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I may be a little late at getting to it but, like many Americans, the new year led me to make goals that I haven’t previously succeeded at. One of those goals, “I will be more informed about where my money goes”, led me on a very new, and frightening journey. Today I went…to the gym!
That’s right, for months there has been a funnel from my checking account to that of a particular exercise and health facility. It’s great in theory. There is some one thing that happens in your life and causes you to seek a healthier lifestyle or to reclaim the body that was once yours. Maybe you had a health scare, have a reunion or wedding, maybe some innocent, cherubic little imp screeched, “Mommy, that ladies FAT!” (or some Alzheimer’s riddled old man said the same). Either way, there is some monumental event that drives a person to go to a gym, follow some thin, well-muscled twenty-year-old around and nod appreciatively as they point out the torturous looking gadgetry that they insist is top of the line (like my fat-ass is sooo schooled on fitness equipment that I’d know the difference). And then, to top it off, we give them the authority to funnel money from our checking accounts on a monthly basis while we sit at home, watching television and thinking, “I should really join a gym or something!”
So, I sucked it up. I got off the couch, dusted off my duffle bag and drove to the gym (and those of you who run or ride your bike to the gym are sick I tell you!). I’m not going to brag about my accomplishments & say crap like, “it was just like I’d never left”. It was nothing like that. I started out easy—the treadmill—because I figured that even though I haven’t been to the gym in a very long time it wasn’t like I’d given up walking! As it turns out, I must have not walked uphill much. Or very fast for that matter. But, damn it, I walked. Like for 20 or 30 minutes. Continuously!
Now, my sister-in-law goes to the same gym. She informed me that the gym is having a 12 week challenge. There is a grand prize of a lot of money! I am a terribly competitive person, so she had me at “challenge”. Money was just icing on the cake. “But,” she told me, “we have to have our picture taken so they can see before & after.”
I signed up for the challenge, of course I had my hair done & makeup on, and then they tell me the rules of the photos: ladies must wear a two-piece outfit so that the results are easily seen.
“I am NOT wearing a bikini,” I barked at the poor kid who signed me up.
“It’s ok,” he assured me, “you can just wear spandex short shorts and a sports bra.”
“I don’t own spandex,” I said and stood up so that he could get a good, and realistic look at what should have been a presumed fact, “for obvious reasons.”
I spent the next few hours trying to remember if I had any of my old spandex exercise shorts. Certainly there had to be one pair that had stretched out enough that I could still breath but not so worn that hints of my mayonnaise colored flesh would peek through the material.
So, if you happen to see a photo of what looks like a softball wearing a rubber band, look real close. Does that softball have a ponytail and blue eyes? That may be me. In spandex. With a blood vein or two threatening to burst.
Last night I put my little cherubs down to bed and grabbed my laptop intent on getting some work done. Instead, I did what any responsible mom/home-based-employee would do: I spent 3 hours farting around on Facebook.
I have to preface this by saying that I’m not a dedicated Facebook user. I’ve had an account for a long time. At first, I would check my page every month or so, whether I needed to or not. Within the past two months I’ve been really dedicated, checking in like, weekly, at least! And now that I’m in an almost daily groove I realized, I’ve never really hunted around to find people that I used to know. And, isn’t that what Facebook is about? So, like any other hunter (albeit a hunter who wants the prize but without the inconvenience if getting up at four am, going out in the cold and actually hunting) I went poaching. That’s right, I went to the few friends I had and I checked their friends just to see if I knew anyone. And, if I could add them to my own list—because are we not judged by the friends we keep?
As I looked through the names of the people I had known at one time it dawned on me that I may need to be very selective in who I send friends requests to. Do the social policies of adolescence still hold true all these years later? As an adult, do you remain on the same level of the teenage caste system that you occupied when you were actually in school? For me, this could be a problem.
The problem with school is that it is a constantly evolving thing. In elementary school you have a small group of “friends”. Almost everyone plays together and by the end of elementary school you may have been “best friends” with almost everyone in your grade at some point. Then you are placed into a junior high school/middle school with all of your friends and kids from one or two other schools. Suddenly, you’re networking. And maybe some of your former besties have become more like “acquaintances”. In some instances, those people may have suddenly become your archenemy. Then, just about the time you are working out all of your interpersonal relationships with these people, you are thrown into high school. Let the tailspin begin! Now, not only don’t you know half of the people you are in school with, you’re at a point when you don’t even really know who you are. Let’s just say that the struggle to assert independence and be unique didn’t work out for the best for everyone! Maybe I didn’t choose my friends well. Maybe I would have more friends now if I hadn’t been so flighty in my teenage social networking. A high percentage of my former friends now have very a very static group of friends, which I am not a part of. Of course, their friends have been largely determined by the Department of Corrections, and, I believe referred to as fellow inmates.
Now I’m faced with a dilemma. I’m looking at the Facebook pages of all of these nice, normal kids that I used to know. Will they remember me? Which me will they remember? The elementary, middle or (gulp) high school me? Am I one of the people that make you say, “Oh, Yeah! I remember her!” or the one that makes you say (with a cringe), “ Oh, yeah. I remember her.”?
So, for now I’ve decided on the safest approach. I will only send a friend request to those people that I: 1) am certain that I never started a fight with, 2) may have supplied booze to at some point or consumed booze with, 3) only knew me in elementary or junior high.
Once, I get those three people, I should be on my way!
The day finally came. My shaggy-haired two year old has joined the world of conformists everywhere. He has traded in his Albert Einstein fly-away locks for a more appropriate hairstyle.
The Before Shot. Maybe just a little shaggy
Sadly, I was the hold out. I was the one who was in denial about just how overgrown The Baby’s hair had become. You know things have gone too far when your toddler is begging—that’s right, begging—for a haircut. The point is only made more clear when he actually climbs willingly into the chair at the salon.
Since we were going I decided to make a group outing of it. The Oldest and The Middle were both in need of haircuts as well so I made an appointment for all three. It was The Baby’s first haircut (I know, I know…) so I was very meticulous in how everything would happen. I had him watch the brothers first so that he would know there was nothing to be afraid of (I’m sure I read that in some parenting magazine when I was waiting for my yearly with nothing better to do!).
Anyway, all of my attempts at a cautious approach weren’t even necessary. The kiddo climbs right up in the chair, his brothers stood nearby and held his hands (a definite awww-how-sweet moment!) and the only tears that were spilled were mine as I watched the butcher hairstylist prepare to cut the locks from the head of my blessed baby.
I sidled up next to her like a cop at a crime scene and murmured, “I’m gonna need one of those locks of hair.”
“Don’t worry,” she told me, “I’ll put a lock of it onto a certificate before you leave.”
The Baby was very proud of his new haircut and posed for several photos before being led by the brothers to the toy drawer.
The Middle stood there with his hands deep in his pockets, looking guilty.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
He pulled out his hand to show me a tuft of blond. “I kept some of my hair,” he giggled.
“What are you gonna do with that?”
A little boy with a sensible haircut, now he just needs a sensible career!
“I’m gonna put it in my collection,” he answered.
“You don’t need to keep hair,” I told him.
“Why?”
“It’s disgusting,” I said as I ushered him to the front door.
“Ma’am,” the butcher hairstylist called as we walked out the door. “Don’t forget the certificate for his first haircut.” She handed me the certificate and…
“Oh, my God,” I gushed as tears formed under my lids, “look at that precious little locket of hair!” (Don’t judge me!)
A new year, a thousand and one vows for all the things I’m going to accomplish this year.
There is a plethora of healthy food that needs to be introduced to my home. There is a ton of dirt, dust and clutter that needs to be removed from my home.
The weight I need to lose, the little tasks I need to accomplish, the organization I need to achieve in my life, the parenting skills I need to work on, the knowledge I need to pass on to my children, the projects I need to do for work, the books I’ve been planning to read, the writing I’ve been meaning to get around to, the friends and family that I haven’t kept in touch with, the photo’s that need to be put into photo albums, the photos that need to be freed from my camera…
Holy crap! There’s just too much to accomplish in a year. Maybe I’ll just grab a pizza and decide on one accomplishment for 2010. (And I’ll bet a pizza that I won’t be choosing the weight loss or healthy food options!).
Happy 2010 everyone!
Stumble It!
Stumble It!