Never Too Old

Halloween 2013 in my home was greeted with a nearly sixteen year old, a thirteen year old (who looks sixteen) and a five year old.  Halloween is great fun in our family, as it is my favorite and we cover much of the inside of our residence with a variety of decorations to reflect the season.

Our fall was so overly packed with extra-curricular activities and an international wedding, that it was October 28^th before it dawned on me we had yet to get costumes.  We were one of those – the cluster of people in the local Halloween store the night before the event itself.  My usually organized self has been way behind the eight ball these past few months.

Throughout the store, all three of my children were oohing, ahhing, laughing and being grossed out by the left-over, picked through assortment of costumes remaining.  Wait, a minute.....what?  A thought crossed my mind:  are my oldest two children too old to partake in the candy mooching this year?

A sophomore in high school and her brother, who in 7th grade is climbing just shy of six feet tall and sprouting facial hair.

 

No.  No, they are not. 

I used the excuse that we were going to our old neighborhood for Trick-or-Treating, therefore, they both could “get away” with walking the streets and collecting candy.  You see, it was not about the candy collection for my kids.  Honestly.  As I watched my children pick their respective costumes, their eyes were lit up with that innocent child-like behavior.  I understand this joy as their own Momma loves the excuse to dress up as something we would otherwise never be.  I watched the exuberance come from their bedrooms as they slid the polyester over their growing bodies.  I reveled in the laughter as they checked one another out and tried to decide what the orange skin-suit on my newly minted teenage boy really made him look like. 

 

As we watched the collections of kids that made their rounds through the neighborhood last night, I realized that my children are not too old.  I will not tell them they cannot trick-or-treat.  I will respect them when they decide they have outgrown the custom, but I will not issue a cease and desist. 

Life goes by way too fast as it is, why should we encourage our young ones to stop doing something they enjoy?  Should this not apply to us adults as well?

Lately, I find myself saying certain behaviors of mine or certain actions of mine are perchance unbecoming of someone about to be my age (that fortieth birthday is looming just over the horizon).  However, upon a moment of consideration, I realize if it’s something I enjoy who says I should stop doing it?

Are we so caught up in our adult-hood that we are missing out on the very moments that we enjoy, that keep us young at heart and bring grins to our faces?

So what that those awesome Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle knee socks are marketed towards kids/tweens/teens – I like them!  Michelangelo was my favorite (yes, because he was orange) and I want a pair!

Who cares if snow angels were meant for over-bundled little kids who fall and cannot get up?  The world needs life-sized angels, too!

Tell me you do not enjoy trying to count how many licks a Tootsie Pop takes!  (*I lose count after three…)

Does it matter if during a long run, a particular song just forces you to break out into a little jiggity-jig in your pace down Pleasant Street?  Maybe that passerby just needs a little giggle/smile today after your running bust a move!

Speaking of a run, experiencing the Electric Run (a 5k “race” throughout Gillette Stadium) wearing loads of glowing things:  glow sticks, glow necklaces, glow bracelets, glowing fiber optic mohawks, and more affirmed for me that no one is ever too old for fun.

Never. 

Never. 

Never ever too old for fun. 

There has got to be something you enjoy that is perhaps not age-appropriate...so tell me....what is it?

Disclaimer:  Yes, I did, in fact, try on my son’s orange skin suit.  No, it was not the least bit flattering (when is spandex EVER?) but the ensuing laughter from each respective member of my family made me consider going Trick-or-Treating myself next year (no, I will not but the thought was fun).

Seriously?

October is a crazy month.  The children and their schedules are in full centrifugal force with mothers and fathers engaging in their best juggling and balancing acts, hanging on for dear life with gas fumes in their cars on the non-stop commutes and last minute meal plans at odd hours of night.  Professional workloads seem to ramp up in anticipation of the looming holiday season and festive periods on the horizon.  For those of us in the world of PINK, October is a month-long to-do list of advocating, fund-raising, public relations and a mission to change the “awareness” into action.

October is also apparently the month of complainers.  Yup, I said it out loud.  Whoa, did I miss the memos and the memes announcing October as the month to air all grievances?  National Bitch About Everything Month. 

Here’s my disclaimer:  maybe I am a bit frazzled and frayed around the edges due to the aforementioned non-stop days filled with fifteen hours of responsibilities.  The little “things” are like subtle sandpaper rubbing with gentle friction until my nerves are screaming: out  “SERIOUSLY!?”

Our local prelude to the Mayoral election in early November is getting pretty messy and the cesspool is enlarging by day.  Politics is ugly; always has been muddy and always will be.  We have an incumbent who has done a pretty decent job since 1994 – nearly twenty years.  The man has a pretty sordid personal life, one that would certainly make fodder for reality TV fans and spawns much of the town drama.  Is a public servant subject to the same rules of morality in his ability to do his job?  I would not want to be judged on my ability to do my career based on the skeletons in my closet.  Personally, I am good at what I do in my day to day means of earning a living.  Is it my boss’s business what I do behind closed doors?  I have my own heavy judgments on said incumbent candidate, but as an “educated” voter, is it not my duty to weigh the pros and cons of each candidate and determine who the best person for the job is? 

When the campaigning began, I knew very little of the opponent – the person brave enough to face the long term resident of the mayoral office.  I have been doing my research and soaking up more information about this relatively unknown person who has actually been sitting in a civil seat.  However, the election ramp up has become a vat of uber-toxic mud-wrestling and frankly, I have had enough.  I am very eager to hear both sides and listen to the debates; but unfortunately, the negative campaigning has overruled any rational logic.  My thoughts of moving to a deserted island, where none of this “BS” exists, is surmounting and immensely appealing.

Seriously?

 

How about we stop the complaining?  Instead of steamrolling one another with what we do not like about the opposing party, how about we start cheerleading for the candidate we think is best?  I love Mickey Mouse because he's such a leader and always comes to the rescue.  More palatable than Donald Duck sucks because he wears no pants and mumbles in that grating voice.

I really dislike being told what to do.  Therefore, telling me not to vote for the incumbent because you think he’s a scumbag or that he’s a typical politician does not sway my vote one way or another.  Telling me that I should not vote for the relative new-comer because she’s a bitch, not invested in our community and is a scapegoat for another candidate down the line also does not sway my vote on the matter.  Tell me why your candidate is the best person for the job!  Tell me why your candidate can continue to make my home town community the stellar place it is!  Otherwise, I may simply turn my hearing aid off and start singing, “Puff The Magic Dragon” (which, by the way, my thirteen year old son informs me is “stupid” and “about drugs”.  WHAT?  I loved that movie as a young child, it’s not about drugs!)

Of course, as I continue my personal efforts to make a change in my society through my charitable endeavors, the complaints rifle through my pretty pink pathway as well.  The phrase, “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished” is ripe and relevant as we surge through the third week of the month of breast cancer causes.  The critics, the nay-sayers, the haters, and local friends are mouthing off about so much……..um, stuff.  I apologize if my eyes involuntarily roll up backwards into my head as the simultaneous toxic verbiage spews out of your mouth.  I do not intend to be disrespectful whatsoever.  I simply choose which negativity gets any of my attention or not.  (Usually the latter).

Perhaps my own “adventure” through cancer land has given me a different set of tools in which to navigate life.  As much as I am working on the eyeball roll thing (I know it’s not flattering), I am about as clichéd as it gets and I do not “sweat the small stuff”.  While the complainers may be sitting high on their bitching bandwagon, I prefer to go my own way, even alone if necessary. 

Yesterday, after my own oncology visit, I quickly scooted over for a visit with a loved one who is currently waging her own war on the hematology oncology floor at the hospital.  While my friends are engaging in verbal battles of town politics; or blaming others for what makes them angry at life – my world stops so I can take in a warrior simply trying to stay alive.  Side effects from the very poison that will keep her alive are raging rampant on her body.  Her now non-existent immune system does not allow me my nurturing nature of wanting to hold her, rock her and comfort her with my human touch.  The strongest girl alive is now weepy because she does not feel well and in fact, she hates to admit that she feels so very weak.  My heart breaks off into a million little pieces and my own eyes are filled to the brim with tears.  I suffered horrifically during my cancer treatment so that no one else I loved had to ever face the same awful torment.  Yet, here she is – falling apart – so that she can come back together again, stronger and more beastly than ever before……but she has to experience it and we have to watch it.

Seriously?

 

My perspective has been re-aligned, yet again. 

As I was feeling angry about the trend of the recent weeks becoming 2013’s Bitch-Fest, I was overwhelmed with the task of calibrating my feelings and emotions.  For all the good going on in the world, my rose-colored glasses were fogging up and fast.  I needed help. 

And then it came.

A fellow soccer mom showed me her young daughter’s social media post in which she talked about being inspired to make positive change in her world.  When I was about to lose some of my own hope while nursing my broken heart, the bright light lit me up and filled my very being.  Based on my own personal choices and the roads I choose to embark upon, a young girl thanked me for showing her the way.  Suddenly, my vigor is re-fueled and I know what I have to do......what a gift from her to me!

October is a beautiful month, filled with changing leaves and comforting stews.  Yes.  Life is also a  spectacular opportunity to embrace change and comfort one another.  I am ready.  Are you?

Here's a great way someone else started:  http://now.msn.com/diner-picks-up-tab-after-overhearing-bad-news-in-boston-restaurant

A Graphic Look at PINK

I do not hate pink.  In fact, I find it to be a flattering color for me and the several shades of pink represent so much more for me in my life post-cancer. 

I do hate the way pink is used.  Pinkwashing.  Have you heard of it?  Tell me  you have not walked into any box store in the month of October and you have not been drowned in pink as it is everywhere.  Pink has been branded into a commercial enterprise of its own; namely for many corporations to jump on the breast cancer “awareness” bandwagon and ultimately, reap the benefits of its bottom line profit margin.

Debates abound with some die-harders telling me that a pink ribbon on their bucket of fried chicken does make them stop and think about their breast health for a moment.

 Come on!  <Insert my most dramatic, sarcastic eye-roll right here!> 

Seriously, is it not infuriating that the pink ribbon – a symbol of a horrendous disease and a cause to “cure” the same – is somewhat misplaced on a bucket of obesity inducing fried chicken?  How does that pink ribbon on a bag of cat food or cat litter help women with their breast health?  Personally, I have seen the ribbon on everything from toilet paper, bubble wrap, Italian sausages, yogurts, duct tape, and countless other items of merchandise for sale.

We KNOW, we KNOW, we KNOW breast cancer exists.  Can we all safely say we are very AWARE that breast cancer is a profound problem currently today?  Um, yes.  Do not even get me started on "the cure".....that is another blog post in and of itself.

Have you read the label to see how much of your “donation” by purchase of said item actually goes to the purported cause?  Maybe ten percent, or maybe ten cents or maybe the disclaimer is as vague as “a portion of the proceeds from the purchase of this product goes to a breast cancer charity (or to breast cancer research).”  Wait, what?

Where is YOUR money going?

Buying pink does not necessarily do anything for the hundreds of thousands battling breast cancer each year.  In fact, many of the so-called pink items actually contain ingredients that may CAUSE cancer.  Yay for a cure! 

Come on!  <Insert my most dramatic, sarcastic eye-roll right here!> 

We CAN do better than this!  We can, we can, we can!!!!

Let me tell you a little about breast cancer.  Your brain will permanently etch the sound waves of your surgical oncologist calling you to tell you that you have cancer.  You will hear that voice in your head for the remainder of your life.  You will never, ever forget the dread, the fear, and the pit in the bottom of your innermost core knowing you have a disease that may possibly take your life.

Your eyes will never erase the image of a nurse donning all but a HazMat suit to come administer the insanely toxic and potent poison right….into…your veins.  The fear of watching the gelatinous “Red Devil” (aka Adriamycin) arriving in the largest syringe you have ever laid eyes on (bigger than a turkey baster, people) being slowing pushed into the IV port and the feeling of the cool toxic substance surge into your body is similar to what you envision being tortured may be like.  You will also panic at the sight of a technician coming in with a metal lockbox containing the radioactive isotopes they inject INTO YOU.  Anything that must be under lock and key in a protective safe and deemed *radioactive* (I think Chernobyl if you will), must not be thrust into your bloodstream.  Oh, yes, it does.

Despite drinking gallons of liquids to counter the effects of the noxious chemicals soaring through your system, you will not forget the feeling of not being able to poop.  That is right.  You insist to yourself that what goes in MUST come out.  However, trying to poop on chemotherapy is nearly impossible.  You actually consider an emergency room visit because it….just…..will…..not……come…..out.  You cry.

Your breasts will never be the same.  Ever.  Not only will you show hundreds of different people your boobies on a daily basis, you will not be able to pull off the name Misty Rain and get tips in your thong for displaying these beautiful mounds.  Oh, did I mention that about ninety-five percent of these people who gawk at your boobs will also touch them.  Yup.  Men and women.  Young, middle-aged, and old.  You cannot help but wonder how many boobs they touch every day in their professional lives.  Seriously, your mind goes there.

Your armpit will be scarred and lymph nodes taken for good.  Your breasts may be one or all of the following:  scarred, misshapen, lopsided, tattooed, puckered, dimply, discolored, numb, plastic, radiation-induced firm, mis-matched nippled, lumpy, filled with scar tissue or fatty necrosis or even reconstructed from tissue from somewhere else on your body.  Your emotional outlook on how your feminine breasts are now far from how you were made naturally may take a huge hit causing you to hide your breasts from your husband or not want to date for fear of disgusting them.

The bone pain from the other poison, called Taxol, will make you contemplate suicide.  Take the pain of childbirth and delivery but maximize that by 1000% and pretend you are getting run over by a gigantic Mack truck crushing all of your bones slowly.  You will ponder if death is a more palatable alternative.

You will have countless side effects long after the treatment has commenced and your support teams have dispersed.  The emotions shift daily and as if on a roller coaster in the Marianas Trench.  The residual bone and joint pain makes you shuffle like a ninety year old.  The phantom striking pains in all of your surgical sites.  The fog brain.  Yes, you will not remember anything like you used to.  Words you know will be stuck…..somewhere…..as you try to complete your sentences.

Welcome, my friends, this….is……PINK.

In an effort, myself, to do better about the world of pink and to make the lives of my fellow cancer counterparts more comfortable, I had to find a way to ensure that change was being made.  I could not ask people for donations to support pink and not be able to tell them where their money was truly going.  With a passionate cancer advocate who has bulldozed change herself, we founded PINK Revolution Breast Cancer Alliance.  Our mission was to ensure that monies that come into our pink world actually go right back out in its entirety (yes, 100% of those monies – no skimmed fat executive salaries of these so-called NON-PROFITS; no operating expenses to cover extravagant five star hotel functions to “rally the troops”; no cents of the dollars actually coming back to the ultimate cause) to help patients you may very well know yourself. 

How can a woman try to fight for her life when she has no disability insurance and cannot work because of the aforementioned “side-effects” of chemotherapy and surgeries; and the assistance she is given through our local social programs is $27/month in food stamps?  Oh sure, what little she will try to eat given the projectile vomiting and constant nausea may amount to $27/month. 

Come on!  <Insert my most dramatic, sarcastic eye-roll right here!> 

Our world has become a fast and furiously paced place to live.  However, we are all humans and we all have the capacity to love one another and to help one another.  Let us bring back the human touch.  Let us take a moment from our busy lives to care for each other.  It truly does take a village, so let us bring that back.

Donations are immensely helpful and help PINK Revolution fund a number of necessities – from local research at UMass Memorial Medical School Research, to leading edge technology (one of five in the world sophisticated tomosynthesis (3D) machines for betting diagnostic imaging) at UMass Memorial Comprehensive Breast Center, to improved patient care and funding for items such as wigs, lymphedema sleeves, prosthetics and so much more.

Make your pink dollars count.  Know with confidence that your donation is making a huge difference in the life of a very real breast cancer warrior.  If you cannot make a donation, there are endless other ways to pay it forward:  make a meal for a family going through cancer treatment, give a patient a ride to their chemotherapy, mow their lawn, rake their leaves, watch their young children, clean their house and set the ripple of pervasive change in place for our future generations.

Let us all be passionately pink. 

Let us all be the start of pervasive change.

KNOCK YOU DOWN!

"Success has been and continues to be defined as getting up one more time than you’ve been knocked down."

 

Who hasn’t been knocked down in the book of life?  Sometimes bad things happen:  you lose your job, your spouse leaves you and your children, your health is compromised, and you lose a loved one prematurely in an accident or whatever the case may be.  Often there are no explanations for the trials in our lives, but there is always a lesson to be learned.

In thirty-nine years, the universe has handed me what I like to refer to as more than my fair share of sucker punches.  For example, loss of my hearing by age four <JAB!>;   a mentally ill mother who beat me bloody, bruised and hurt me to my deepest core <POW!>;  a very aggressive stage two breast cancer diagnosis at fourteen weeks pregnant <KERPOW!>; the sad, slow, degenerative death of my father <GGGGGG-GOISH!>,the harsh reality of massive life down-sizing post-cancer <pull…the…rug…out!>;  the sudden, instant death of my mother <BAM!> and now another *minor* health bump that will redirect my very near future plans.

Should I be bitter?  Should I be a cynic?  After a few rounds in the ring with forces stronger than Muhammad Ali, you bet I could be angry and miserable at the world.  However, I am not.

My lesson learned (and learned and learned and learned and learned yet again, oh, and for added measure learned again) is that my personal success will be determined by being knocked down and getting back up again (and again and again and again and again and again…….).  Honestly, what else would I do?  Why would I give up?  It is my choice to lay down defeated, or instead, get myself right back up and hope no one really saw that fall.

 

I remember mapping out my life my senior year with my high school bud, Karen:  We would both wait until age 30 to be married, we would both own red convertible BMWs, I would be a doctor, she a physical therapist and we would have THE life.  The reality, for me, is that I married at 22, had my first child by 24, I ended up in the legal field and now reside in consulting, AND I have yet to own a BMW or a convertible.  Furthermore, I spent many of my twenty-something years planning my life out to the most finite of details (all but the bathroom breaks, people).  I literally mapped it out by year, by age and some other irrelevant planning details.  Recall my previous posts that touch on those wild curveballs of life?  Um, yeah.  Master planner or not, there are side-winders that threaten to de-rail you off your very pathway on a precise, yet irregular, basis.

 

In any event, as a parent, I now witness the moments of impact for my children in their own treks through their young lives.  The balance of being a super good momma, by providing my children with my advice to foster their own lessons learned and not being a smothering helicopter parent, is super fragile and immensely easy to tip.  Providing guidelines to your child on how to handle the unfairness in life is a must and watching them employ your advice is empowering for both you and for them.  However, when life still throws up vomit in their face and knocks them down, it is increasingly difficult to watch your child get back up and dust herself off.  However, what else should I teach my children to do?  Of course, they need to stand back up again and this time, even taller.  What other choice is there?  The world is a vast place and there are an awful lot of boxing gloves waiting to take that sucker punch!  Lead by example, I say.

There will always be nay-sayers who say you cannot do x, y, or z.  Shouldn’t we be programmed to automatically respond with:  “Well, here is x, y, z and for that matter, a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, I, j, k, l, m ...? “

There will always be instances of life going a full 180 degrees opposite of what we expected or how we had planned.  Shouldn’t we take a deep breath and simply embrace the different view? 

Perhaps, like my own journey through life, yours will be (is) chock full of speed bumps – some harder than others.  I personally tighten my own seatbelt, holdthe safety bar and release giggles amongst the “Yahoooos!” and know that I will fall down again in  life.  However, you can bet your last dollar that I will rise again (even if it means rolling over onto all fours first and going vertical with a grand groan)!

 

 

New Adventures in Diarrhea Pants

Early July, I was scared to death.  I was beyond nervous, so much so, that an entire flock of butterflies were fluttering around in my tummy.  My bowels rumbled and gurgled with anticipation and a near pre-diarrhea anxiety.  I was about to embark on a new adventure and for a gal that is not easily ruffled, I was quoting Scar from "The Lion King” (minus the sarcasm) with, “I quiver with fear!”

I walked into the old plastic factory that had recently been converted to the latest trend of fitness enthusiasts’ idea of a playground.  My mind had stereotypes running rampant and I instantly categorized each of the people then present in the gym.  The rubber floor had chalk marks on it reminiscent of grade school scribbling, but in an alien-like gibberish.  The room, despite being very large, had very little equipment in it and I found myself questioning what type of gym this could be.  I stared at the ropes hanging from the ceiling and pondered what I had gotten myself into.

 

Uncomfortably so, I started foam rolling because that’s what everyone else was doing.  Slowly, people starting saying “hi” and making me feel slightly less out of place.  Let me remind you that every single person in the space in these early days was extremely fit and had definition of muscles on their muscles.  I promised myself to keep an open mind, a very wide-open mind and to let myself experience the opportunity of something new.  I also started tormenting myself, telling myself I did not belong here nor would I be able to keep up with these beautiful people.

Welcome to CrossFit.

Within a couple of workouts, I realized that the people are insanely nice, very welcoming and the team atmosphere that CrossFit encourages is awesome.  Sure, you are working out with some incredibly strong folks and some amazingly fit athletes, but you are truly only competing against yourself.  You are pushing yourself to your limits and you have an instant cheering squad alongside of you in your fellow CrossFit groupies.  You are setting new personal records for YOURSELF! 

People accuse CrossFit of being a cult.  I say, why yes, it is a cult.  A cult of people with similar fitness goals you share; an automatic support team to encourage you to meet those goals and obstacles, head on through both thick and thin. 

I am ALL in!

I have been working out for a few years now, trying a vast multitude of training regimens  and different gym environments to keep me interested and to namely keep me feeling strong and HEALTHY.  The only sense of control I have over my health after a tough cancer battle is by engaging in a variety of workouts to push my body to the opposite limit.  I have known the ultimate weakness in health and my mission is to now know the ultimate strength in my OWN health.

With a brain that still thinks it is a sixteen year old track star and a now nearly 40 year old body, the ability to mesh the two smoothly has become quite the challenge and often results in frustration.  Learning how to run at my “happy” pace is akin to me wanting to conquer a roller coaster but instead sitting idly at a snail's pace on the red line from Leominster into Harvard Square.

In previous posts of mine, you have met “Spike”, my gremlin who gets into my head and you have learned of my insanely high expectations of myself.  Many of you have offered sage advice, such as “You are WAY too hard on yourself!” or “You set your goals to unattainable limits!” or “You are doing it, cut yourself some slack!”  Sorry, Charlie – these words do nothing to console me and I have come to terms that I am just different.  (Okay, okay, I am insane!)  I am a goal setter and I am overly ambitious, but I also have that ability to get what I want.  Many of us have that ability but we fail to engage it, let alone use it on a regular basis in life.

Welcome to CrossFit.

In two months’ time, I have found a “home” when it comes to MY happy place; a location where I come out feeling great.  Yes, you read that right.  I have had my ass handed to me at the discreet Jytek Park location.  I have sweated enough in one session to grossly wet the floor around me (yes, I clean it up for the next person behind me).  I have made new friends and I have found quite a few former gym-rat friends who have shifted here to reconnect with.  I have nearly puked.  I have built a lot of muscle.  I have improved my form.  I have broken through those damn tight hip flexors and gotten my squat down, down, down.  I am down fifteen pounds.

(That's NOT me, but damn, that WILL be me!)

 

The difference:  every....single......workout I have come out of, I have a grin on my face.  I thank my trainer for the workout that I just did!  My body is buzzing and alive.  I feel STRONG.  I have learned an entirely new lingo and I still giggle like a thirteen year old boy every time the trainer says key words like:  “snatch” “clean and jerk” “thrusters”.  I have wet myself.  (Yes, you read that right and apparently, it’s not because I have had kids!)  I am building definition in my own muscles.  Those fears of not fitting in or being able to do the workout have been replaced with fears of starting to look like a man.  (Actually, when I see the super fit women at my CrossFit, I envy them and count down the workouts until I can mold my body into a similar physique - see picture above).

Actually, I am still afraid.....of rope climbs, of pull ups, of muscle ups, and of sharting myself.....but I have a newfound confidence that this body, my body, may be able to accomplish a lot more than I ever thought possible - cancer or no cancer, upcoming 40 years of age or not and limitations are still clearly meant to be surpassed.

Inasmuch as CrossFit is not for everyone, I have realized it IS for me.  I cannot afford the monthly payments, but yet, I have promised myself to do so for as long as I can financially.  There is always a way and cuts can be made in other places.  My health is critical.  My workouts are so very important to my well-being both physically AND mentally.  For the first time in a very, very long time, I feel strong, I feel powerful, I feel healthy and that is my happy place.  I am now able to cross-train including my running, hiking, and CrossFit.  I know any future bad runs I have will be coddled by a dose of slamming some weights around and running around the industrial park. 

 

Thank you CrossFit 978.

 

Now tell me:  Where is your happy place in the world of exercise?  Are you open to trying new forms of exercise?  What scares you about some forms of exercise?  Do you exercise for health, for vanity, for peace of mind?  Are you willing to surpass YOUR limitations?

To My Fellow Humans - On 9/11

I have been thinking again.  <Oh no, here she goes again!>

Yes, over-analysis is quite my thing; my thought-process may be shifted, sorted, reviewed, researched, molded, plied, and manipulated from a couple of brainwaves to an extended period of cranium-induced exercises.  <Doesn’t she have an off-switch?  Geesh.>

Today, my mind does circular donuts around the date:  September, 11^th.  It has been twelve years since the horrible terrorist attacks on our U.S. soil that forever changed our innermost beings.  Most of us remember precisely where we were and what we were doing at the very moments each plane crashed into the respective World Trade Center towers, into the Pentagon and into the field in Pennsylvania.

What I remember most about the significant date of 9/11 is the humanity that shone through and carried on for the weeks thereafter.  Civilization came together and humans helped each other by digging through rubble; and further by hugging each other for the losses of security, memories of what was and of the countless lives affected that day.

Again, we witnessed unbelievable acts of heroism and courage on April 15^th of this year, when Boston was bombed during its biggest sporting event of the year, the Boston Marathon.  People came together immediately to help our fellow humans again.  Blood, sweat and an awful lot of tears were shed and mixed as we cast aside the “Why?” and we simply loved our respective beings, strangers or not.

 

One element that makes me most proud to be an American is our ability to come together in times of great strife and turmoil.  Differences are most certainly cast aside without a second glance, sleeves are rolled up and we band together as one to care for each another.  Our pasts are completely irrelevant for a brief period: our socio-economic backgrounds and demographics temporarily irrelevant, our religious affiliations and our personal beliefs immaterial for the time being.  People helping people in the most basic, and yet, the most essential and necessary ways – and why do we not do this on a regular basis?  My mind ponders why - why only in tragedies do we cast aside our differences and resort to the crucial need of humans helping humans?

In an effort to not disregard the thousands that do help one another on a regular basis, there are many who support their fellow villagers by fund-raising for those who are ill; by helping with childcare for those strapped by employment restraints or challenging home situations; by supporting those who have fallen upon hard times and providing for them in their time of need; by lending an ear or a heart for someone who’s had their heart broken; or even by the very professions that allow specialized people to care for another as their daily job requires whether it is by fire-fighting, police work, medical skills or more.

My thoughts continue to bounce around in my mind, not unlike the Roomba vacuum.  Instead of cleaning my brain, the views I ponder simply bounce off the constraints of my skull and answers remain elusive.  Why do we not undertake caring for our fellows as a way of life, said actions carried out like the tasks we perform for work and at home regularly?  Why do we not teach our children these actions are just as important as the pleases and thank-yous?  We buckle up for safety in our cars regularly, but when is the last time we embraced a friend or acquaintance for a similar protective snugness in the ride of life?

In these twelve years, post-September 11^th, I have learned that there is nothing quite stronger than the bond of humanity.  When humans act together, I am quite sure even diamonds are not stronger.  An act of helping your fellows does not have to be grand in nature.  In fact, there is a cliché that says every small rock casts a ripple, which creates a larger ripple and so on.  Imagine, a world where your small act of kindness may set off such a chain reaction! 

 

Many acts of kindness are circulating lately, but what about if we did not pay for the coffee behind us and what if we did not send a caring letter to a friend, but instead, we simply incorporated acts of caring beyond those ideas?  Right?  <Right!>  NO!  SAY IT LOUDER!  <RIGHT!!!!!!!!>

Last week, I asked you to take inventory of your friends (Who Are Your Friends?) and ask yourself what you really wanted.  This week, I am challenging you to stop and make a list of five (yes, only five, you can do it!) kind acts you can do for your fellow neighbors, co-workers, acquaintances, and any other person you may see on a regular basis. 

·         Maybe you bring the trash and recycling bin in for the mother who has her hands full of kids, groceries and backpacks upon her return home. 

·         Perhaps you send a backpack fully loaded with school supplies to your child’s teacher knowing they will put it to a child who needs it (info can be found here:  Cara's Kids). 

·         Maybe that friend on Facebook has been putting on a brave face despite her challenges at home and she needs a bag of apples from your local orchard. 

·         Perhaps your elderly neighbor could use some frozen meals to easily defrost and prepare for himself as his children live out of state. 

·         Maybe the boy on your son’s soccer team just needs a gentle hug and a ride home.

·         Perhaps your boss could use something sweeter in her life, so bring her a plate of cookies.

·         Maybe you mow the grass of the neighbor next door as he tries to balance his life.

Teach your children by your actions, not your directives.  Let us pave the way for future generations starting now.  The list of ways to help each other is endless; your imagination is without boundaries and your ability to support your village is always there. 

How will you help another human being today?

Who Are Your Friends?

Do you ever pause and take stock of your friendship bank?  Have you pondered the character and depth of the people who are in your life for one reason or another?  Do you feel confident you have nurtured and coddled your best relationships?  Are you neglecting a friend or two?

Over the years, my relationships with my friends has certainly morphed and changed, not unlike the colors of a chameleon.  I sit and wonder:  does time change relationships or is it simply an occurrence of people changing over time, myself included?

I moved around quite a bit as a young child until I was thirteen and settled here in Massachusetts.  I cannot say that I have a friend from the second grade that I am still super tight with in this present day.  Thankfully, social media forums like Facebook have allowed me the opportunity to reconnect with some grade school friends from Oklahoma, so that is a unique treat and often affords me warm, delicious and tasty morsels of childhood memories every now and then.

I have my lifetime friends from age thirteen on – those friends that regardless of how frequently we talk; I know that if I pick up the phone and call them in distress, they would be there for me in a flash.  Sometimes weeks pass by in our busy lives that we do not connect in some form, however, I do know that our relationship is concrete enough to withstand the brief delays in communication.  Even in 2013, a brief text conversation allows us the connection of friendship and affords the ability to gently push aside the guilt for not having enough time.

 

In my early thirties, I struggled greatly with one-sided friendships.  I queried myself relentlessly about why so-and-so always wanted and needed something from me.  Yet, so-and-so rarely gave back in return.  As a giving (and giving and giving and giving) person, my heart stung and my brain could not comprehend the short end of the stick in return.  I exhausted myself in providing friendship and stressing about the emptiness I could not fill.

Nearing my forties, and after a life changing and ever so cliché cancer battle, I literally do not sweat the small stuff.  Sometimes, we need to clear the clutter from our lives, right?  A regular inventory check of friendships has become a new type of “spring cleaning” if you will.  I love people.  I do.  I love hearing all the stories, the trials and tribulations of others, the depth of character from various families, the parental diatribes, and the stuff that comes along with living life.  However, I also want quality over quantity - my time has to count these days.  As many working moms, we do not get much time away from our family responsibilities, therefore, time spent with people outside of the inhabitants of my household has to be worth it.

My children comment regularly on how many acquaintances I have <and usually chastise me for not being able to go anywhere without talking endlessly with someone…..> but I have to stop and consider at times, am I, myself, nurturing all of these relationships?  Are some acquaintances actually friends that need some more of me?  Are some of these friends feeling neglected by me?  Do I need take inventory on my own personal contributions to these relationships?

A couple of people have indeed called me out on not being involved enough with them.  I immediately feel horrible for not being there when they needed me; shame on me for not making the time regardless of my insanely full schedule.  However, when I come back down off my panic pole, I realize that these same folks have not afforded the same effort that they accuse me of failing. Interesting.  What do I do from here?

Let’s bring it back to center, people. 

Stepping back from my so-called inventory of friends, I analyze even deeper and I delve further into my own character pool….what do I want from my friends?

 

Basically, I want friends to laugh with.  Laughter and silliness is indeed still the best medicine.  I love game nights where rampant laughter has caused sore abs and tight jaws the day after an inappropriate game of “Things” or “Telestrations”.  Friends who will laugh AT me when I get a rare night out and suddenly become a super-charged Energizer Bunny who may make quite a fool of herself.

I want friends who know I am full-blown nuts and love me more for it.  I want absolutely insane friends who encourage me to be more of a lunatic and entice me into actions I may (or may  not) regret.  I want friends who will surpass me in my attempts to cram my life full of memories and out of the box ways to get there.

I want friends who simply take a moment to think of me and send me a text with a “Hey, how are you?” or an “OMG, I just farted so loud my cat jumped!” or a “My child just had the best game of his/her life!” or a “Bec, I need your help, my mom was just diagnosed with breast cancer, would you talk to her?”

I want friends who say let’s get together for a pumpkin beer tomorrow, or let’s go for a hike to be followed by a pumpkin beer.  (Tee hee, yes, I like pumpkin beer).  I also like friends who say, "I tried kale today and it was not bad but what else do I do with it?"

I want friends who are not afraid to open up and tell me just how much their husband is driving them nuts this week, or perhaps, their child is struggling in school or with a bully.  I want a friend to say, I cannot handle the stress of my life right now and I have just knocked down an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s – help me.

 

Now that I have compiled my list of a million desires from my friends, I will ensure that I offer some of the same to those I call my friends.  I will thank each and every one of you for being my friend, regardless of capacity or “depth” in friendship.  I will only hope that I provide you with laughter, insanity, thoughtfulness, an ear <or probably two in my case since both ears do not quite work right>, and last but not least my heart.