choice in this year’s draft and prepared for a new season of football. I actually looked forward to the start of football season this year for the first time in my life. My new team, led by Peyton Manning, has some incredible talent at running back and wide receiver. And, as we’re now 6-0 going into next week’s tough match up against the number two team, the Denver Doll, I am fully reinvested in the NFL. Hubby and I are having fun commiserating, celebrating, and consternating each week over the games and our teams.
So, as the Denver Broncos battled the San Diego Chargers tonight, I found myself both watching the game and following it on ESPN Live with a born-again interest in my home team. I feel as if I’ve come full circle. I will admit that I resurrected that fickle, young woman scorned briefly last week when the Broncos beat Tom Brady and the New England Patriots, and I smiled and cheered at their defeat (that will teach you to go out on me, Tom). Thirty-one years ago when I was just a kid, the Denver Broncos broke my heart. This year they are attempting to renew my faith in them. I feel a kinship with Denver coach Josh McDaniels. I’m just starting out with my team too, and no one really expected much out of us either. But, now we’re both 6-0 and we get to celebrate a bit tonight. And, although I’m not quite ready to reclaim my status as a Broncos fan (I refuse to be one of those pathetic bandwagon hoppers), I henceforth promise to stop referring to the Broncos as “the Donkeys” and let go of my long-held grudge. Wishing you continued luck, Josh, but when Kyle Orton plays my team (via Ali’s Gators in our fantasy league) I vow to crush you both like an empty can of orange soda. Game on!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Panic -- The New National Pastime
I am not much of a worrier. Quite honestly, worrying requires the type of commitment of which I am not capable. Maybe I’m just glass-is-half-full or maybe I’m just comfortably numbed to the idea that we all have to die of something. Either way, I don’t spend a lot of time pondering things over which I have little or no control. I work hard enough to maintain the modicum of control I truly have in my life; I don’t need to increase to my to-do list by considering dangers outside my jurisdiction.
Last spring, our post 9/11, perpetually nervous country found another reason to fret as a new flu emerged from Mexico. The drama-seeking media got busy counting victims, tracing its origins, and calculating possible death tolls. “Swine flu,” as it was then dubbed pursuant to its original existence in populations of pigs, became the next great anxiety. Comparisons were made to the Spanish flu pandemic that is estimated to have claimed 50 to 100 million lives between 1918 and 1920. Following the swine flu became something of a new national pastime. Surgical masks and antibacterial gel were being cleared off store shelves as the Woody Allen-type worriers stocked up...just in case. Everywhere I went, someone was talking about it. Airlines stopped handing out pillows and blankets on flights, claiming the measure (while also conveniently cost-effective) was meant to reduce the spread of the swine flu. Entire schools were being closed down for fear of the disease spreading. The paranoia was omnipresent.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the panic subsided as summer arrived. With the end of the school year, the number of cases being reported to the public daily seemed to decrease. Everyone, except the CDC, seemed ready to put swine flu back in its pen. As a nation, we seem to relax a bit during the summer. I guess we figure we only have three months to enjoy life. So, in June we began enjoying barbecues, boating, baseball games, beer, and fireworks. We started taking deep breaths again (even ones not covered by surgical masks). We went back to focusing on living rather than dying.
Much to my chagrin, however, with the arrival of fall returned the fervor for the fever. The kids went back to school, and Americans went back to their panicking and stressing over this virus. But, now, we were no longer calling it “swine flu.” Suddenly, it was H1N1. A friend of mine quipped that at first she thought H1N1 must be somehow related to R2D2 from Star Wars. My first and admittedly sardonic reaction to the new name was that someone in DC was busy doing some heavy lobbying, convincing Washington insiders that the nickname “swine flu” was detrimental to the sale of bacon, ham, pork chops, and baby back ribs. Either that or some piggish attorney had filed suit in superior court claiming defamation of porcine character. No matter what the reason, now H1N1 was the new fearmonger.
At one point, I heard that upwards of 50% of us would contract this particular strain of flu this season. I had many friends tell me they were going to get two flu shots this winter to protect themselves and their family from different strains. Again, this seems like overkill to me. In my house in the past two years we’ve gotten “the” flu shot, and for two years in a row people in this house have gotten “the” flu all the same. It’s gotten to the point where it seems like a crap shoot to me either way. Don’t get the shot, maybe get the flu. Get the shot, maybe still get the flu. What difference does it make? The World Health Organization is now saying that if you have symptoms that appear to be related to H1N1 assume it it is H1N1 and don’t even bother getting tested for it. The virus is already showing some resistance to the Tamiflu that is prescribed to combat it. The likelihood that you or someone you love is going to get this flu is pretty high. It seems like an awful waste of precious energy to worry about it.
Maybe I’m alone in my complacency towards this virus, but then I’ve always been a realist. A 50% chance of contracting H1N1 is as good as a done deal to my jaded mind. Wouldn’t it just be best to try to stay healthy in the first place? Take a proactive approach rather than trust that some hit-or-miss vaccine will keep you well? Doesn’t it make sense for those of us who are not infant, elderly, or already infirm to wash our hands judiciously, eat well, exercise, take extra vitamins, get some fresh air, and make sure we are getting adequate rest? And if, heaven forbid, we actually come down with H1N1, would it really kill us to take a week off work, stay home, rest, and try to keep from infecting others? I guess that is too logical. Perhaps we should merely continue with our current modus operandi, do what we do best. Speculate. Wait. Discuss. Panic. And, then, point fingers, assess blame, and wait for the next thing we need to panic about to rear its frightening head.
H1N1 is a risk but so is every other thing on this planet. Every day that you wake up is a day that you might end up dead. About a week ago, I learned about the quite unexpected loss of a thirty-something friend. It got me to thinking about how little control we have. I think what we should really panic about is what we’re not doing with the time we have here on this planet. If you really need something to fear, fear that you’re not spending enough time with your children. Fear that you’re not realizing your true potential because you’re lazily watching 5 hours of reality-based television each night. Fear that people you love may never know how much you care for them because you’re too busy with your job to tell them. Fear that while you’re worrying about things you can’t control you’re missing what you could actually change for the better. H1N1 is not what we need to be immunized against. We need to be immunized against fear-based distractions that remove us from what life is all about. Let’s kick panic to the curb and replace it with our old national pastime, baseball. Baseball gives us something to look forward to, something to cheer for, something to get behind...a means for feeling alive. And, if that’s not enough, at least baseball offers snacks, souvenirs, and a seventh-inning stretch. What has panic offered you lately?
Last spring, our post 9/11, perpetually nervous country found another reason to fret as a new flu emerged from Mexico. The drama-seeking media got busy counting victims, tracing its origins, and calculating possible death tolls. “Swine flu,” as it was then dubbed pursuant to its original existence in populations of pigs, became the next great anxiety. Comparisons were made to the Spanish flu pandemic that is estimated to have claimed 50 to 100 million lives between 1918 and 1920. Following the swine flu became something of a new national pastime. Surgical masks and antibacterial gel were being cleared off store shelves as the Woody Allen-type worriers stocked up...just in case. Everywhere I went, someone was talking about it. Airlines stopped handing out pillows and blankets on flights, claiming the measure (while also conveniently cost-effective) was meant to reduce the spread of the swine flu. Entire schools were being closed down for fear of the disease spreading. The paranoia was omnipresent.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the panic subsided as summer arrived. With the end of the school year, the number of cases being reported to the public daily seemed to decrease. Everyone, except the CDC, seemed ready to put swine flu back in its pen. As a nation, we seem to relax a bit during the summer. I guess we figure we only have three months to enjoy life. So, in June we began enjoying barbecues, boating, baseball games, beer, and fireworks. We started taking deep breaths again (even ones not covered by surgical masks). We went back to focusing on living rather than dying.
Much to my chagrin, however, with the arrival of fall returned the fervor for the fever. The kids went back to school, and Americans went back to their panicking and stressing over this virus. But, now, we were no longer calling it “swine flu.” Suddenly, it was H1N1. A friend of mine quipped that at first she thought H1N1 must be somehow related to R2D2 from Star Wars. My first and admittedly sardonic reaction to the new name was that someone in DC was busy doing some heavy lobbying, convincing Washington insiders that the nickname “swine flu” was detrimental to the sale of bacon, ham, pork chops, and baby back ribs. Either that or some piggish attorney had filed suit in superior court claiming defamation of porcine character. No matter what the reason, now H1N1 was the new fearmonger.
At one point, I heard that upwards of 50% of us would contract this particular strain of flu this season. I had many friends tell me they were going to get two flu shots this winter to protect themselves and their family from different strains. Again, this seems like overkill to me. In my house in the past two years we’ve gotten “the” flu shot, and for two years in a row people in this house have gotten “the” flu all the same. It’s gotten to the point where it seems like a crap shoot to me either way. Don’t get the shot, maybe get the flu. Get the shot, maybe still get the flu. What difference does it make? The World Health Organization is now saying that if you have symptoms that appear to be related to H1N1 assume it it is H1N1 and don’t even bother getting tested for it. The virus is already showing some resistance to the Tamiflu that is prescribed to combat it. The likelihood that you or someone you love is going to get this flu is pretty high. It seems like an awful waste of precious energy to worry about it.
Maybe I’m alone in my complacency towards this virus, but then I’ve always been a realist. A 50% chance of contracting H1N1 is as good as a done deal to my jaded mind. Wouldn’t it just be best to try to stay healthy in the first place? Take a proactive approach rather than trust that some hit-or-miss vaccine will keep you well? Doesn’t it make sense for those of us who are not infant, elderly, or already infirm to wash our hands judiciously, eat well, exercise, take extra vitamins, get some fresh air, and make sure we are getting adequate rest? And if, heaven forbid, we actually come down with H1N1, would it really kill us to take a week off work, stay home, rest, and try to keep from infecting others? I guess that is too logical. Perhaps we should merely continue with our current modus operandi, do what we do best. Speculate. Wait. Discuss. Panic. And, then, point fingers, assess blame, and wait for the next thing we need to panic about to rear its frightening head.
H1N1 is a risk but so is every other thing on this planet. Every day that you wake up is a day that you might end up dead. About a week ago, I learned about the quite unexpected loss of a thirty-something friend. It got me to thinking about how little control we have. I think what we should really panic about is what we’re not doing with the time we have here on this planet. If you really need something to fear, fear that you’re not spending enough time with your children. Fear that you’re not realizing your true potential because you’re lazily watching 5 hours of reality-based television each night. Fear that people you love may never know how much you care for them because you’re too busy with your job to tell them. Fear that while you’re worrying about things you can’t control you’re missing what you could actually change for the better. H1N1 is not what we need to be immunized against. We need to be immunized against fear-based distractions that remove us from what life is all about. Let’s kick panic to the curb and replace it with our old national pastime, baseball. Baseball gives us something to look forward to, something to cheer for, something to get behind...a means for feeling alive. And, if that’s not enough, at least baseball offers snacks, souvenirs, and a seventh-inning stretch. What has panic offered you lately?
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Other Woman
There is another woman in my husband’s life. And, no. I am not referring to his mother, although for years I would have been. This is someone else, and I have known about their relationship for a while. Honestly, I have known this other woman for longer than he has. I must somewhat reluctantly admit that I actually introduced them. Their relationship has been going on for over a year now. I’ve quietly stood by, complicit in the arrangement, peacefully ignoring it. There’s been no need to worry about it at all...until now.
You see, the other day my husband sauntered into the kitchen and casually announced that she’s coming to town. (Okay. He actually bounded into the room and said, “She’s coming to Denver! She’s coming to Denver!”) Up until now, their relationship has been solely online. But, now she’s coming here, and he has an opportunity to see her in person. This is where things become complicated for me. I’m not entirely sure how to feel about this latest development, but because I introduced them this technically is my fault.
For most of the past year, the other woman has actually been something of a relief for me. At the end of a tedious day at work, hubby usually comes home and wants pleasurable companionship, which I am sure is what many men expect at the end of a day at the office. As it turns out, however, my office is incredibly noisy and at the end of a long day my introverted self craves nothing more than to be alone to wind down from all the chaos. For most of our marriage, this difference has spawned something of a struggle in the evenings. But, after 14 years, hubby and I have worked out an arrangement that has alleviated our mutual frustration with each other every weekday evening: hubby heads off to his office for companionship with the other woman while I retreat to do whatever I want peacefully (or as peacefully as I can in a house rife with the sounds of The Clone Wars and its Jedi masters).
I am passionate about a great many things, but I do not happen to be passionate about my husband’s two favorite things on earth: photography and food. This is where the other woman comes in. She IS passionate about these things. In fact, she has a web site devoted to them. Her name is Ree Drummond, and she is known online through her hugely successful web site, “The Pioneer Woman.” I found her site over a year ago through mutual friends who were raving about a few of her recipes. The minute I saw the site, I thought of my husband who lives and breathes food and photography. It was a no brainer. I selfishly hooked him up with her to help him pursue his hobbies without my having to feign interest in shutter speeds, the quality or quantity of adequate and appropriate light, or the many virtues of the cast iron skillet.
Recently, though, I am loathe to admit that there is a small portion of me that is jealous of The Pioneer Woman. For starters, she clearly possesses the patience of Mother Theresa because she home schools her four children; some days I imagine shoving my kids out of my still-rolling SUV in the driveway of their school so I can make it to Starbucks for my requisite latte more quickly. Then, there’s the fact that she is talented, clever, and savvy enough to have created her own online empire, complete with legions of devoted fans. She has a gorgeous family and her strongly forearmed, deeply blue-eyed husband is a genuine (you have to say that “gin-u-wine”) cowboy in the truly honorable sense of the word. Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that the woman creates pure culinary joy in the kitchen and wields a camera the way Michelangelo wielded a paintbrush. I hesitate to even mention this next item because it’s so trifling, but it also annoyingly happens that The Pioneer Woman is an insightful, witty, and perfectly entertaining writer. And, now, she is a published author, something I have long fantasized about becoming. Okay. Okay. So, I’m a teensy bit more than a small portion jealous of her. But, why shouldn’t I be? She’s unbelievably accomplished and my husband admires and respects her, seeks her advice, and looks forward to checking in with her. It’s a smidgen disconcerting.
To make light of the situation and mask my insecurity about it, I continually tease him about his need to visit her because most of the people I know who visit her site daily are women. But, you know, he has learned a lot from her about Photoshop and photography. He’s made her Pasta alla Vodka, and I’ve willingly devoured its awesomeness. He may someday even win something from one of her giveaway drawings. I shudder to think, though, that he may have commented on her blog. I can tell you in all honesty that he’s not once commented on MY blog, and that level of commitment to her from him could really be a blow to our marriage.
I guess I can’t blame him if he considered leaving me for her...or at least wishing perhaps that I was more like her. After all, at this point, she’s his muse. She lives and breathes his passions. To me, photography is an art that I enjoy vicariously but will never want to understand in detail, and food is just a necessity to keep my blood sugar from getting so low that I become more obnoxious than I normally am when fed. I force myself to believe that The Pioneer Woman is so wholeheartedly in love with her handsome cowboy that she would never be tempted to abandon her Marlboro Man for my husband who, incidentally, some say resembles Richard Gere (although I don’t see it).
So, when The Pioneer Woman comes to town next month to sign copies of her newly published cookbook at The Tattered Cover Bookstore, I will probably go with him to get a copy. It never hurts to size up the competition. Besides, I would like to meet her in person too. She’s a whirlwind force to be reckoned with; I might learn something from her or, better yet, I might realize she and I share a lot more than just my husband.
You see, the other day my husband sauntered into the kitchen and casually announced that she’s coming to town. (Okay. He actually bounded into the room and said, “She’s coming to Denver! She’s coming to Denver!”) Up until now, their relationship has been solely online. But, now she’s coming here, and he has an opportunity to see her in person. This is where things become complicated for me. I’m not entirely sure how to feel about this latest development, but because I introduced them this technically is my fault.
For most of the past year, the other woman has actually been something of a relief for me. At the end of a tedious day at work, hubby usually comes home and wants pleasurable companionship, which I am sure is what many men expect at the end of a day at the office. As it turns out, however, my office is incredibly noisy and at the end of a long day my introverted self craves nothing more than to be alone to wind down from all the chaos. For most of our marriage, this difference has spawned something of a struggle in the evenings. But, after 14 years, hubby and I have worked out an arrangement that has alleviated our mutual frustration with each other every weekday evening: hubby heads off to his office for companionship with the other woman while I retreat to do whatever I want peacefully (or as peacefully as I can in a house rife with the sounds of The Clone Wars and its Jedi masters).
I am passionate about a great many things, but I do not happen to be passionate about my husband’s two favorite things on earth: photography and food. This is where the other woman comes in. She IS passionate about these things. In fact, she has a web site devoted to them. Her name is Ree Drummond, and she is known online through her hugely successful web site, “The Pioneer Woman.” I found her site over a year ago through mutual friends who were raving about a few of her recipes. The minute I saw the site, I thought of my husband who lives and breathes food and photography. It was a no brainer. I selfishly hooked him up with her to help him pursue his hobbies without my having to feign interest in shutter speeds, the quality or quantity of adequate and appropriate light, or the many virtues of the cast iron skillet.
Recently, though, I am loathe to admit that there is a small portion of me that is jealous of The Pioneer Woman. For starters, she clearly possesses the patience of Mother Theresa because she home schools her four children; some days I imagine shoving my kids out of my still-rolling SUV in the driveway of their school so I can make it to Starbucks for my requisite latte more quickly. Then, there’s the fact that she is talented, clever, and savvy enough to have created her own online empire, complete with legions of devoted fans. She has a gorgeous family and her strongly forearmed, deeply blue-eyed husband is a genuine (you have to say that “gin-u-wine”) cowboy in the truly honorable sense of the word. Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that the woman creates pure culinary joy in the kitchen and wields a camera the way Michelangelo wielded a paintbrush. I hesitate to even mention this next item because it’s so trifling, but it also annoyingly happens that The Pioneer Woman is an insightful, witty, and perfectly entertaining writer. And, now, she is a published author, something I have long fantasized about becoming. Okay. Okay. So, I’m a teensy bit more than a small portion jealous of her. But, why shouldn’t I be? She’s unbelievably accomplished and my husband admires and respects her, seeks her advice, and looks forward to checking in with her. It’s a smidgen disconcerting.
To make light of the situation and mask my insecurity about it, I continually tease him about his need to visit her because most of the people I know who visit her site daily are women. But, you know, he has learned a lot from her about Photoshop and photography. He’s made her Pasta alla Vodka, and I’ve willingly devoured its awesomeness. He may someday even win something from one of her giveaway drawings. I shudder to think, though, that he may have commented on her blog. I can tell you in all honesty that he’s not once commented on MY blog, and that level of commitment to her from him could really be a blow to our marriage.
I guess I can’t blame him if he considered leaving me for her...or at least wishing perhaps that I was more like her. After all, at this point, she’s his muse. She lives and breathes his passions. To me, photography is an art that I enjoy vicariously but will never want to understand in detail, and food is just a necessity to keep my blood sugar from getting so low that I become more obnoxious than I normally am when fed. I force myself to believe that The Pioneer Woman is so wholeheartedly in love with her handsome cowboy that she would never be tempted to abandon her Marlboro Man for my husband who, incidentally, some say resembles Richard Gere (although I don’t see it).
So, when The Pioneer Woman comes to town next month to sign copies of her newly published cookbook at The Tattered Cover Bookstore, I will probably go with him to get a copy. It never hurts to size up the competition. Besides, I would like to meet her in person too. She’s a whirlwind force to be reckoned with; I might learn something from her or, better yet, I might realize she and I share a lot more than just my husband.
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