Take Note

Dammit, I'm Still Running!

2010-10-01T15:32:00.000-04:00

Usually when I want something, I know it. This season's it bag, those great boots, that handy new gadget....you get the picture. So it struck me very odd when I realized that I wanted something so badly that I didn't even realize it for the longest time.

I want to run. Yes, you have read correctly.

I. Want. To. Run.

Who knew? Not me. Not for a long time. Surely not when I started back in April because I was over 40 and out of shape. But I kept at it...consistently. That probably should have been my first clue because I am usually not very consistent. At anything.

Over time I began to realize I was actually enjoying running. And not only did I enjoy it, but I needed it like the air I breathe.

Here's how I knew:

1) I actually started staring longingly at running sneakers and not Louboutin pumps (ok, well not always)

2) I started to read articles on running over celebrity gossip

3) I would run even when the flies preferred me over the dog poop (yeah, definitely not attractive, or tasty)

4) I ran my first 5K and wanted to run more (33 minutes, yay me!!)

5) I ran in extreme heat and pouring rain (I actually like running in the rain)

These last six months of running have shown me that there is still much to learn about myself. That middle age isn't an end but another beginning. I am preparing to run in my second 5K this weekend and after that, I start to train for a 10K.

Later, I gotta run.....

The Butterfly Experiment

2010-07-16T17:05:00.007-04:00

My daughter, Tiny Dancer and I have a passion for butterflies. Over the years, they have become a way for us to symbolize our love. One particular day, we went to a toy store where we bought a butterfly kit. The kit allows you to order tiny caterpillars, watch them eat, grow, and form a chrysalis with alarming speed.

Once the butterflies emerge, you are able to watch them, feed them, and set them free to do what they are meant to.

Hence the purpose of my story.

Tiny Dancer is going through what I like to call the Peter Pan phase, precariously perched on that very fine line of not still a little girl, and yet not quite a big girl either. And if she could, she would throw herself in Never Never Land because the thought of anything related to growing up (except makeup and shoes) (and purses) (and Justin Bieber) makes her want to vomit.

So on a beautiful spring morning we bring the butterflies outside. Just the air and the sun was enough to get their little wings fluttering and one by one they took off to meet their destinies and I looked at my daughter only to see tears streaming down her face.

I thought the butterflies were a beautiful analogy to what she was experiencing. And so I told her in a notebook of letters that her and I share:

Tiny Dancer,

Raising butterflies with you reminds me how every single moment is precious. I know you are struggling right now - wanting to stay a little girl yet excited for what's ahead. Your journey is very similar to that of the butterflies - they were cute fuzzy caterpillars and when the time was right they changed into beautiful butterflies.

And that is how it will happen with you. When the time is right you will grow from this special little girl you are today into the amazing woman you are destined to become.

And when the day comes and you spread your wings, I will stare in amazement and pride and watch you fly just like we did with our butterflies.

Life is an ongoing journey little one. We can't stop time, we can only enjoy and treasure every moment. And, don't worry, when you do fly away, I will always be here when you fly home.

Love, Mommy

I didn't tell her that I also wish there was a Never Never Land. I also didn't tell her that when she does fly away, along with pride and amazement, there will be tears, lots of tears....she will learn on her own...

© 2010 Cyndi Flanagan

I'm Driving in My Car - Part I

2010-05-05T18:00:00.001-04:00

There is something about driving in the summer that takes you back...

I'm driving in my car. It's summer, circa 1980-something. Who cares? I'm young, I'm irresponsible, what do I care about time?

The sun is shining, the t tops are off my candy apple red Trans Am. Duran Duran is blasting from my speakers. I am sporting my Z. Cavarrichis, the guinea tee, and of course, my Mr. T starter set. My hair is teased and sprayed into place with the appropriate amount of Stiff Stuff. And always one to over accessorize then (where was Rachel Zoe when I needed her in my youth), I am sporting hoops large enough for a pair of birds to roost comfortably.

I am cruising down the Parkway, heading to Belmar down to DJs, Bar A...I check my look in the mirror and holy hair - is that a mustache?!?!?!

Suddenly it is SO 2000-late, and I am jolted back to my mini-van and my 40 (something) reality. I make a mental note to fire all my friends for not pointing out my facial hair as I call my waxer for an emergency appointment.

I've gotta be ready, tomorrow's forecast is calling for sun....

© 2010 Cyndi Flanagan

I am running, dammit!!

2010-04-14T16:55:00.003-04:00

As I morph in and out of the various phases in my mid-life journey (notice the absence of the word crisis; clearly the couch sessions and xanax are working), I have entered the 'my body is a temple phase' or more acurately ...carrying my shopping bags and purse winds me, could I be out of shape?

And so, I do what every highly motivated, over-committed, over-zealous woman does. I sign up for a 5K and buy the most expensive running shoes I can find to match the most adorable running outfits I also just purchased.

And then I go out for my first run.

Five minutes later, I am huffing, sweating and realizing I am completely in over my head.

But this does not bother me. I find myself in this position more often than not. I decide that I will enlist the help of an expert. So I beg my 12 year old son (whose recent accomplishment is running an under 6 minute mile) to help make a runner out of me.

So we suit up and head to the local track.

We get on the track and begin to run. Well, he runs. He is gone. I mean gone. He is running like the wind - it is a site to behold. I more like... plod along. But I am committed. So I keep on plodding. Did you know you have to breathe too? I am finding it very hard to breathe. I am finding it impossible to breathe and run simultaneously.

My son is back at my side and slows down enough to look at my feet. "You know," he says, "you are supposed to run heel to toe."

And he's gone...just like that. I feel the breeze.

Ok, heel - toe, heel - toe...crap! And breathe, I have to breathe...nose? mouth? Oh, whatever! I am sweating so badly and so starved for oxygen I can't even find joy in my outfit.

I look to my left, the troll, I mean my son is once again next to me. Oh look, he's smiling, giving me encouragement! What a good boy.

Mom?

Yes honey?

Why aren't you running?

I am running dammit!

Youth is really wasted on the young. I am not letting him discourage me. I too will run like the wind....or not. Who cares as long as I keep running.

Am I a Bad Mother??

2009-12-03T07:36:00.010-05:00

I am flying by the seat of my pants even more than usual. The Hubby is in China and I am here holding down the fort. (Who knew The Hubby did so much to help!?!?!)

Turns out, flying solo is hard work. However, it has made me force my children to pitch in more than usual. For The Son, that means actually having to do something around the house.

So, I believe in trial by fire. Yesterday was recycling day. If you don't know me very well than you cannot imagine the impact those words have.

Not only are there the usual two humongous cans filled to the brim with assorted sodas, wine bottles, water bottles, more wine bottles..there is also the evidence of my Internet shopping habit. And THAT alone makes all those wine bottles seem insignificant.

So, let me set the stage...

It is 7:00 am. The birds would have been singing but alas, it is freezing and anything out there is dead or frozen. The Son has just been roused from a deep prepubescent slumber by the sounds of my melodious voice screaming for him to get his butt out of bed. Upon seeing his half asleep form emerge in pj's and sweatshirt, I trill...."today is recycling day!!!" I gently steer him towards the garage, pick up my steaming cup of coffee and hunker down in the window to watch the action.

Did I mention how cold it was? Yep, the lawn is a carpet of frost! From my perch, I hear him trip over his own scooter that he has left in the path that he must use to get the recyclables out. Hearing his disgust over his own sloppiness warms my heart like a Christmas story! I intently watch as he drags can number one to the curb. Just as he starts to walk back I yell out the window to him that he can't leave the cans in front of the mailbox. I turn my back and giggle but not before I see him cursing me under his breath. He comes back for can number two. I am enjoying every second of his labor. He gets can number two to the curb and it tips over! The Son must pick up all the soda cans, water bottles, and did I mention all the wine bottles?? I may break out the camera. I mean watching him clean up a mess that he made doesn't happen every day. I think The Hubby might need visual proof of such an event.

He stomps back for Round Three: The Boxes. I swear it takes him four trips to dispose of the evidence of my recent Internet purchases. How come I'm not hearing any grumbling, tripping or complaining? What, no cursing under his breath? I run to the window to make sure the boxes are making their way outside. (They are.) When he comes in finally rubbing his frozen hands, he is actually smiling!!! He tells me how he created four neat piles for the boxes. Did I hear pride in his voice?!?!? Did he actually learn the lesson that contributing makes you feel good about yourself? No, that could never happen.

Although today, when I told him it was garbage day, he did say,"Only two bags, mom?"

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

© 2009 Cyndi Flanagan

Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-23T11:11:00.004-05:00

At the risk of being cliche, I am having a Chicken Soup for the Soul moment. Instead of writing something orginal, I would like to share a story that someone recently forwarded my way. Maybe this story touched me since I just lost my mom 2 months ago. Maybe I am just a sap who cries during Lifetime movies. Maybe it is both those things and more. But after I read it, I realized how the smallest gestures can have the most profound effects.

As a firm believer in the ripple effect, I share this story with you. May what you do today change the face of tomorrow. Happy Thanksgiving. I know that I have many blessings to be thankful for.

The Cab Ride, Author Unknown

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware. "Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated". "Oh, you're such a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?" "It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly. "Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice". I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighbourhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. "How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse. "Nothing," I said "You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you." I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

Who Needs Impacted Anal Glands?

2009-11-11T17:10:00.008-05:00

I woke up this morning tired. Literally and figuratively. If I had a white flag in my possession, I would have been waving it around lamely in a futile attempt to say, 'Uncle'.

Yesterday was a typical day in my world. My hunter gatherer self went to work and earned a living. My mothering self attended parent teacher conferences and helped with the homework. My chauffeur self ran the carpool. My cleaning lady self attempted to put laundry away. I was just about to slip into my-self and settle in with my lovely book, when I noticed my dog/human, Archie, licking himself more vigorously than usual. Although I hoped he was just trying to give himself a bath, I somehow knew this wasn't the case. And as I morphed into my vet self, I noticed his fluffy, snow white butt was now red and baboon-like; my Archie was in need of immediate medical attention.

After an exhausting day, who needs impacted anal glands?

But as life seems to have a way of doing, it hands you exactly what you need. Today, tired and beaten, my spirits were lifted as I was given a blog award from f8hasit, a blog that has inspired me everyday since I have found it. That award made me appreciate all the "selves" and scenarios in my life that give me fodder for this blog every day. So, who needs impacted anal glands? Well, really no one...but if it makes us see the humor in life than maybe we do.

So here is my prestigious award. Please ooh and aah appropriately.

Along with this award comes great responsibility. I am to pass it along to some new bloggers that I have recently discovered. Some of them may not be new but they are new to me and I hope that qualifies.

1) Polly-Vous Francais? This is the first blog I started to follow regularly. It's a great read especially if you are an American in love with Paris.

2) Milkmoon. Beautiful, simple, pure.

3) The Junk Drawer. Really funny stuff!

So, to Nancy at f8hasit and to all of you out there in the blogosphere, thanks for taking note of me.

#1 on my Top Ten Most Hated Things list

2009-11-04T15:00:00.002-05:00

Drum roll please....magnifying mirrors are now number one on my Top 10 Most Hated Things list. I really don't even keep a list like this but in honor of the magnifying mirror, I am officially starting one today!

The magnifying mirror is like an awful car crash.... hideous to look at, but at the same time you just can't tear yourself away. That experience is precisely what happened to me just the other day.

I was cleaning my bathroom counter when I saw it. Stored in the farthest corner was the mack daddy of mirrors. With its super unflattering light and magnification abilities that would rival the Hubble Space Telescope, The Hubby thought he was doing a good thing when he purchased this as a gift for me. How was he to know that giving a 40 year old vain woman a magnifying mirror like this, is like giving an addict a year's supply of free crack? It was not going to have a happy ending.

So I take a break from my cleaning and eye the mirror up. And I decide what the hell.

Did I mention I don't always make the best decisions?

I turn the mirror's glaring light on and swivel it to the mega magnifying side. I look. I gasp. I move in closer. And then I wonder, who's reflection is this?!?!?

Here is what I see:

1) Jowls. I have them. My cheeks are actually drooping. They sag on the sides of my face and I look like a basset hound. (I apologize in advance to the basset hounds of the world).

2) Eye hair. Really? There is hair growing out of the corner of my eyes???

3) Pores. Big ones. I think I can drown in them, they are so big.

I look away, I look again. Harder and longer this time. Here is also what I see:

1) Big blue eyes that have had the privilege of seeing all the beauty in this world.

2) Lines around my eyes and mouth that remind me of all the laughs I have had.

3) Lips that have spoken many words and enjoyed many kisses. (And thank God don't need collagen yet).

Don't get me wrong, I still see all the bad things too, boy can I see them! However, I am grateful that most people don't walk around looking at us with magnifying mirrors. But if they do, I hope they see the good stuff too.

By the way, I plucked the eye hair immediately.

© 2009 Cyndi Flanagan

Cougar, really??

2009-10-23T15:30:00.002-04:00

Maybe, just maybe, turning 40 has made me extra sensitive. I flinch when I am called ma'am, I don't like ticking a new box on questionnaires that ask my age, and when someone even mentions pre-menopause I want to run screaming. But I think what annoys me the most since I have turned 40 is being called a Cougar.

I mean really, what's with the cougar label? There seems to be no escaping it - magazine articles, jokes, TV shows...Christ, even my son's middle school mascot is a cougar. (which personally, I think is some mean joke being played on us by the school district.)

Urban slang aside, the cougar is defined as a predator whose prey ranges from big game to rodents. Is that really how 40 year old women are seen? As predators? Because I don't know about you, but my big game days consist of my kids' sporting events and I have always been smart enough to stay away from rats - the four and two legged kind. The cougar just doesn't seem to do 40 justice. In fact, I can think of some better animals to represent 40.

For example:

The Giraffe. Yes, I said it, giraffe. They are one of the strongest and most peaceful animals on earth.

The Horse. Beautiful, fast, powerful and hardworking.

The Dog. Intelligent, loyal, devoted, and they love their families. OK, on second thought, maybe that one won't work. It really isn't flattering to be called a dog, or a bitch for that matter.

I guess what I am saying is that 40 is better than what I thought. It truly is a milestone age for any woman. A time to stop and reflect. A time to take stock of our accomplishments, our hardships and sorrows. At 40 we have seen and experienced a lot in life. We are mothers, daughters, wives, sisters and friends. We have loved and lost; we have survived and triumphed.

We are women, and the cougar just ain't cutting it, 'nuff said.

Ok, one more thing, I personally vote for the giraffe.

© 2009 Cyndi Flanagan

The Lasting Lesson

2009-10-19T20:45:00.000-04:00

Life seems crazy as of late. I am running around like grown ups do fulfilling my responsibilities as wife, mother, and daughter. The hectic pace made me think back to simpler times, when my biggest problem was running out of Aqua Net.

It is 1987 and I am sitting in my AP Biology class dreaming about Duran Duran and wondering why I didn't take typing instead. As I stare into space a loud booming voice interrupts my reverie.

"Time lost can never be regained!" my teacher Mr. Minott declares and instantly resumes his discussion on the similarities between feline and human anatomy.

When your 17, adults are idiots and we are all knowing, gorgeous beings that will live forever. Who knew that my AP Biology teacher would utter the truest words I would ever hear in four years of burgundy polyester high school hell?

I may not remember anything Mr. Rickford Minott taught all year but twenty-some (!) years later, I remember that statement word for word. And as of late, it seems to ring truer than ever.

As my mom has been on my mind constantly, I have been thinking about all the wonderful moments we shared. And in my reflections, I realize something. The seasons, our youth, people we love - they all come into our life and they move on - sometimes for a time and sometimes for a lifetime. The moments we experience each day will never come back and that is why it is so important to treasure them - the good, the bad, and the Aqua Net ones.

So thanks Mr. Minott....you may have taught me more than anyone else in high school.

When I Grow Up

2009-10-07T17:07:00.001-04:00

As it usually happens, we stumble upon words of wisdom when we don't need them. But somehow, we keep them in the back of our mind, pulling them out when life throws something our way.

A long time ago I once read that a woman truly doesn't grow up until she loses her mother. If that statement is true, then it is time for yours truly to officially grow up. I lost my mommy to cancer and I am bitter, I am sad, I am angry and I am depressed. And I am hearing my mother's voice in my head telling me it is time get off my butt, grow up, and get on with the business of living. (Anyone who ever had the pleasure of meeting my mom can hear her saying this).

So if it is time for me to grow up, then I want to grow up to be just like my mother.

I want to beautiful where it counts.

I want to be strong.

I want to be loyal.

I want to be a good friend.

I want to be a fighter.

I want to be a devoted wife.

And above all, I want to be a wonderful mother like she was to me.

So I dry my tears (for now) and move forward in life inspired by the woman who was my sunshine. After all now that I am grown up, there is a lot of living to do and a lot of sunshine to spread....

When is Common, Uncommon? Maybe Now.

2009-09-02T18:02:00.002-04:00

Forget the polar bears and global warming, earlier this year I read an article that circled the web on 25 things that were about to become extinct right here in America.

Some of the twenty-five things were pretty upsetting - like honey bees, wild horses and (yum!) Chesapeake Bay Blue Crabs. And even as I simultaneously blog, text my friends, and update my Facebook status, I am sad to see that the hand-written letter is about to join the T-Rex in the gone from this earth file.

On the other hand, some of the things didn't bother me at all. Like hello people, when was the last time anyone used the Yellow Pages or put film in their camera?!?!?!

However, there were several common items glaringly absent from this list...common courtesy, common sense and common decency. Blink my friends, and you may miss the last gesture of human civility.

Common courtesies, like 'please' and 'thank you' seem to be vanishing from our vocabulary. I think 'my bad' and 'it's all good' might have taken their place. And who needs common sense anymore? If there isn't a warning label alerting us not to drop the hairdryer in the bathtub, or (in the event you're not from this planet), coffee is a hot beverage, so drink it, don't spill it; we can just sue, right? Of course! And, if I'm not mistaken, instant gratification has replaced common decency. I mean, why care about anyone else when we are too busy caring about ourselves???

The extinction of these common things is not 'my bad', it's too bad.....I mean if we don't care about each other, the polar bears and the planet don't stand a chance.

Why I Couldn't Go Down the Slide

2009-08-26T10:45:00.003-04:00

I arrived at my destination and there it stood in the distance. It rose from the ground like Mt. Kilimanjaro, awe inspiring and intimidating all at once.

Its rusted handles and dented aluminum gleamed in the sun. It dwarfed all other things in the playground. It beckoned me to come closer and then taunted me every time I did.

How badly I yearned to climb and slide down it. I knew it would be thrilling. I mean, I saw a million other kids conquer the slide and they didn't die. I also wanted to do it and live to tell the tale.

So I had my dad take me to the park to watch my awe inspiring feat. And I climbed the beast, only I couldn't make myself go down. And so it would go... I would drag my dad to the park and I would climb up the slide and inevitably be too afraid to go down. No matter how my dad would inspire, cajole, or threaten me, I couldn't do it.

Fear.

I believe it was FDR that said it best, "We have nothing to fear, except fear itself..."

Fear is a dark, looming threat that sneaks up on us when we least expect it. It is so powerful, so strong, and so inexplicable. It is the only thing that can render us helpless, make us weak. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of unrequited love...fear of going down the slide. And Fear, well he's a pretty powerful dude. Powerful enough to keep a little girl from fulfilling a dream.

At some point in most of our lives, we get to a point where we need to meet Fear head on. Mano y mano. We realize that we need to do something that scares us everyday so that we can stretch our boundaries and give Fear a good fight. When we conquer Fear, we realize there are no guarantees. We will fail sometimes. We will get hurt sometimes. We will lose sometimes. And, sometimes we will succeed, triumph and win in ways we never thought possible.

For the record, I did go down the slide, and have been sliding ever since.

Why Isn't The Sears Catalog Enough for My Son?

2009-08-13T21:39:00.004-04:00

Apparently, I am not the only one in my house looking to be enlightened. My son seems to be on the path as well. We have all heard the expression knowledge is power. But does that apply when it comes to our kids?

I mean sure, I want him to be knowledgeable about history, science and math. I don't question that. Learn all you can! I'm just not so sure I appreciate his thirst for knowledge in the subject of bodily arts.

Bodily arts? HA! This is no time to be coy, I mean sex. S.E.X. And the question I am asking is: Is knowledge about sex empowering for our kids or does it prematurely open the door to rainbow parties, hidden socks and missing jars of La Mer face cream???

I understand our children need to be inquisitive about sex. I don't worry about their questions, I worry about where they get their answers from. I learned about puberty and sex through the books I read. My teacher, Judy Blume taught me about periods and sex in such classics as Are You There God, It's Me Margaret and Forever. The Hubby, as men will do, quenched his thirst for knowledge in a more visual way. The Sears Catalog was his road map to sexuality. (For those of you wondering why the Sears catalog and not the Victoria' s Secret catalog, that is a story for another time).

My son has followed in his father's footsteps and has let his eyes be his guide. However, for him, the Victoria's Secret catalog is amateur hour. He possesses a far greater tool...the Internet.

However, I am in luck. A) I spy on my son's Internet activities, and B) he isn't savvy enough to cover his tracks yet. So on one fine morning as I am about to embark on some quality Internet shopping, I see a page that my son has visited just last night.

I scream. And I do what any other woman would do...I tell The Hubby to take care of it.

And he does. The Hubby uses this as an excellent opportunity to teach about sex, respect, and love. (Not necessarily in that order). But in a way, I come away from this episode feeling a little sad for our kids. Having the superhero power of hindsight, I must admit learning about the birds and the bees in a book or using your imagination in a clothing catalog just seems to be better. Sometimes, most of the times, it is better to leave something to the imagination.

I mean we're supposed to thirst for knowledge, not drown in it. And if I can't stop them from jumping in, at least I can try and throw them a life preserver and tell them to hold on a little longer.

No One Can Be That Ugly!

2009-08-09T09:06:00.005-04:00

Confession time, I have an addiction.

Ah yes, the dark corner of society, addiction is obsession, compulsion, or excessive psychological dependence. It is the shameful part in each of us that we try to keep hidden from the rest of the world. That dirty little secret...that thing that no one knows.

Addiction can be crippling for some, while others are still able to function like normal people. I like to think of myself as the functioning kind. I mean, my kids have clothes, my bills get paid, I show up to work every day and I haven't been arrested....so I don't have a problem, right? Right?!?

Some folks like to drink, others like pretty little prescription pills. Me? My drug of choice is cosmetics. Yeah, you heard me. Makeup. Creams. Scrubs. And my most recent obsession, the oscillating mascara primer.

Now, I didn't think that I had an addiction. I mean addiction is in the eye of the beholder right? Especially when that eye is all done up in a smokey style from Bobbi Brown's latest seasonal palate. But...I digress. Apparently, addiction is in the hands of the One Who Gets the Credit Card Bill.

That happens to be The Hubby.

Here is how the intervention went down.

The Hubby (TH): What in God's name could you possibly have spent $XXX.XX on? (The dollar amount will remain anonymous to protect Lord & Taylor's quarterly earnings.)

The Addict (Me): What do you mean? Did someone steal our identity? (Stall tactic)

TH: Seriously, what did you buy?

The Addict: Ummm, makeup?

TH: No way! No one can be that ugly!

He is right, no one is that ugly. But, it isn't about trying to turn ugly into pretty. It is about... well it's like...you know what? I really don't know what it's about.

For me, trolling the makeup counter is like taking a mini vacation. I plan, I research and I enjoy. I read about products; which mascara will make my lashes longer? Which powder will make me look less shiny? And apart from that scientific aspect, looking at makeup summons my inner Picasso. I love looking at all the new products and all the pretty colors. Maybe this is how an artist eyes up a new selection of paints. Makeup inspires me to continue to evolve, change, and grow. It makes me happy. And you know, I tell The Hubby, happiness has a trickle down effect. (Wink, wink.)

And that my friends, is how I came face to face with my addiction. I mean acknowledging it is the first step right?

And between you and me, I don't plan on learning the rest of the 11 steps any time soon.

Why I am pretty sure killing isn't part of what you do in yoga.

2009-08-05T16:36:00.004-04:00

I am on the path to enlightenment. Or maybe entitlement. I am forty and I want my life back. What I mean to say is, I love my my husband and have two wonderful kids. But now, my kids are getting older and they certainly have NO problems with entitlement. Now it is my turn.

So, on my path to entitlement, I have decided to become enlightened. OK, in honesty, its time for me to move more and eat less and yoga seems like a good place to start. PLUS, if what they say is true, not only will I be able to bend like a pretzel which the husband will love but apparently I will also destress and and get in touch with my inner zen or chakras...or whatever it is locked up tight inside me.

So with new mat and politically correct $25.00 water bottle in hand (in which I have just poured my Smartwater in from its eco-unfriendly casing) I make my way to my first yoga class. I breathe, I bend, I even chant. And then.....all Santi Santi breaks loose for on my yoga mat is a spider.

I really try to breathe but I think that causes me to hyperventilate. I look around to see if anyone has picked up on my distress. No...they are all REALLY on the path to enlightenment and not a poser like me.

My spidy-senses continue to be on red alert and my eight legged friend tries to get too close for my spiritual comfort. So I try to shoo him off my mat. Only I more like spread his carcass all over my mat.

I am freaking out!!! I mean, I'm pretty positive (although it is only my first class) that killing a living thing is NOT what you are supposed to do in yoga class. I look around and everyone is still deeply breathing and is oblivious to the bloodshed that has taken place around them. I close my eyes and breathe deeply trying to blow spider remains off my mat. So much for my first attempt at enlightenment...