Made For TV - A True Reality Show

Early this cool morning, I am sitting and watching a myriad of children playing with each other with giggles, vivid stories, and extreme silliness.  While the weather is shifting, the mad rush to the beach is on hold during this family vacation.  The cooler air and wafting fog affords a couple of hours of parental amusement, as seven children, ranging in age from sixteen to five, unleash their imaginations – yes, they are shooting each other as zombies (both boys and girls), they are sharing funny videos from their handheld devices (so cute watching heads crowd around a small screen), and they are making memories to last them an entire lifetime.

 

 

Within a five mile radius, there are more cousins – the sleepyheads who will bound upon the seven already here.  There are in-laws and aunts/uncles within the same quaint little town.  Familiar faces  that can all be given the same label as they share a similar strain of the gene pool:  family.

My grand entrance to this family started twenty-two years ago.  It was 1991 and I was at a high school house party.  The kind of party that your parents tell you not to go to and somehow, you end up socializing and drinking beer with a large assortment of other young teens. 

To be honest, I do not remember who’s house we were at; it was an older (*ack* college student) kid’s house.  I was there with a few of my good friends and I remember walking around aimlessly taking in all the sort of unknown faces.  It was at this party that an older college boy took an interest in me and I was instantly curious…..”Ooooh, a college boy!”  I had recently graduated from high school, but I was a mere 17 years old.

Long story later, I dated this boy for a little while.  He was kind and like me, he was going to return to his college campus later that summer.  With my new adventure of embarking off to college, getting into a relationship was the last thing I would envision in the lazy days of the summer of ’91.

It all happened at an eventful July 4^th party that the sweet boy invited me to.  I asked to bring my two best friends because I would not know anyone (again, a much older group).  During the party, I noticed the very handsome older brother of this sweet boy I had been meeting up with over the summer.  This older brother was very funny and intriguingly gross.  A few beers later, this cute man was asking me out.  My mind swirled because I was at the party with the sweet, younger brother of this cutie.  The sweet, younger brother and my best friend were becoming taken with each other; they were nowhere to be found but people say they were out on the paddle boat for hours (*disclaimer – they will both recount a slightly different version of events at this part of our story).  The cutie that had asked me out was also with someone else that he had brought with him to the party from his work.  Whoa.  This is NOT a soap opera, but real life.

Doug and I agreed to go running together and see how it went from there.  I was still reluctant to get into a relationship a mere few weeks before college; but dang, this guy was hot.  We went running together multiple times a week and we hit it off.  We would easily bang out a three mile run and follow that up with a strawberry shake from McDonald’s. 

 

Jeff and Cheryl also hit it off and began dating, despite different colleges, jobs and more.

Twenty-two years later, all four of us have been married seventeen years:  Doug and I tying the knot in May of 1996 and Jeff and Cheryl in August.  There are seven children amongst us.  There were the nay-sayers who shook their head when I got married at the immature age of twenty-two.  However, something in my deepest core told me even back then, that this course of action was my destiny and my fate.

As I continue to sip on my coffee and type, the noises continue:  Pop-Tart wrappers being torn and thrown by giant teenaged boy bodies; various mutant sound effects coming from imaginary play with bows & arrows and stick on mustaches; and the best sound of all – the laughter, the giggles, all emitting from the gaggle of kids that started with a young, summer romance.

 

Family.  At its best.

 

Survival Guide for Men

Dearest Men:

You have no idea what it is like to be a woman.  Oh, no, you clearly do not have any figment of an imagination to experience the vast geographical mental and emotional diversity of female-land. 

Let me explain to you what it is like to wake up suddenly and feel like this:

 

Yes, any woman will tell you precisely how she went to bed fine and woke up bloating out of her room, let alone her pants.  That muffin top she has been diligently working off at the gym has magically quadrupled in size.  Your wife suddenly, and strangely, looks five months pregnant.  No, it is NOT a beer belly and no, she does NOT have to take a dump. 

No one likes to talk about it but seriously, we women become mutant creatures that we cannot even control for that one week a month.  Be forewarned, keep your distance but do what we ask of you - your very life may depend upon it.  We are all over the place emotionally. 

How do I explain to you the reality of what we go through?  You men are fans of horror movies, right?  We women are not a fan of blood and gore, not just in the movies but in real life. 

Imagine this:

It IS gross.  This picture is precisely how we FEEL.  You know how you cannot focus on us when the football game is on and all you hear is, "Blah, blah, blah!" - well, when you are wondering why we might not be in the mood or we seem a tad bit unhappy; simply visualize the image above and give us an empathetic ten foot by ten foot buffer zone for about three to four days.

Howeverrrrrrrrrr (much emphasis added here), do not venture too far from that ten foot "Stay the F Away" zone - if it's 9 pm at night and I am wishing for some ice cream, the very best thing for you to say is, "Honey, I will go get you some ice cream!"  Know that I really do NOT want you to go for ice cream but I do want you to offer, so do it.  Pick up the keys and put your shoes on, but do not go.  I will tell you to not go but I will appreciate your offer.  I will also subsequently kill you fifteen times over in my head in a very violent manner.  I will curse your very stupid being and be angry at you, for not planning ahead (dumbass bastard, have you NOT figured out my cycle yet in all these years of marriage) and for not stopping on your way home to prepare for the Bloodacalyspe by buying me some Ben & Jerry's.  You will NEVER survive the zombie apocalypse if you have yet to document and predict my monthly uterus explosion.  Honestly, you should be thankful that you awaken each morning after I have asked you for salty French fries and sweet sugary ice cream and you have failed to deliver.  In my dreams, I have stabbed you in the eyes, I have peeled your skin off layer by layer, and I have punched you in the head with a variety of household objects.  Ahhhhh, estrogen and progesterone you wicked, wicked hormones.

Men, just remember that for your bad day at work, we women may have also had a bad day at work (professionally and/or at home) coupled with needy (or whiny) children, a hungry husband who has disappeared for fourteen hours to "cut the friggin' grass", while trying to scrub the toilet bowl (oh, why bother - the boys of the house will try to pee the poop stains off and I can just wait until next week when the blood is also gone), while trying to keep up with the laundry, while cleaning up cat puke, while paying the bills, while not burning dinner, while planning car pools for activities, while bathing the youngest, while getting books for and subsequently demanding that summer reading get done, while trying to exercise ourselves without giving our gym-mates real life nightmares of the movie "Carrie".................

Just get us the damn ice cream (and while you are out, stop at CVS for an extra box of Always Infinity Diaper Sized pads).  Congratulations.  You have survived another month.

Sincerely yours,

Women of All Womenkind

Are You A Bra?

You know that saying, friends are like a bra – they offer you support when you need it.  What happens when your friends start to lose their elasticity or their underwire for you has poked through and been cast aside? 

In the past couple of months, three of my friends have been very much less than supportive.  I refuse to engage in drama, so despite the twinges of pain I felt in my heart from the crushing words these gals delivered to me; I simply nodded, put a figurative band-aid across my ticker and gave myself positive affirmations.  In fact, I actually whispered the words, “Screw you.  I will prove to you that I can do this.  I will do this.  For me, myself and I.” 

Putting me aside, however, my brain ventured down the path of over-analysis, much as it does on a daily basis and I began pondering (for the millionth time), why are women not supportive of women.  Every week I witness some form of degradation, some demeaning words delivered, some jealous actions played out and all of this by fellow females to other females. 

What…..the……????????

Your fellow estrogen carriers, the women who experience many of the day to day tribulations of being mothers to young children, daughters to aging parents, wives to busy husbands, homeowners, employees, employers – we ALL struggle to do our best with the weight of our own individual worlds on our shoulders.  Who has any right to try to pull that rug from underneath a fellow pair of boobs?

The wheels in my grey matter continue to grind and generate thought after thought after thought.  Last weekend, still tossing around the bad taste of being undermined by my peers, I moved on from analyzing this as an issue unique and specific to womankind.  Stories from the news permeated my outer-being and I was forced to comprehend that humans in general are simply not kind enough to each other.
 

What….the….?????????

If you strip us from all of our quirks, from all of our social groups, take away our religious belongings, ignore the thousands of shades of skin-color – what is left over?  Cripes, people – we are ALL human beings.  What is wrong with us?
 

I am not naïve enough to suggest that we all have to like one another, because honestly, we do not.  I do not expect everyone to like me.  I have a strong personality.  As a few friends have suggested, I am bold, I am authentic, I am fun and full of life.  I am passionate about many things in life and I will fight to the end for those things that I hold absolutely closest to my heart.  I will support you.  Yes, I will.  Sometimes, because of everything that I have on my plate, I am not the best in being there for everyone that I should be there for.  However, on the flip side – these are usually the friends that may need more than I, alone, can offer or perhaps these are the friends who offer little or nothing in return.

I am also not asking you to give constant, all out support and words of accolades regardless of circumstance.  Really, please do NOT support me if I decide to jump off a bridge.  You may absolutely, without a doubt, just give me a solid bitch-slap up against the side of my head and chastise me for being a downright fool.

The older I get, the fonder I become of my rose-colored glasses, indeed.  I am trying to make a habit of practicing what I preach.  I only preach the act of kindness towards our fellow human beings because I have viewed with my own eyes the very consequence of such acts.  Large or small, simple benevolent gestures may change the path of another lovely person:  that smile you just gave away – it may just offer a sad woman some hope for the day.  Think before you speak; perhaps a minor adjustment in your delivery and choice of words may not derail the emotional being of another but in fact, give him the boost of confidence to reconsider his choice.

 

 

For you women readers, think of how amazingly comfortable and supportive your best bra is – you can always rely on the support, the very fabric of your best bra keeps you contained and where you need to be at all times.  Your best bra is dependable. 

Imagine if we were all as reliable and uplifting as people, as bras are to women?

 

Be a bra.  You never know who may need you on any given day.

 

What Did You Say?

I lost my hearing around the age of four.  My fifth birthday consisted of a gift of hearing aids:  January 5, 1979, I was fitted with technology that would allow me to hear closer to the level of my peers.  However, with my aids, my left ear was only capable of hearing sounds and not deciphering the words spoken.  My right ear was nearly 70 percent with my aid and my world suddenly became vivid.

I was not born hearing impaired.  My mother always provided me with the same recollection in how I lost my hearing:  I had middle ear infections, not unlike any other child.  I did not respond to the antibiotics and the doctor simply said, “Give the meds time to work.”  My mother was adamant that by the time I was taken to a specialist, it was too late.  I suffered severe nerve damage and the hearing loss was irreversible.

I do not remember much about losing my hearing, aside from being squirted with the cool, slimy, Pepto-Bismal colored pink play-doh like material in my ears.  The pink play-doh would form into my ear and ear canal to ensure a properly fitting ear mold which would attach to my hearing aid.

I do remember my parents being distraught as the specialist informed them both that I would likely never play sports, never play a musical instrument or enjoy music, and never live a fully functional, normal life.

Remember, it was 1978-1979 and times were very different.  My maternal grandmother insisted to my mother than perhaps the right answer was institutionalization.  There are days where I feel the need for a padded room at an institution but it has nothing to do with the amount of hearing that I do, or do not, have.

In recent years, I have determined that my mother’s version of events is not entirely accurate.  Several doctors and specialists have questioned my medical history and my loss of hearing; however, it was not until I went to a new audiologist that she gave me the likely version of what happened to my ears.

It is not typical to suffer nerve damage due to a middle ear infection.  I was floored to this possible un-truth from my mother, but have since realized that my mother had a mental illness that allowed her to create her own set of “truths”.  My audiologist asked me if I ever suffered from high fevers as a young child and the light bulb turned on.  YES!  I had several febrile seizures as a young child, some that sent me to the hospital – so it appears far more likely that is the culprit behind my hearing loss.

Regardless, I focus back on the ignorant doctor(s) that doomed me to a life of no activities because I was now hearing impaired.  These doctors recommended I go to a week-long “camp” with other hearing impaired children to learn to acclimate in my new world.  Little did my parents know, it was a camp for children who were completely deaf and used only sign language to communicate to each other.  I soon found myself in a middle world – I was not entirely of the hearing world, nor was I of the deaf world. 

I circle back repeatedly to the prognosis the doctors gave to me when I was five.  I have come to realize that I do not like being told I cannot do something.  Anything.  By restricting my ability, you give me further ambition and drive to set out and accomplish whatever it is that you think I cannot do.  I have traced this back to my five year old me.

I did play sports; all of them.  I excelled at soccer and then running.  I played the flute from elementary school until sophomore year in high school (when one time, at band camp, it was suddenly deemed uncool).  I absolutely love music across any and all genres and I tend to blast my iPod at an unsafe decibel.  I live a fairly functional and normal life, coupled with a healthy endurance of hearing impaired jokes at my expense (no, Cheryl, the “Wanna buy a duck” joke is still NOT funny).

I do not know sign language; only the swear words and the alphabet (thanks to my friend, Tara).  I do read lips, so when you cover your mouth, intentionally or not (thanks to the Iacaboni boys for torturing me), I may not “hear” you.  I may need you to repeat something for me, as I may not have caught it the first time you said it, due to the amount of background noise.

"What did you say?"

However, please know that if you ever tell me I cannot do something, for whatever reason, you may find yourself sitting back in awe because I will seek to demolish that limitation you have unfairly placed upon me.  Again, I will ask, but with a very different meaning:

"What did you say?"

I have used this perseverant trait to teach my children that they are able to accomplish their goals, as well.  When someone else tries to limit you, you take that boundary line and you surpass it.  You alone can define what is possible for yourself; especially if you want something badly enough.

My oldest has recently used this message and she has used it well.  My strong girl has been confined by others in her most favorite sport for years.  She has been hearing the message that she is good, but not quite good enough, over and over and over again.  We have taught her to use this negative messaging:  keep her head down and to work even harder.  Perseverance is a trait that courses fiercely through our veins. 

My oldest has just received an offer to join a team that participates at a very high regional level and focuses on prepping players for collegiate and professional play.  The opportunity to play at the Elite level is the precise reward for her continued dedication.  My girl has pushed herself to improve year after year, to discredit the naysayers that kept telling her she was not quite good enough or she could not play at a higher level.

“She believed she could, so she did.”  The power in a simple phrase, the ability to believe in yourself so you can accomplish your goals; it is an undeniable empowerment.  Why would we not arm ourselves with a certain confidence and a belief that we can attain what we set out to accomplish?

With that, what will you believe in yourself? 

What will you do to accomplish that goal?

 Anything is possible!

Where's Jillian?

When Confessions of a Curvy Girl was born, the main idea behind it was three very different women sharing their thoughts on body image, nutrition, and the endless list of issues that the female gender can go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and…..oh, you get my drift.

Recently, I was blatantly reminded of the origins of Curvy Girl when I went to try on some shorts.  You know, summer is arriving here in New England (oh gosh, so we hope) and I decided I could use a new pair of shorts or two.

Bad.  Bad.  Bad.  Bad idea.

The first pair of shorts got hung up around my hips.  Yikes.  Okay, so this particular brand runs small.  I quickly discard it to the “no thank you, I will pass” hook in the dressing room.  I try to convince myself I did not really like the color anyway.

Second pair of shorts.  Whoa.  These are the ugliest pair of shorts I have ever seen in my life.  *Toss* on the discard pile.

Third pair of shorts move up my thighs and around my buttocks.  I get excited as I may have found a pair to fit my er, um, eh, curvy figure.  As I move my hands together to hook the waist band of the canvas shorts, I start to break out into a hot sweat.  Did someone turn the thermostat up or do the fluorescent lights just emit a radiant amount of heat after five minutes in the dressing room?  Holy mother…..the waist band closed, however, the ensuing muffin top, okay……..the flabalanche that ensued and came rolling up and over the ridge of sewn fabric was enough to make me shudder with horror.  I rescued myself from the dangers of that natural disaster by removing the Dockers in 2.2 milliseconds.  Survival training at its best.

Shorts 3.  Rebecca 0.

The anxiety started to build.  I checked the labels of all three previously discarded shorts – had I erred and simply picked up the wrong size?  Um, no.  Wow.  How could they NOT fit?

I knew I had gained a little bit of weight this winter.  I had no idea it was flabalanche worthy.  I proceeded to go out and look for the next pair because I just do not give up.  (And NO….the idea of getting the next size up was not even an option….no way, no how, absolutely not going to happen).

In my search for shorts, my husband decides to interject and assist.  No, honey, those are granny shorts.  Let me remind you I am only 39 years of age.  Elastic waistbands, although they may fit, are unacceptable and unallowable in my wardrobe.  Nooooo, honey, those are “juniors” shorts and have a 3”  inseam.  Unless you can stand camel toe and attack of the inner thigh in that adorable pair of hot pink shorts, then please put them back on the rack.  No, honey, I wear athletic shorts a lot…..like a lot a lot, so please, I would like a “real” pair of shorts.

I almost started to cry. 

What happened to me?  How did I get this way again?  I work out regularly.  I eat healthy 80 percent of the time.  The pressure in my chest started to mount and the tears were about to bubble over…in public.

My husband senses my momentary weakness and inquires within.  As I explain to him my frustration, he gently says, “Well, the weight has a way of sneaking on.”

Busted.  Confirmation that my fear of gaining weight over the winter was indeed just validated by my sweet husband.  Goddammit.

I started a new workout called “Insanity” the very next day.  Yes, I did.

I started a strict monitoring of my caloric intake, reducing the number low and I promptly started punishing myself for the recent weight gain.

I KNOW what to do.  I do.  I really do.  I was very successful two years ago in taking off weight and was at my peak fitness in a very long time.

I KNOW what sets me off.  I really do.  I go in spurts with meal planning, advance food preparation, and diversions for when stress kicks in.

I KNOW what exercise I love.  I really do.  I love to run.  I love cross fit type workouts.  I love to hike.  I love to bike.  I do not love to swim but I appreciate the alternative workout it gives me.

So what is my problem?

I do not know.  However, I do know that I will pick up the momentum and work hard.  Again.  The hundredth time since marriage and kids and work and life.  Perseverance.  It is one of my greatest traits. 

In the meantime, does anyone know Jillian Michaels?  I could use some time with her.

The Midnight Hour

The midnight hour:  is that hour not something for young twenty-somethings, who have just begun their social activities?  Maybe many of us relate to the midnight hour as that last feeding, the time when our little one would sleep a solid five or so hours (we prayed) before arising again with the hungry cries.  What is it about aging, that staying up to midnight is about as appealing as that annual nether-region doctor appointment?

Having said all of that, who on EARTH would consider a midnight run?  A literal run:   jogging on two feet, in the darkest dark of night for exercise, blinking and moving for entertainment, and solely for fun?

Yes, that would be me.

BUT, kindly  let me tell you about it, how one midnight run forever changed me, how the miles offered me a freedom like I had yet to experience in my life.  

Remember in Girls Night Out: RTB Style, I signed up for the crazy race that consisted of 200 miles over 24 hours with 11 other teammates?  Yes, I know you do, as you shook your head and mumbled what a nut I am.  I keep going back to one of the three legs I had to run; and with reflection, I keep savoring the path I followed that evening……wait, morning…..oh heck, smack dab middle of the night run.

At one of our planning meetings, I realized that I was in van #2 and the first runner in said van.  I quickly began trying to guesstimate the approximate times I would be running during this 24 hour period.  I determined that my first run would be around 3-4 pm on Friday, my second run likely 1 am on Saturday and my last run around 11 am on Saturday.

Who runs in the dead middle of the night?

Yes, that would be me.

Fast-forward to Friday, May 17^th:   I was eagerly anticipating the text message from my teammate, the text that would let me know what time the runner would be coming in to pass the baton to me.  Van #1 is filled with lithe women who run REALLY fast.  You know, for a “fun” race – they were flying in ahead of schedule with each passing leg.  I was given a warning that I should expect runner #6 in about 11:45 pm.  I took off at precisely 12:08 am into what was supposed to be a 6.5 mile run, the longest of my three legs. 

The conditions that early morning were perfect:  it was 50 degrees and dry.  I was blinking like the bad guy Dynamo in the Arnold Schwarzenneger movie, "The Running Man".

From head to toe I was lit up:   headlamp, now THAT is a sexy look; blinking boobie light; blinking back light and a reflector vest that would make any DPW worker envious.   I was NOT going to get hit by a car in the middle of the night (but my teammates thought I might get eaten by a bear or perhaps sprayed by a skunk).

I started out on my run on a main road somewhere in Hopkinton and quickly diverted onto a country bumpkin-like road where it was literally PITCH BLACK.  My heart started to race a little more than intended for a jog.  I looked ahead as far as I thought I could see and there was only darkness.  I turned and looked behind me to see the light pollution of the lone gas station fading away in the distance.  There was NO one else around me.  I rolled my ankle.  Dang, this road was laden with pot-holes and divots, all unseen to me.  I tried running with my head down a bit to light up my way, but I realized that would be unwise for another six miles and took my chances as the road started to wind. 

Suddenly, I looked up and I was struck by the clarity of stars in the sky above me; highlighted by the light of the nearly full moon.  The moon would guide me to the finish.  My heart was calmer as my mind took in the absolute beauty of the middle of the night.  The overwhelming smell of spring lilacs filled the air as my breaths became steadier.  As the road became a bit more populated and more residential, I saw blinking lights on runners ahead of me in the distance.  Soon thereafter, I would start to hear regular pounding of approaching footprints behind me, followed by affirmative words of praise: 

“Good job!  Keep going!” 

“You’ve got this!”

“What a beautiful night for a run!”

It was a beautiful night for a run.  I followed the yellow reflector arrows to ensure I was on the right path and on my way to my transition area.  I kept running and running and running and running.

I had set my GPS on my phone in the event that somehow, I should get lost.  I was incredibly happy when I realized I had passed the six mile mark, only a half mile remained between me and the next runner.  As much as I enjoyed running the midnight hour, I was getting tired and 60 minutes in, I was ready to pass the baton.  I kept running and running and running and running.  I soon became a little freaked when I realized I passed the seven mile mark.  I knew I had not missed the transition area because there were signs everywhere and runners around me.  I started to panic because now, mentally, I was done – my mind was prepared to run six and a half miles and I was at seven – with no transition area in sight! 

My feet got heavier; they started to pound and scuff the pavement below.  My toes were feeling the friction of my super cool, but super uncomfortable Wonder Woman socks.  My team was waiting for me and I had told them I would be done over ten minutes ago.  No, I could no longer see the stars or the moon!  In fact, when a fellow runner encouraged me to run alongside of him and finish together, I was rather curt and asked where the damn transition area was.

When I finally crossed the transition line, my GPS said a total of 7.69 miles.  Yes.  A whopping 1.19 miles LONGER than I had I had anticipated for my long run.  However, I did it.  I enjoyed it (we will exclude that rant from the past half mile).  For the first time in a very long time, I felt free.  I managed to “escape” my world for a little over an hour.  There were no children needing me; there was no stack of bills to pay; there were no work deadlines; there was only me, myself and I present in that journey.  I was free.

Have you ever felt complete freedom (even if momentarily, like my experience above)?  If so, tell me about it.