Power of Prayer

The Power of Prayer. It works! April 26, 2010, I wrote a blog, " Spanx or Not To Spanx."  It refers to a mixed martial arts class that was kicking my butt. Instead of quitting, I prayed for the whole class to implode. (Hey, I never professed to be a nice person.) Guess what? Three months later, the studio lost their lease. It took them two years to find another space. Recently, I ran into a former student and teacher. I took these sightings as a sign. I've joined again.

". . . Oh sheeeiiiitttt," are the words that come to my lips after five minutes into the class. Literally. Three hundred seconds elapse when regrets start to erupt from my pounding heart. Another 10 minutes crawl by and I'm on my 50th boxing combination. "Jab, jab, cross, hook to the ribs, hook to the head, roundhouse left, roundhouse right." I look pleadingly at my 70 pound leather punching dummy.  "Please, punch me out," I whisper. I swear I hear him say, "Who's the dummy now, Bitch?"

"I know you're a little winded," bellows the instructor. "So lay down with your head an arms-length away from the medicine ball I positioned behind you."  All I comprehend is, "lay down." The next instructions sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. "Blah, blah . . blah. Blah, 15 crunches, blah."  My fellow captors respond. They are lifting this ten pound ball into the air, as they simultaneously bring their feet up toward the ball to meet high above the belly.  After I do three of these torturous maneuvers, I steal a look at the instructor.  She has transformed into Medusa. Her beautiful hair extensions have become serpents. The precious "Michael Strahan" gap between her teeth now appear wide enough to suck me through, like a cobra ingesting its prey. She appears preoccupied arranging the boxing gloves on the hooks, so I attempt to lessen my load.  I shove the ball away with my remaining strength.  It travels four inches.

"Tam-A-Lam-A-Ding-Dong, what are you doing?" Oh yeah, that was her nick name for me back in 2010.

"I thought I saw a spider. So I was killing it."

"By rolling the medicine ball over it?  You can stay afterwards to wipe down all the balls. Put your balls away and grab a jump rope."

I eye the jump rope and the metal pipes above. This escape route seems a little severe, but still . . .

"Jump til I say stop."

I tentatively raise my hand to forestall the activity by a few seconds. "What if my heart stops before you say stop?"

"No need for a class clown. Let's jump."

Last time I checked Webster's, that word means "let us,"as in "let us all jump." Funny, though, she just stands there with her ridged abs and concrete biceps determining if we are sweating enough. On second thought, I don't want to witness her jumping. I jump quickly. I jump slowly. I skip while singing playground songs. Occasionally, I smack the rope hard against my legs so I have to start again.  I pause, rub my stinging shins, tangle myself in the rope, anything to stall and catch my breath.

"Ropes away. Do your push-ups, then stretch."

I splay out on the mat like the coyote after the road runner tricked him into falling down the deep ravine while being hit by TNT.

Despite the sweat in my eyes, I see the light. Not the fluorescent light above me, but the "other" light. Not the "go into the light" light, but the "I have an epiphany" light.

I no longer pray for the demise of my class. I pray for the stamina to survive one more.

Personal Growth 101:  A+

My Philosophy: DO IT WHILE I CAN

I'm dusting off my Philosophy for Life and retooling it for present day. My Philosophy is DO IT WHILE I CAN (DIWIC). I did have other philosophies, but this one has the best acronym.  Perhaps it'll catch on and I can trademark it!  I believe it should be right next to the Golden Rule.  The Rule carries a little more weight, but hear me out why DIWIC should be a close second.

I'm only going to say this once. I am getting older. My image in the mirror is a little less appealing. The comments on the street, less frequent. I have a pair of blue jeans that require pliers to get the zipper up and I avoid selfies. (Perhaps we all should.)

I've always had this Philosophy/Mission Statement--DIWIC. But because of this revelation about the "age" thing, I have re-evaluated it and put it back into high gear.  DIWIC begs the question: What is IT?  IT is clearly going to be different for everyone and IT changes as I change and age.

I would say from age 15-35, IT was synonymous with "have a good time." So I did. I partied in high school. Partied in college. Partied with co-workers and strangers. Don't worry. I did more than just drink away those years. I travelled. I met Italian men in the shadow of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I gambled in Macau and drank Mekong whiskey in northern Thailand. I moved to NY, to Denver, back to NY. I worked. I skied, I hiked. Got my heart broken, broke some hearts, etc., etc. I tried to be a good daughter, sister, and wife.

My first child was born when I was 37.  That's about the time the disco ball quit spinning. Odd coincidence. Motherhood was upon me. My DIWIC Philosophy changed.  I would say it was akin to shifting a 1960 Karmann Ghia without using the clutch. Tricky, noisy, scary, crazy fun, yet possible.  My IT was about becoming a good mother now. That involves a few things I won't go into it here.  Truth be revealed, I'm not sure what it involves.  That knowledge will be bestowed upon me the day my last child graduates. That's how life works.

Shifting DIWIC into high gear has just made me a little more deliberate in my choices. One glass of wine(as opposed to the bottle) so I can run the next day. No sausage before yoga. Downward Facing Dog, pig in my gut, and a burp trying to surface is not to be envied. Breaking myths. It's okay to bike ride in the rain.  We don't melt, despite our collective knowledge from "The Wizard of Oz." Do throw in a few Ted Talks and crossword puzzles for brain exercise.

So, DIWIC.  My co-worker's husband used to be a runner. He's had a stroke and is now handicapped.  My mother-in-law and I rode bikes a couple years ago. Her balance was a little wobbly.  My Dad died eighteen months ago.

So, DO IT WHILE YOU CAN.

Is Laziness Beneficial? An Unofficial Study

LAZINESS certainly has a negative connotation. I was fighting an afternoon nap recently when the word lazy meandered its way across my closed eyelids. I do the typical "housewife/mother stuff." Cook, clean, yell, laundry, volunteer, homework, yell, garden, do my "real" job (flight attendant), ponder a second career, yell, food shop, bra and boxer shop. Shop, in general.

Shopping. Actually this is where my curiosity about laziness takes root. Do I have "shades of laziness" in me or am I just thrifty?

Neither adjective seems flattering. As a teenager, I loved clothes shopping-for myself of course- with  my parent's money. Now it is my bank account getting depleted and the clothes aren't generally going into my coffers! Now I look at a shirt and think, "I could buy 10 boxes of honey nut cheerios and two pounds of ground beef!"

For a while now, I've been attending yoga classes 2-3 times a week. It's a different instructor every day and different students also. So it's not a big deal to wear the same shirt and pants to every class, just boring and stinky. It would be nice to own more than one outfit, but I just can't get excited about yoga attire shopping.  Generally, I love buying crap I don't really need. Don't we all?

Hence my pondering state. I'm tired of washing out my yoga outfit in the shower. (I don't have a washer in my apartment.) Pretty soon, I may have all my dirty clothes in the tub with me! The real question is why don't I just go shopping? I need to investigate this further!

Lululemon on Broadway and 75th Street rules for yoga clothes. The yummy spring colors pull me inside. In minutes (okay, seconds) I spot the perfect yoga shirt and matching lycra pants. Simultaneously, my lazy and thrifty side kick in. Mmm, $58 for a shirt --a yoga shirt, not just any shirt-- and $78 for pants. My thrifty side thinks about my bank account and how this isn't a good month to be doing this type of shopping. My lazy side gazes down at what I'm wearing.  On my feet, Doc Martens: A pain to unlace and relace.  Tight blue jeans: Have to suck in my gut to get the zipper back up.  Sweater with a lycra camisole underneath and a three-hook bra: Need I say more?  Plus my winter coat.  Oh my gawd! I am too lazy to strip, don, restrip, and don again.  Out the store I go, seemingly $136 (plus tax) richer.

As I walk home, I contemplate: What's THE reason why I walked out of that store pantless?

Just last month, I whipped out my credit card for a kick-ass Stella McCartney motorcycle jacket. I knew I'd be sitting on my sofa eating ramen noodles for a month. But I look damn good slurping those 59 cent noodles day after day wearing my Stella.

Perhaps, I need both thrifty and lazy to work hand in hand so my wardrobe isn't stuffed full of Calvin and Donna and Stella. And in turn, my stomach isn't stuffed full of ramen noodles!

After conducting my unofficial study to the question, "Is laziness beneficial?" my official answer is yes . . .well, sometimes.

 

Memory Block

You don't have to be a writer to have heard of writer's block. I suffer from this malady 98% of the time.  Hence my quarterly blog as opposed to my original plan of weekly.  Who did I think I was--J.K. Rowling??  Anyway, I have recently diagnosed myself with memory block as well. I've defined this condition as follows:
One's inability to recall what one has read over the years, be it for leisure or educational purposes.

A year ago I read the book "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel. I enjoyed it, but wasn't moved enough to rave to strangers about it on the subway (see blog entry: Kindles, Nooks and Old-fashioned Books, 4/28/11). When the book was made into a movie, I didn't plan on seeing it. Regardless, my husband and I ended up paying $35 to see the 3D version. Remember, NYC prices.

It was worth it! The scenery was breathtaking. It was thought-provoking and educational.  Who knew the French had been in India? The French were in Vietnam and Northern Africa, but India? Yes, the French had been in India. I confirmed it with Wikipedia.

After the movie, my husband asked, "Was the book better than the movie?"
I opened my mouth to reply. And then I shut it.  I opened it. I shut it.  I opened it and replied. "I have no idea." 
"I thought you read the book," he retorted.
"I did," I agonized.  "But I barely remember it.  I recall the symbolism at the end and that's it."
"Oh well," he replied nonchalantly.  "Let's go eat."

OH WELL. LET'S GO EAT!?!?!? Is he kidding? I am on the verge of a minor crisis here!  Why am I reading if I don't retain?  Am I reading too many novels?  Am I not reading enough? Should I read only non-fiction? Short stories?  Should I reread what I just read?

I do not know!  I do know that recently  I took a botany class. I read and outlined ten chapters of the text. One day, the teacher asked a question and no one replied. Then he asked, "Did anyone read the chapter?" 
Finally! A question I could answer. "Yes, I did." I piped up. "But I guess I didn't retain much . . .or any."

I somewhat understand not retaining textbook information, but I read novels for enjoyment.  Shouldn't I remember the plot, characters, and/or setting for more than a few days or weeks?  If it's truly an exceptional book--Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer (no accounting for taste is there--tee hee) everything is etched in my mind about Scarlett, Ishvar, and Edward. 

But, I think I should be able to recall pretty good books, as well.  Five years ago I read A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth, every 1,488 pages. I remember it takes place in India.  I remember lots of characters celebrating lots of holidays. I remember the plot was akin to a Telemundo telenovela. I spent a month reading that book.  And that's what I recall--it was reminescent of a Spanish soap opera!

I'm not alone in this condition. A friend said he buys books more than once.  However, he blames the marketing department.  They cleverly switch covers when the paperbacks are released. Not until he's into the second or third chapter, that a light bulb slowly illuminates.

Another friend started a list of her reading history in 2000. Unfortunately, she lost it. Since 2010, she now uses her computer with a grading system and a  personal note about her thoughts of the book.

A book that I hate has stayed with me--Eat, Pray, Love, a memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert.  Thanks to her, I have less interest in visiting India, or returning to Italy and Bali.  I fear she'll be revisiting these countries while she indulgently writes her third memoir and I'll encounter her!

I'm starting to think my experience with books are like my friendships.  The really great ones, I'll remember and cherish forever. While others, are appropriate for the time. They serve their purpose, yet don't have staying power.  And even books and friends that drive me crazy, have a place in my memory. 

Mmm, well, maybe my condition isn't so bad after all.  My husband and I can go have dinner now.

"My Daily Run"

I don't love my daily run. Well, actually, it's more of a jog.  But "run" just seems more impressive and energetic.  And "daily" has the appearance of discipline and fortitude. So when I write "my daily run" just know I'm truly misleading you. However, I have come to discover my daily run mirrors my daily life. Some parts of it are great, some are indifferent, and other parts simply suck.

I get up at 6:45 am and wake up 30 minutes later.  No. Not a typo. If you can't relate, God bless you. You're one in a million!

 I'm sauting salami and onions for my son's omelette before my right eye is entirely open. The gentle, splatter of hot olive oil on my hand is a rude attempt at a wake-up call, just as a 35-degree morning is for my daily run.

Despite the sizzling oil attack, I continue in a blur. "Lizzy," I yell at my daughter. "Get up." I make her breakfast. Yell some more. I kiss my husband good-bye. Yell again. I make her lunch for school as I yell. My son brushes his teeth (he says), puts in his contacts, and leaves. "Bye Mom. Bye Liz." I manuver Lizzy into an upright position and hope for the best. She manages to leave at some point.

First thought: An empty, quiet home. Yahoo! Second thought: Did I screw up my work schedule? Was I suppose to be at work two hours ago? Third thought: Running clothes or jeans? Guilt attacks me as a reach for my jeans. To kill it, I grab the spandex and snap it on. I have three questions to answer before I run.

1. Do I have to move my car to avoid a ticket? Oh lord, what street am I parked on? If I take the car to the garage, I run from 70th street to the Intrepid Museum docked on the Hudson at 43rd street and back home. 
2. Do I have a coffee date? If so, I run up Riverside Park along the Hudson to meet my girlfriend on 110th street at our favorite Hungarian pastry shop. After coffee, I then walk, run, or subway home. Yes, I cheat on those coffee date days and I'm not ashamed of it!
3. Why didn't I schedule a coffee date?  On these days, I'm out the apartment, up around the Central Park Resevoir and back. After a forty-five second hamstring stretch, I'm out the door.

Just like the first several minutes of my morning are spotty, the first few blocks of my run are the most questionable.  "You're doing this shit again?" my Brain says to my Body. "Didn't we just do this yesterday or was it last week? You know, if you really did this exercise crap every day, it would be easier on both of us." The dialogue slows down as I enter the park on 81st street.  I start counting dogs not on their leash.  I listen for birds. I see an 80-year-old jogger and try to pass.  The first incline assaults me.  It's akin to getting Lizzy erect in the morning.  "I can do this. I can do this," I chant. If I can get Lizzy up, I can get up this hill. I manage to get to the resevoir. Now I just have to make it around and then back home--without stopping--preferably.

But I've learned my Brain can take over and drown out my previous cheerleading chant with a catchy melody from the '60's.

Slow down, you're movin' too fast,
You've got to make the mornin' last,
Just a-kickin' down the cobblestones,
Lookin' for fun, feelin' groovy.
Ba, da, da, da, da feelin' groovy!
(thank you Paul Simon for that respite)

I pretty much come to a leisurely stroll in order to halt the "feelin' groovy" repeating itself over and over in my head like a jackhammer tearing up the sidewalk.  Luckily, Paul only serenades me once every few months, so I manage my run at a somewhat even pace.  I actually run on the bridle path around the resevoir because it's wider than the path by the water and is surrounded by trees casting shadows. When running on those balmy 90-degree days, I tell myself, "Run for gawd sakes. Get to the shade."  Obviously in the winter, I berate myself to get to the next patch of sun, an illusion of warmth.  I pick out runners I don't like and try to pass them.  I don't like safety orange running outfits, older people that are faster than me, private school kids during gym class.  "Just because you're richer than me, doesn't mean you're faster than me!"  (Unfortunately, they are richer and faster 90% of the time.) When I spot the private school girls, I feel like I'm at Bloomingdales for my bi-yearly trek to that Institution of Higher Spending. I get off on the second floor, while the more coiffed, toned women continue up the escalator to the designer floor, leaving me in the wake of their expensive, flowerly perfume. These are their daughters gliding by me, effortlessly, up the path.

In the spring, my path becomes a pink, soft carpet of fallen petals from blossoming cherry trees.  In the fall, I feel like God has allowed me a little peek at Heaven. As I run by the baseball fields, I smell freshly cut grass that make me feel like a 10-year-old again. I see more breeds of dogs on my daily run than a vet sees in a week.

Like my life outside of spandex and running shoes, I get the good, bad, and indifferent. I love being home when the kids open that door at 4 pm.  They want to share their day and I long to hear it.  As the evening progresses, my husband comes home. Hopefully, to be greeted with a kiss.  I make dinner, lie to my daughter about the importance of polynomials in one's life, promise my son his eyeballs won't pop out if he reads more than four pages at a time, talk to India about my computer, and wonder if I'm scheduled to work the next day. I think back to my daily run at the 2.75 mile mark (but who's counting).  The hill exiting the park at Central Park West and 77nd street is a bitch. Why must it be at the end of my run?  Well, I attack it because it's gotta be done if I want to get home and get on with my day. Just like I gotta weed through the dirty dishes, homework, and teen-age squabbles in order to get to bed before midnight. 

"Mom," Lizzy yells, from her tiny loft bedroom. "Bake some cookies. I have a bake sale tomorrow. Please."

And so my day tumbles into evening that slides into night and continues to unfold.

Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake

"I want my birthday cake to look like the one on the box!" I stamped my foot for emphasis. My mother was my audience for this yearly scene. I didn't want a homemade upside down pineapple cake, carrot cake, angel, pound or sponge cake. I didn't even want a chocolate snickers cake. I wanted the Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Layer Cake with White Wispy Frosting that looked like minature ski jumps. Picture perfect. That unattainable pink and white slice of heaven was denied me year after year after year.

My 12th birthday arrived. On the kitchen counter was an empty Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake box. "Mom, where is it?" I hopped from foot to foot in anticipation. She had baked it in a scratched up 13" x 9" olive green aluminum cake pan. The cream colored homemade frosting was as smooth as my cotton sheets. "Oh," I squeaked, as my eyes welled up.

Perfection: The state of being without fault or defect.

I realized my life was the antithesis of this word.

If my Mom couldn't make a cake taller than two inches, how was my life ever going to be perfect? I studied my Teen magazine. I used a Maybelline Professional Eyelash Curler, but only the lashes on the right eye accomplished that wide-eyed, modelesque-look. The lashes on my left eye looked like they'd been torched with a Bic lighter. Fashion was bandanas of varying sizes and colors wrapped around my body and hair. (fyi: I'm from Kansas). My hair: Dishwater Blond. Never, ever in the history of Breck Shampoo did a model have Dishwater Blond hair.

I had Teen to aspire to. My mother had House Beautiful magazine. However, the interior of our house was the equivalant of my exterior. Remember: cinched eyelashes, hair the color of leftover sink water, and a large red bandana tied around my chest for fashion.

I tried to envision House Beautiful photographers in our home. First, they'd bring in an industrial strength giant vacuum to suck up all the dirty tissues, week-old pb&js,and cat hair balls. One look at me and they'd suck me up and my dishwater hair. In the photos, Teen magazine would be tastefully displayed on the coffee table next to the perfect Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake they'd brought in.

How am I to secure the perfect man, perfect career, and perfect life if I can't figure out how to have modelesque eyelashes, a six-inch tall birthday cake, and hair color that doesn't make you think of last nights' dishes?!

Time bumps, jumps, and slithers along. Its taken me several decades to come to terms with all of the above catastrophes. I can now say (and believe), "I'm okay, you're okay." Well, truthfully sometimes its, "I'm great and you're not". Other times, "I suck and yes, you are fabulous. So watch your back."

Clearly, perfection still alludes me. But now I see life as a balancing act. Remember teeter totters? You know, the playground item that doesn't exist anymore because too many kids got crushed feet or simply toppled or got pushed off. I metaphorically have one. In fact I live on it. I stand on the center, feet parted. The seven deadly sins and my ill-fated eyelashes are on the left side. Sainthood, virtues, and the Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake are on the right. I spend most waking hours (and some sleeping ones) trying get that plank I am perched on balanced, perfectly balanced.

It happened one time. I was Lady Justice. I was Moses parting the Red Sea. I got up before the alarm. I ate my oatmeal, flax, and blueberries. I gently woke my children with a smile. "Time for school, Darlings." Kissed my husband good-bye on the lips and promised a home cooked dinner, lingerie, and other sundry items on his return. I attended yoga-- became one with my space. I drank water, the elixir of Mother Nature. I inhaled deeply and exuded good thoughts to the world. I did worthy deeds for my family and strangers. (Well, I returned some month old phone calls and didn't make up crap when Nielson Ratings called). You do remember how often Moses parted the Red Sea?

My teeter totter lists to the left. . . always. You know, gluttony, lust, greed, envy, pride, anger, and sloth. I shuffle to the right a few steps. Often nothing happens. To get my plank back on an even keel, I must volunteer at church, school, and microwave duty clean-up all in one day to get the slightest movement.

Lounging on the left can be bitterly beautiful. My blanket of comfort is salami and oreos(doubled-stuffed), tortilla chips and salsa. A beer or two might enter the equation. I watch enough Law and Order on USA channel that I should be deputized. "Just call me Detective--Detective TJ." I read my latest porn novel(Fifty Shades of Grey, volume II for those curious), take care of business, and refuse to abandon my pajamas. My one goal of the day is to make dinner for the family in six hours.

For some reason though, the next day I get back on that teeter totter and start wobbling around--wobbling around to try to find that perfect balance and that Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake with Fluffy White Frosting.

HAPPINESS IS . . .

Remember the cartoon strip "Happiness Is. . ."? Well, here are a few of mine. Take a minute and think of your own!

Happiness is riding your bike down that secret path you discovered years ago and it's still special.

Happiness is knowing you helped put a smile on a friend's face.

Happiness is capturing the briskness of an early August morning before it hits 90 degrees.

Happiness is knowing you picked the right person.

Happiness is your child saying, "Look at the sunset!"

Happiness is calling the town you grew up in "home", even if you don't live there any longer.

Happiness is playing that music box your old boyfriend gave you.

Happiness is laughing so hard you really do pee your pants!

Happiness is having two brothers!

Happiness is an unopened box of tissues to use up while watching Cinema Paradiso.

Happiness is a yellow smiley face latch hook rug.

Happiness is old friends and new friends.

Happiness is a phone call from your sister right as you're picking up the phone to call her.

Happiness is the memory of your little red rug from kindergarten.

Happiness is having a mother-in-law you love.

Happiness is reading Gone With the Wind for a fourth time, and not deciding until the last page if Scarlett wins back Rhett.

Happiness is smiling in your sleep because your dream really is that good!

Happiness is loving a book so much you write a character analysis of each one so you never forget them.

Happiness is thinking fondly of your parents and calling them!

Happiness truly is the simplest of things in life. Discover it every day.