There are many excuses I can conjure up to avoid exercising. It's too early. It's too late. I'm too tired. It's too cold out. It's too hot out. I'm too busy. I'm too old. I'm too fat ...
Yes, there are many excuses that I can conjure up to avoid exercising ... but none of them hold as much merit as my dirty little secret ... I sweat excessively. No, I don't have hyperhidrosis, the medical condition in which one sweats excessively when it isn't appropriate for the circumstances. Nor do I have a thyroid problem or diabetes. Each of which I have insisted my family doctor screen me for. Nope ... I just sweat ... a lot ... when doing any form of physical activity ... or when the sun is shining just a little too brightly.
Once upon a time when the peeps were in their heyday, the Sergeant would gather her troops together and lead them on a three-mile hike every morning. Rain or Shine. Sleet or Snow. Hurricane or Earthquake. Nothing would stop the Sergeant from taking her morning walk. As an enlisted member of the Sergeant's Army, I would dutifully show up for basic training. Since Podunk, PA is in the middle of the snowbelt, our winter weather actually overtakes a good portion of our fall and spring as well ... and showing up for basic training dressed in down jackets, scarves, hats and gloves was imperative. For everyone. Except me.
On any given day, passerby could drive down Main Street, Podunk, PA and see three women braving the below freezing temperatures, trudging through the wind and snow all bundled up in their winter best ... and one chunky blonde girl bringing up the rear ... sporting nothing but a long-sleeved T-shirt and yoga pants, looking flushed and drenched in sweat. Frozen sweat particles stuck to the end of her nose, ears and every place in between.
I never so much as caught a cold while walking in the middle of a blizzard half naked. The only incident on record was the day I was wearing a sports bra that zipped up the front and the zipper busted in the middle of our route. As the Sergeant is a stern mistress ... there was no time to deal with wardrobe malfunctions ... so I continued on my way with my high beams blazing through my thin T-shirt for all of Podunk, PA to see.
I will never be that girl at the gym with the perfect flowing hair and glowing complexion ... no, I'm the one with the beet red face with hair that looks like I've been caught in the middle of a cyclone ... in the pouring rain ... wiping the sweat away with a beach towel. Yep ... a beach towel. That's what I carry to the local YMCA for a workout. Not a cute little golf-sized towel like I see other members carrying around. A beach towel. And wiping down a machine after use? Well, that's a cardio workout all on its own.
One time I went to the YMCA for a 20-minute lunchtime ab-only workout that they cleverly referred to as the "Lunch Crunch." My personal trainer at the time led the group and I specifically asked him if I would sweat profusely if I participated in this lunchtime ritual as he was privy to the buckets of sweat this one female could produce. He said no. He lied. I showed up that day, changed out of my work clothes and into cute color coordinated gym clothes and was beach towel free. Less than 10 minutes into the class, my mascara was running down my face, my hair was soaked, my clothes were drenched and I had to leave the class early in order to go home and take a quick shower before returning to work. I obviously never went back.
I have mentioned on several occasions my passion for dance. If and when you see me out and I am currently or have recently been dancing ... by no means come up to me and hug me or touch me in any way shape or form. If you do so ... it is at your own risk. There is a reason that I hit the dance floor with a napkin or tissue in my hand ... it's to wipe the sweat away. There is a reason that every dress I've worn to every wedding I've ever been to has to go the dry cleaners immediately the next morning ... it's because I sweat. At my daughter's 16th birthday party the dance floor was located next to a lit fireplace. Yes ... a fireplace ... next to the dance floor. My worst nightmare. While the dozens of teenagers danced for hours on end and never broke a sweat ... this mama was lured to the dance floor only once ... at the beckoning of Trey Songz ... and promptly left the dance floor when the song was over to hit the ladies room to run cool water over her wrists and place a cold wet paper towel on the back of her neck.
On one vacation to Mexico my husband, children and I hiked through the fields to get to and explore the Mayan Ruins. It was over 100 degrees out and shade was nowhere to be found. My then 12-year old son caught me on video tape saying that this must be what Hell feels like and at one point looking directly into the camera and saying "the white people are melting out here." A quote from one of my favorite romantic comedies Fools Rush In.
It doesn't matter if I weigh 98 pounds or not 98 pounds. I have always been this way. There is no medical explanation for it ... well there is but it isn't that profound. The medical reason I have been given by numerous physicians over my 40 years of living is this ... "Some people just sweat more than others." Brilliant.
It's embarrassing. And inconvenient. And gross. It's not fun being the crazy girl at the dance party who's sweating like Whitney Huston on crack ... yes, I have used that reference before. It's my favorite. Because I've never seen anyone who sweats as much I do other than Whitney Huston ... and I don't do crack ... and I don't sweat that much when I'm just sitting still.
The only place I can exercise that has proven to be a sweat-free zone is in the pool. But I'm not a great swimmer ... I don't breathe properly and I only know one kick ... the flutter kick. So one trip down the Olympic length pool whipping my head from side to side so my mouth doesn't touch the water while kicking vigorously is about all this fat 40-year old woman can handle. My husband has tried to teach me proper swimming techniques ... but as with most things my husband tries to teach me to do ... I don't really listen and turn into a stubborn child. Behavior I have been working on for about 18 years now but I'm not really making much progress in that department. I just don't like it when he tells me to do something ... even when it's productive. But that's a story for another day.
So for now, my friends, until doctors find a cure for my excessive non-medically related sweating, I am limiting my time at the gym to the non-peak hours ... when the senior citizens are in the pool, the adults are at work and the children are at school. Or you can find me in the pool ... using a kick board and/or a noodle. Or in my living room ... doing some form of exercise video. Armed with a water bottle and beach towel for each activity.
My goal ... to workout a minimum of 30 minutes per day ... five days per week. My real goal ... to never let you see me sweat. Have a great week!
© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved
Friday, March 25, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
It's Great to be a Girl ...
It has been my experience ... and perhaps my experience alone ... that the differences between men and women are not all that difficult to navigate. I don't particularly feel the need to read Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus ... or keep up-to-date on the latest psychological studies that spend years observing the differences between the genders. For one ... I don't really care. For another ... you shouldn't either.
One of my favorite episodes of Seinfeld is the one where George is explaining "shrinkage" to Elaine. Elaine scoffs and walks away saying, "I don't know how you guys can walk around with those things." Love it ... and so on point!
Quite honestly ... I really, really like being a girl. Sure there are some inconveniences that come along with having two X chromosomes ... I could really have done without the monthly menstrual cycle ... and childbirth could be a little easier ... but all in all, being a girl is pretty awesome. The clothes are cuter ... the shoes and handbags are to die for ... we can cry our way out of speeding tickets ... and we can walk into a bar with nothing but a cute outfit and a group of girlfriends and not have to spend one dime of our own money on drinks. And that's just a few of the perks.
Another of the perks to being a member of the female gender is that our communication skills are far superior to our male counterparts. If you could be a fly on the wall at any of the BFF Breakfasts that the peeps and I participate in ... you will find that women have their own language. A sentence does not have to be completed or even make absolute sense ... the other women in the group get it ... with no need for lengthy explanation. A man eavesdropping from the booth behind us may not understand one thing that is being said ... and truth be told, we like it that way.
You see ... my husband doesn't really want to tag along to the nail salon and have a mani/pedi and then on to a 4-hour lunch where the discussion revolves around last night's episode of The Bachelor. And I don't particularly want to tag along with him to a log sale and then on to an hour lunch wherein the discussion revolves around different species of logs and how many board feet is in each log, etc.
Women and men are different ... and God really knew what he was doing there. I have said it before and I will say it again ... my husband is not my BFF. But how many times have you and your girlfriends dedicated your 4-hour lunch pondering the subject of how clueless men seem to be? How many times have you gotten angry with your husband, son, boss, any member of the male species really ... only to come to the realization that none of them can seem to figure out why you're angry in the first place? How many times have you looked at your spouse when he is keeping you awake in the middle of the night with his incessant snoring and thought ... what the Hell was I thinking? Or is that just me?
Let's examine the differences in men and women through a media which I understand ... the movies. Let's play a game I like to call The Hangover vs. Something's Gotta Give. Two movies ... two very different demographics.
The Hangover portrays four men in their late 30's on their way to Vegas for a bachelor party. Hijinks ensue and due to the irresponsible nature of the men's behavior, the groom almost misses his wedding day. It's hysterical ... one of my favorite movies to turn to when I need a good laugh. I actually will never be able to pronounce the word "re-tard" the same again. And it's actually a pretty accurate ... if not exaggerated ... portrayal of most of the men I know. And that alone makes me think that it's high time I broaden my social circle.
These men are on a quest ... to act like fools ... get drunk ... hook up with a young lady or two or three ... to regain the glory of their youth. And while it's funny to watch on screen ... it's not so funny in real life. Because in real life, while the men head out to relive their glory days in search of a young lady or two or three that will make them feel young again ... there is usually a bright, beautiful woman in her 30's, 40's or 50's left behind ... alone ... heartbroken ... while he flits off to sow his wild oats.
Okay ... I'm getting off my soap box now.
Something's Gotta Give is a story about a mature woman with a grown daughter, divorced (and the story never gives a clear explanation for the dissolution of the marriage) who is highly successful, independent, intelligent, funny and beautiful. This woman falls in love with a man in his 60's and is being courted by another man in his early 40's. She wants a long-term relationship with the older man but he is terrified of committment and wants to date younger women. While she is flattered by the attention of the younger man, the age difference isn't something she can seem to get past.
The themes of each of these movies are actually quite similar as they each depict the stereo-typical man in the throes of crisis ... having no idea how long each of these men are projected to live ... I cannot predict their specific crises to be "mid life" in nature ... but in crises nonetheless. And please do not crucify me for pointing out that men seem to speed down the mid life crisis highway holding the hand of a "trophy" wife while their other hand clutches the steering wheel of a brand new Porsche. It's a story as old as time ... and a tired cliche. Do not shoot the messenger.
In Something's Gotta Give, however, we see how this mature, successful, intelligent, now single woman travels through her life ... and you know what? She's fine. She's more than fine. She's fabulous. She has a true sense of herself and doesn't need a man to complete her life ... moreover she's looking for a man who will enhance it.
It was during one of the many screenings of The Hangover that I had an epiphany. The main difference between men and women is that men seem to be clinging on for dear life to their youth while women are content to grow older.
Maybe we women don't particularly appreciate the appearance of crow's feet, the gray hairs we find when plucking our eyebrows or combing our hair, the thicker hips, the loss of skin elasticity which creates that pucker of skin on the elbow and knees and the waddle on the neck. But I bet if you asked most women of a "certain age" if given the chance to go back and be 20 years old again ... the answer would be no. If you ask most men of a "certain age" the same question ... they would say Hell yes!
I often have a recurring nightmare in which I am back in high school. When I say that this is a nightmare ... I am being completely honest. The thought of going back to high school is a complete and utter nightmare ... one time in my life that I would never choose to relive. I wasn't particularly traumatized or bullied ... but the thought of having to go through all of that bad skin, bad hair and insecurity again makes me slightly sick to my stomach. I also don't want to go back to my 20's ... to the two-bedroom walk-up apartment with the hand-me-down furniture and flea market finds. Nor my 30's. And I am pretty confident when the next ten years have passed, I will not want to go back and start my 40's over again either. Even though the birthday party was pretty spectacular ...
I have said every year when my kids have had a birthday that this is my "favorite" age. I said it when they were 6 months old, 2 years old, 8 years old, 14 years old, 17 years old, etc. Because it is. Every year I spend with these two miracles that I brought into this world is better than the year before. Even now that they are teenagers and the teenage years are supposed to be horrible ... because this has not been my experience. There are times when they test my patience with everything that they have ... but overall, every day is more enjoyable than the last.
And I feel the same way about my own life. Yes, some years were better than others. I could have done without some of the drama, the heartbreak, the tough times. But all of life's experiences have led to me to the person I am today. And I like who I am today.
I am happy to leave the part-time jobs at McDonald's, the crappy apartments, first-time home buying, pregnancies and baby-raising to those that have yet to experience it. I like knowing where my life is heading and know that any curve balls that come my way can be hit way out of the park because I am stronger, smarter and able to stand on my own at this age better than when I was young. That's one of the great things about being a girl ... we started maturing faster than the boys at a young age and never stopped.
I don't know why a lot of men suffer from a mid life crisis by trading in their wives for a newer model ... I think maybe it's because they have spent a majority of their adult life working and supporting a family and tire of the responsibility and go looking for greener pastures. Chris Rock once said that "men are only as faithful as their options." Think Donald Trump and his string of supermodel wives ... each one younger than the last. He's not a good-looking man ... but he has a lot of options when it comes to securing a young trophy wife.
Quite honestly, if I had all of Trump's money, my mid life crisis would be centered around shopping for a new refrigerator or vacation home in lieu of a new husband. But that's just me ...
And quite frankly, the thought of dating again seems exhausting. Not to mention the whole new crop of cougars that have arrived on the dating scene. I really can't imagine carrying on a relationship with a man 20 years my junior and spending my evenings playing Halo on the XBox 360 or going to "keggers" on a Friday night. Blech.
I am certainly not trying to imply that all men who suffer a mid life crisis leave their wives for newer models. I am not. Nor am I trying to imply that men are the only ones who suffer a mid life crisis and uproot entire lives in search of something bigger and better. I am not. Women do it too ...
Men are not your enemy ... even Gloria Steinem eventually broke down and secured herself a spouse. No, they are not your enemy ... but they are not your mirror image either. And you will do yourself a great service if you figure this out and accept it sooner rather than later. My marriage became a much happier one when I stopped trying to figure my husband out ... stopped wondering why he did the things that he did ... stopped trying to figure out what was going through his mind. I stopped wondering and just asked him. Sometimes his responses were enlightening ... others left me completely baffled and confused.
I don't know why he finds South Park so hilarious. He doesn't know why I become so emotionally invested in the lives of contestants on reality shows. And I eventually realized that it doesn't really matter. He is his own person. His decisions are his decisions ... and his reasons are his own reasons. And mine are my own as well ... and clearly better. :)
I appreciate my husband's perspective when I'm trying to solve a particularly perplexing problem. I appreciate his ability to take emotions out of the decision making process. I appreciate his immature sense of humor and his ability to take a situation from serious to hilarious in a matter of moments. I appreciate that he pushes me to take big risks and to stand on my own two feet ... and I appreciate that he is there to catch me when I fall.
I am not naive enough to believe that a life-changing mid life crisis may not be somewhere in my husband's future ... that I am irreplaceable. Nor am I naive enough to believe that it wouldn't hurt like Hell and send me reeling. I have seen it happen to women that I love time and time again. What I do know, however, is that I am one tough cookie. Have a much better understanding of what it is I am capable of and a sisterhood of friends that would be there to see me through.
Men and women are different ... we don't always understand each other. Men tend to like being the "big man on campus," tend to rely on no one but themselves. That's one of the great things about being a girl ... because you have other women to lean on for comfort and support and women you look up to as mentors. Women understand each other while men are left scratching their heads in confusion.
When I was in the process of potty-training my daughter, my son, a whole year older than she was and successfully out of diapers, wanted to help. When we went into the bathroom, I pulled down my daughter's "big girl pants" and put her on the potty. My son looked at me and said "where's her thing?" and pointed at her legs. I said, "she's a girl ... she doesn't have one." He looked me square in the eyes and said "Well I have no idea what to do with that ..." and turned and ran out of the bathroom. An excellent example of how men, having no idea what to make of us, run in the opposite direction when they don't understand what we as women are all about.
Jane Fonda once said that "the day you quit growing as a person is the day they bury you in the ground." That's the great thing about being a girl ... you can keep on growing ... keep on chasing your dreams ... making new dreams when the old ones don't come to fruition. Because women are strong ... a lot stronger than most of the men I know. Don't believe me? Go and spend the weekend with a single mom ...
So the next time someone tells you that you that you "throw like a girl," ... smile and say thank you. Because it's great to be a girl ...
© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved
One of my favorite episodes of Seinfeld is the one where George is explaining "shrinkage" to Elaine. Elaine scoffs and walks away saying, "I don't know how you guys can walk around with those things." Love it ... and so on point!
Quite honestly ... I really, really like being a girl. Sure there are some inconveniences that come along with having two X chromosomes ... I could really have done without the monthly menstrual cycle ... and childbirth could be a little easier ... but all in all, being a girl is pretty awesome. The clothes are cuter ... the shoes and handbags are to die for ... we can cry our way out of speeding tickets ... and we can walk into a bar with nothing but a cute outfit and a group of girlfriends and not have to spend one dime of our own money on drinks. And that's just a few of the perks.
Another of the perks to being a member of the female gender is that our communication skills are far superior to our male counterparts. If you could be a fly on the wall at any of the BFF Breakfasts that the peeps and I participate in ... you will find that women have their own language. A sentence does not have to be completed or even make absolute sense ... the other women in the group get it ... with no need for lengthy explanation. A man eavesdropping from the booth behind us may not understand one thing that is being said ... and truth be told, we like it that way.
You see ... my husband doesn't really want to tag along to the nail salon and have a mani/pedi and then on to a 4-hour lunch where the discussion revolves around last night's episode of The Bachelor. And I don't particularly want to tag along with him to a log sale and then on to an hour lunch wherein the discussion revolves around different species of logs and how many board feet is in each log, etc.
Women and men are different ... and God really knew what he was doing there. I have said it before and I will say it again ... my husband is not my BFF. But how many times have you and your girlfriends dedicated your 4-hour lunch pondering the subject of how clueless men seem to be? How many times have you gotten angry with your husband, son, boss, any member of the male species really ... only to come to the realization that none of them can seem to figure out why you're angry in the first place? How many times have you looked at your spouse when he is keeping you awake in the middle of the night with his incessant snoring and thought ... what the Hell was I thinking? Or is that just me?
Let's examine the differences in men and women through a media which I understand ... the movies. Let's play a game I like to call The Hangover vs. Something's Gotta Give. Two movies ... two very different demographics.
The Hangover portrays four men in their late 30's on their way to Vegas for a bachelor party. Hijinks ensue and due to the irresponsible nature of the men's behavior, the groom almost misses his wedding day. It's hysterical ... one of my favorite movies to turn to when I need a good laugh. I actually will never be able to pronounce the word "re-tard" the same again. And it's actually a pretty accurate ... if not exaggerated ... portrayal of most of the men I know. And that alone makes me think that it's high time I broaden my social circle.
These men are on a quest ... to act like fools ... get drunk ... hook up with a young lady or two or three ... to regain the glory of their youth. And while it's funny to watch on screen ... it's not so funny in real life. Because in real life, while the men head out to relive their glory days in search of a young lady or two or three that will make them feel young again ... there is usually a bright, beautiful woman in her 30's, 40's or 50's left behind ... alone ... heartbroken ... while he flits off to sow his wild oats.
Okay ... I'm getting off my soap box now.
Something's Gotta Give is a story about a mature woman with a grown daughter, divorced (and the story never gives a clear explanation for the dissolution of the marriage) who is highly successful, independent, intelligent, funny and beautiful. This woman falls in love with a man in his 60's and is being courted by another man in his early 40's. She wants a long-term relationship with the older man but he is terrified of committment and wants to date younger women. While she is flattered by the attention of the younger man, the age difference isn't something she can seem to get past.
The themes of each of these movies are actually quite similar as they each depict the stereo-typical man in the throes of crisis ... having no idea how long each of these men are projected to live ... I cannot predict their specific crises to be "mid life" in nature ... but in crises nonetheless. And please do not crucify me for pointing out that men seem to speed down the mid life crisis highway holding the hand of a "trophy" wife while their other hand clutches the steering wheel of a brand new Porsche. It's a story as old as time ... and a tired cliche. Do not shoot the messenger.
In Something's Gotta Give, however, we see how this mature, successful, intelligent, now single woman travels through her life ... and you know what? She's fine. She's more than fine. She's fabulous. She has a true sense of herself and doesn't need a man to complete her life ... moreover she's looking for a man who will enhance it.
It was during one of the many screenings of The Hangover that I had an epiphany. The main difference between men and women is that men seem to be clinging on for dear life to their youth while women are content to grow older.
Maybe we women don't particularly appreciate the appearance of crow's feet, the gray hairs we find when plucking our eyebrows or combing our hair, the thicker hips, the loss of skin elasticity which creates that pucker of skin on the elbow and knees and the waddle on the neck. But I bet if you asked most women of a "certain age" if given the chance to go back and be 20 years old again ... the answer would be no. If you ask most men of a "certain age" the same question ... they would say Hell yes!
I often have a recurring nightmare in which I am back in high school. When I say that this is a nightmare ... I am being completely honest. The thought of going back to high school is a complete and utter nightmare ... one time in my life that I would never choose to relive. I wasn't particularly traumatized or bullied ... but the thought of having to go through all of that bad skin, bad hair and insecurity again makes me slightly sick to my stomach. I also don't want to go back to my 20's ... to the two-bedroom walk-up apartment with the hand-me-down furniture and flea market finds. Nor my 30's. And I am pretty confident when the next ten years have passed, I will not want to go back and start my 40's over again either. Even though the birthday party was pretty spectacular ...
I have said every year when my kids have had a birthday that this is my "favorite" age. I said it when they were 6 months old, 2 years old, 8 years old, 14 years old, 17 years old, etc. Because it is. Every year I spend with these two miracles that I brought into this world is better than the year before. Even now that they are teenagers and the teenage years are supposed to be horrible ... because this has not been my experience. There are times when they test my patience with everything that they have ... but overall, every day is more enjoyable than the last.
And I feel the same way about my own life. Yes, some years were better than others. I could have done without some of the drama, the heartbreak, the tough times. But all of life's experiences have led to me to the person I am today. And I like who I am today.
I am happy to leave the part-time jobs at McDonald's, the crappy apartments, first-time home buying, pregnancies and baby-raising to those that have yet to experience it. I like knowing where my life is heading and know that any curve balls that come my way can be hit way out of the park because I am stronger, smarter and able to stand on my own at this age better than when I was young. That's one of the great things about being a girl ... we started maturing faster than the boys at a young age and never stopped.
I don't know why a lot of men suffer from a mid life crisis by trading in their wives for a newer model ... I think maybe it's because they have spent a majority of their adult life working and supporting a family and tire of the responsibility and go looking for greener pastures. Chris Rock once said that "men are only as faithful as their options." Think Donald Trump and his string of supermodel wives ... each one younger than the last. He's not a good-looking man ... but he has a lot of options when it comes to securing a young trophy wife.
Quite honestly, if I had all of Trump's money, my mid life crisis would be centered around shopping for a new refrigerator or vacation home in lieu of a new husband. But that's just me ...
And quite frankly, the thought of dating again seems exhausting. Not to mention the whole new crop of cougars that have arrived on the dating scene. I really can't imagine carrying on a relationship with a man 20 years my junior and spending my evenings playing Halo on the XBox 360 or going to "keggers" on a Friday night. Blech.
I am certainly not trying to imply that all men who suffer a mid life crisis leave their wives for newer models. I am not. Nor am I trying to imply that men are the only ones who suffer a mid life crisis and uproot entire lives in search of something bigger and better. I am not. Women do it too ...
Men are not your enemy ... even Gloria Steinem eventually broke down and secured herself a spouse. No, they are not your enemy ... but they are not your mirror image either. And you will do yourself a great service if you figure this out and accept it sooner rather than later. My marriage became a much happier one when I stopped trying to figure my husband out ... stopped wondering why he did the things that he did ... stopped trying to figure out what was going through his mind. I stopped wondering and just asked him. Sometimes his responses were enlightening ... others left me completely baffled and confused.
I don't know why he finds South Park so hilarious. He doesn't know why I become so emotionally invested in the lives of contestants on reality shows. And I eventually realized that it doesn't really matter. He is his own person. His decisions are his decisions ... and his reasons are his own reasons. And mine are my own as well ... and clearly better. :)
I appreciate my husband's perspective when I'm trying to solve a particularly perplexing problem. I appreciate his ability to take emotions out of the decision making process. I appreciate his immature sense of humor and his ability to take a situation from serious to hilarious in a matter of moments. I appreciate that he pushes me to take big risks and to stand on my own two feet ... and I appreciate that he is there to catch me when I fall.
I am not naive enough to believe that a life-changing mid life crisis may not be somewhere in my husband's future ... that I am irreplaceable. Nor am I naive enough to believe that it wouldn't hurt like Hell and send me reeling. I have seen it happen to women that I love time and time again. What I do know, however, is that I am one tough cookie. Have a much better understanding of what it is I am capable of and a sisterhood of friends that would be there to see me through.
Men and women are different ... we don't always understand each other. Men tend to like being the "big man on campus," tend to rely on no one but themselves. That's one of the great things about being a girl ... because you have other women to lean on for comfort and support and women you look up to as mentors. Women understand each other while men are left scratching their heads in confusion.
When I was in the process of potty-training my daughter, my son, a whole year older than she was and successfully out of diapers, wanted to help. When we went into the bathroom, I pulled down my daughter's "big girl pants" and put her on the potty. My son looked at me and said "where's her thing?" and pointed at her legs. I said, "she's a girl ... she doesn't have one." He looked me square in the eyes and said "Well I have no idea what to do with that ..." and turned and ran out of the bathroom. An excellent example of how men, having no idea what to make of us, run in the opposite direction when they don't understand what we as women are all about.
Jane Fonda once said that "the day you quit growing as a person is the day they bury you in the ground." That's the great thing about being a girl ... you can keep on growing ... keep on chasing your dreams ... making new dreams when the old ones don't come to fruition. Because women are strong ... a lot stronger than most of the men I know. Don't believe me? Go and spend the weekend with a single mom ...
So the next time someone tells you that you that you "throw like a girl," ... smile and say thank you. Because it's great to be a girl ...
© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved
Color Blind ...
I have a large family. A lot of aunts and uncles and cousins. All of us scattered about the vast expanse of this great country and some have even taken up residence overseas at one point in time or another. And while facebook has been a wonderful way to keep all of us up to date on what's going on in each other's lives, it doesn't make up for the fact that we are all too far away to physically meet up with one another as often as we would like.
And, therefore, as most of us do ... I have created my own family ... of close, personal friends. And without my makeshift family, I believe I would be forever locked away in a drab insane asylum somewhere ... confined to a straight jacket ... and white is not a good look for me.
My BFF has been generous enough to earn several supporting actress credits in the creation of this blog ... as have my other supporting cast members, the peeps. And while I do believe my portrayal of my BFF has given you a somewhat intimate look at the role she plays in my life ... the other member of the peeps, the Sergeant, remains elusive.
So ladies and gentleman ... I would like to introduce you to the last (but certainly not least) member of the peeps ... the Sergeant.
First ... some background information. The peeps were founded in 2001 ... when our children were in the same kindergarten class ... and the BFF and Sergeant were running the PTA. At that time there were 4 founding members of the peeps but we have since had one member defect from our mommy posse and while the loss hit us hard at the time, the peeps are all at an age where we do not feel that we need to beg and plead for someone to want to be with us. So we released her and wish she and her family well.
An act, I might add, that every girl who has ever spent a Friday/Saturday night at home "washing her hair," waiting for that phone call from that guy they met last week at that bar would be wise to follow ... and every woman who stars in ABC's The Bachelor should follow as well. Because, seriously, if someone doesn't want you for who you are ... why waste so much time trying to convince them they are wrong? If they don't want you ... they don't want you. And if you have to beg them to want you ... well, aside from being pathetic, it's just pointless. Wish them well ... release them ... send them on their way.
But I'm getting off the subject ...
So, our quartet became a trio, and I truly believe, if need be, we could run the world. If there were a version of Sex and the City centered here in Podunk, PA ... the pilot would fade in on the peeps meeting for what they refer to as "BFF Breakfast" once a week at the local hot spot for senior citizens, "Perkins Family Restaurant" .... ordering the same breakfasts week after week (healthy for the BFF/not so healthy for me and the Sergeant) ... sipping on coffee, green tea (guess who orders this beverage?) and chocolate milk ... talking, laughing and solving the world's problems ... well not really ... but solving our own problems and giving opinions on other people's problems whether they want our opinions or not. It should be noted that last week's BFF breakfast lasted for 3 straight hours. I will not be surprised if upon our next visit we are approached by management and slapped with a lease agreement for the booth we occupy .
Missing notably from these breakfasts as of late is the Sergeant ... who has recently left the at-home mom, part-time school substitute realm to enter the workforce filling in as a full-time school substitute and leaving the remaining members of the peeps feeling recklessly abandoned. *Sigh*
All of the us have a role to play in the peeps organization. My BFF is what we call the "cruise director." The one responsible for all of our social events ... nailing down dates and times for our meetings. I am in charge of the theater department ... as I tend to have a flair for the dramatic as well as providing the comic relief. The Sergeant is the CEO/CFO of this organization. The one with the level head, good advice and a "take no prisoners" attitude when it comes to dishing out the hard truths.
My first encounter with the Sergeant before we became forever bound by the peeps was at Curves ... you know, the circuit gym for ladies? She showed up at Curves most every morning that I was there and I was fascinated by this woman's energy. She could have/should have run that class ... owned that franchise. Because no matter where you are ... if the Sergeant walks in a room ... a certain frenetic energy permeates the air. She is the little engine that could ... the energizer bunny ... and cannot be ignored.
Now the Sergeant didn't get the name "The Sergeant," by being all warm and fuzzy. No. The Sergeant got her name because if she told you that you were to meet her at the corner of "Give me a Break" and "What the Hell" at 5:00 a.m. for a three-mile walk and a blizzard had whipped through the night before ... you had better be there at 5:00 a.m. for your three-mile walk ... without whining ... and ready to "pick up the pace" (her favorite catch phrase while snapping her fingers). To this day I believe that Jillian Michaels' character on The Biggest Loser was modeled after the Sergeant when she is in workout mode.
The Sergeant walked her three miles every morning whether the rest of us showed up or not ... with a slipped disc in her back to boot ... because she was too stubborn to go and get it fixed. She just walked through the pain. No matter how much we begged her not to. Once we finally convinced her to get to a doctor, it was determined she would need surgery. She fought and fought with us about having it done. We told her she needed to ... that she would feel so much better when it was over and done with ... to quit being a baby and that nothing would go wrong. Um ... we were wrong. Days after the first surgery, the Sergeant was still in so much pain that the doctor ordered an X-ray which confirmed that the he had operated on the wrong disc ... and she had to go back under the knife. She wasn't happy with the hospital ... the doctor ... or with us ... because we had assured her that everything would be fine.
The Sergeant has not had a dishwasher for as long as I've known her. Well, she has one ... but it no longer works and she has yet to replace it. She washes all of the dishes in her house by herself every night. When she had the slipped disc and could not stand at the sink for a long period of time, she brought in an office chair to sit in while doing the dishes. Rumor has it that she was spotted at the local Sears store within the last couple of weeks and that a dishwasher had been purchased ... I will believe it when I see it for myself.
The Sergeant has a big green tractor that she mows her acres of lawn with ... all by herself ... because she likes things done a certain way. She also has a very strange obsession with keeping her driveway "apple free." She ran the PTA when her kids were in elementary school and now runs the high school football concession stand, sits on the boosters for both of her kids sports teams, takes her daughter to ski team which is miles from home on a nightly basis in the wintertime, takes care of her husband's business financial reports, works part-time (now full-time) outside of the home, cooks, cleans, does laundry, etc. Whew!
My life without the Sergeant in it would be a lesser life to live. Our families have vacationed together ... she and I squeezing our ample bottoms into the seat of a roller coaster bench that was seemingly designed for two ... but made us feel like doughy Pillsbury biscuits being squeezed into a tube ... laughing so hard we almost peed our pants. She is the one that convinced me that I should try skiing ... which led to the fainting incident and SOS call on the toddler hill ... which has given her years and years of laughter to fall back on whenever she thinks of it. She has held my hand through some of the darkest moments of my life and always remained calm and had a voice of reason. She has kicked my ass to get motivated and get in shape ... and I love, love, love this woman for everything that she is.
The Sergeant is the eldest member of the peeps and interestingly enough, the youngest member of her biological family ... a "late life" baby ... or an "Oh Shit!" baby, if you will. The BFF would be considered the middle child and I am the baby of this family. I like to think of the BFF and I as the "little sisters" the Sergeant never had (and some days I'm sure the Sergeant thinks of us as the "little sisters" she's glad she never had). And as such, one of the BFF and I's most favorite activities in the whole wide world is to subject the Sergeant to getting "make-overs."
When we first met the Sergeant she was straightening her natural curly hair and had large eyeglasses ... not so unfashionable at the time ... but too big for her face. So the first order of business was to get this woman to the nearest salon for a fun, young, short, sassy, curly hairstyle that matched her personality and to the eye doctor to find frames that fit her face ... mission accomplished.
I, playing devil's advocate, and having supreme jealousy over the fact that my friend, the Sergeant, has naturally large (not paid for like mine) breasts, like to take the Sergeant shopping for bras ... which is harder than you think for a large-chested lady ... at least finding bras that come in colors other than white, nude and black. Sometimes I also convince her to buy items that she deems to be ridiculous but humors me anyway ... like the day we hit the mall and came back with black thigh high stockings and matching feather boas.
But the most challenging aspect of taking the Sergeant shopping is the fact that she is color blind. Yep ... color blind. As in ... can't distinguish two similar colors from one another. She can tell something is red ... but she doesn't know which shade of red ... orange-red, blood-red, pink-red ... cannot distinguish navy from black or purple, etc.
Now, if you are color blind, the best store for you to shop in when shopping solo is Christopher Banks ... which I call "Garanimals for Grown Ups." Every item of clothing in that store can be paired together ... all color coordinated and it makes for an easy match. However, if shopping anywhere else, you must enlist the help of your friends or it can be disastrous.
Now the Sergeant is stubborn ... if you haven't figured that out for yourself by now. She's a "can-do" gal and she believes she "can-do" anything. And one of the most frustrating times we had shopping with her was at a local department store when we were picking out an Easter outfit and she decided to argue with the BFF and I that the sweater we picked out for her did not match the skirt she had picked. Arguing that the flowers in the skirt were navy and would not match the purple sweater ... even though her non-color blind friends assured her that the flowers in the skirt were, in fact, a deep purple, not navy. No amount of arguing could convince the Sergeant that we were right and she was wrong. We even asked an innocent passerby to confirm what we knew to be true ... that the skirt and sweater matched. We laughed and argued about this for about an hour ... until we all gave up and went in a different direction all together.
Isn't that interesting? The color blind Sergeant arguing with the non-color blind peeps over color???? Which got me to thinking (which is the whole reason behind this lengthy blog) about how we, as women, refuse to believe what other people see when it comes to ourselves.
By a raise of hands ... how many of you out there have a hard time receiving a compliment? Everyone? Why do we do that? If someone tells you that you look really pretty ... do you say thank you ... or do you laugh it off and/or make some kind of joke and put yourself down? When someone says "great sweater" ... do you feel the need to tell them that you got it on sale ... so they don't think you paid full price for it? When someone says "what a great haircut" ... do you go on and on about how you wish it were straighter, curlier, longer, shorter? If someone says "great job" on the event you organized ... do you go into detail about how you felt you could have done a better job?
I am a big movie watcher ... and I tend to watch my favorite movies over and over and over again. Much to they dismay of my husband and children. One of the classics I have watched a million times over is Pretty Woman ... you know, the one where Julia Roberts plays the hooker with the heart of gold to Richard Gere's stuffy rich guy? There is a point in the movie when Julia opens up about her life and how it came to pass that she fell into her current profession ... Richard Gere's character's says ... "but you could be so much more." Julia Roberts responds by saying, "... the bad stuff is easier to believe."
Isn't that the truth? We believe it when people put us down ... when they say things that hurt our feelings. But we choose not to believe or trust in the good stuff that others tell us. We don't believe we are doing the best job as mothers, wives, daughters, etc., even though the people that are closest to us compliment us on a job well done ... we choose to believe the bad things.
We are all a little color blind. Just like the Sergeant who believes she is right when she is so obviously and clearly wrong ... because she chooses not to hear what her best friends are saying ... we all tend to put a little too much credit in the negatives we hear about ourselves and choose to overlook and ignore all of the positives that we each possess.
I have a big ass. So when someone says ... you look really pretty today ... I generally say something like ... yea, except for this fat ass ... or something to that effect ... because I am so hung up on my big ass that I feel like it's not possible for me to be pretty while it rests so prominently behind me. Obviously whomever issued that compliment was not focusing on my big ass ... they just thought I looked pretty. So why do I feel the need to draw attention to it ... to let them know that they are wrong ... that I can't possibly look pretty when my ass is this size? It's ridiculous ... and it needs to stop ... because I am not allowing myself to see what these people actually see ... which in this case is that I look pretty. I, like Julia Roberts, think that the bad stuff is easier to believe. I am color blind.
So I am sending out a challenge to each and every one of you today ... when someone gives you a compliment over the next couple of days, weeks, months ... just smile and say thank you. That's it. Just thank you. No excuses ... no big explanations ... and no self-deprecating remarks. Just take it in ... accept it ... believe it.
And maybe you and I will finally begin to believe in the good stuff ... and start to see ourselves in a new light ... begin to see how bright and beautiful we truly are ... and finally cure ourselves from being color blind.
© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved
And, therefore, as most of us do ... I have created my own family ... of close, personal friends. And without my makeshift family, I believe I would be forever locked away in a drab insane asylum somewhere ... confined to a straight jacket ... and white is not a good look for me.
My BFF has been generous enough to earn several supporting actress credits in the creation of this blog ... as have my other supporting cast members, the peeps. And while I do believe my portrayal of my BFF has given you a somewhat intimate look at the role she plays in my life ... the other member of the peeps, the Sergeant, remains elusive.
So ladies and gentleman ... I would like to introduce you to the last (but certainly not least) member of the peeps ... the Sergeant.
First ... some background information. The peeps were founded in 2001 ... when our children were in the same kindergarten class ... and the BFF and Sergeant were running the PTA. At that time there were 4 founding members of the peeps but we have since had one member defect from our mommy posse and while the loss hit us hard at the time, the peeps are all at an age where we do not feel that we need to beg and plead for someone to want to be with us. So we released her and wish she and her family well.
An act, I might add, that every girl who has ever spent a Friday/Saturday night at home "washing her hair," waiting for that phone call from that guy they met last week at that bar would be wise to follow ... and every woman who stars in ABC's The Bachelor should follow as well. Because, seriously, if someone doesn't want you for who you are ... why waste so much time trying to convince them they are wrong? If they don't want you ... they don't want you. And if you have to beg them to want you ... well, aside from being pathetic, it's just pointless. Wish them well ... release them ... send them on their way.
But I'm getting off the subject ...
So, our quartet became a trio, and I truly believe, if need be, we could run the world. If there were a version of Sex and the City centered here in Podunk, PA ... the pilot would fade in on the peeps meeting for what they refer to as "BFF Breakfast" once a week at the local hot spot for senior citizens, "Perkins Family Restaurant" .... ordering the same breakfasts week after week (healthy for the BFF/not so healthy for me and the Sergeant) ... sipping on coffee, green tea (guess who orders this beverage?) and chocolate milk ... talking, laughing and solving the world's problems ... well not really ... but solving our own problems and giving opinions on other people's problems whether they want our opinions or not. It should be noted that last week's BFF breakfast lasted for 3 straight hours. I will not be surprised if upon our next visit we are approached by management and slapped with a lease agreement for the booth we occupy .
Missing notably from these breakfasts as of late is the Sergeant ... who has recently left the at-home mom, part-time school substitute realm to enter the workforce filling in as a full-time school substitute and leaving the remaining members of the peeps feeling recklessly abandoned. *Sigh*
All of the us have a role to play in the peeps organization. My BFF is what we call the "cruise director." The one responsible for all of our social events ... nailing down dates and times for our meetings. I am in charge of the theater department ... as I tend to have a flair for the dramatic as well as providing the comic relief. The Sergeant is the CEO/CFO of this organization. The one with the level head, good advice and a "take no prisoners" attitude when it comes to dishing out the hard truths.
My first encounter with the Sergeant before we became forever bound by the peeps was at Curves ... you know, the circuit gym for ladies? She showed up at Curves most every morning that I was there and I was fascinated by this woman's energy. She could have/should have run that class ... owned that franchise. Because no matter where you are ... if the Sergeant walks in a room ... a certain frenetic energy permeates the air. She is the little engine that could ... the energizer bunny ... and cannot be ignored.
Now the Sergeant didn't get the name "The Sergeant," by being all warm and fuzzy. No. The Sergeant got her name because if she told you that you were to meet her at the corner of "Give me a Break" and "What the Hell" at 5:00 a.m. for a three-mile walk and a blizzard had whipped through the night before ... you had better be there at 5:00 a.m. for your three-mile walk ... without whining ... and ready to "pick up the pace" (her favorite catch phrase while snapping her fingers). To this day I believe that Jillian Michaels' character on The Biggest Loser was modeled after the Sergeant when she is in workout mode.
The Sergeant walked her three miles every morning whether the rest of us showed up or not ... with a slipped disc in her back to boot ... because she was too stubborn to go and get it fixed. She just walked through the pain. No matter how much we begged her not to. Once we finally convinced her to get to a doctor, it was determined she would need surgery. She fought and fought with us about having it done. We told her she needed to ... that she would feel so much better when it was over and done with ... to quit being a baby and that nothing would go wrong. Um ... we were wrong. Days after the first surgery, the Sergeant was still in so much pain that the doctor ordered an X-ray which confirmed that the he had operated on the wrong disc ... and she had to go back under the knife. She wasn't happy with the hospital ... the doctor ... or with us ... because we had assured her that everything would be fine.
The Sergeant has not had a dishwasher for as long as I've known her. Well, she has one ... but it no longer works and she has yet to replace it. She washes all of the dishes in her house by herself every night. When she had the slipped disc and could not stand at the sink for a long period of time, she brought in an office chair to sit in while doing the dishes. Rumor has it that she was spotted at the local Sears store within the last couple of weeks and that a dishwasher had been purchased ... I will believe it when I see it for myself.
The Sergeant has a big green tractor that she mows her acres of lawn with ... all by herself ... because she likes things done a certain way. She also has a very strange obsession with keeping her driveway "apple free." She ran the PTA when her kids were in elementary school and now runs the high school football concession stand, sits on the boosters for both of her kids sports teams, takes her daughter to ski team which is miles from home on a nightly basis in the wintertime, takes care of her husband's business financial reports, works part-time (now full-time) outside of the home, cooks, cleans, does laundry, etc. Whew!
My life without the Sergeant in it would be a lesser life to live. Our families have vacationed together ... she and I squeezing our ample bottoms into the seat of a roller coaster bench that was seemingly designed for two ... but made us feel like doughy Pillsbury biscuits being squeezed into a tube ... laughing so hard we almost peed our pants. She is the one that convinced me that I should try skiing ... which led to the fainting incident and SOS call on the toddler hill ... which has given her years and years of laughter to fall back on whenever she thinks of it. She has held my hand through some of the darkest moments of my life and always remained calm and had a voice of reason. She has kicked my ass to get motivated and get in shape ... and I love, love, love this woman for everything that she is.
The Sergeant is the eldest member of the peeps and interestingly enough, the youngest member of her biological family ... a "late life" baby ... or an "Oh Shit!" baby, if you will. The BFF would be considered the middle child and I am the baby of this family. I like to think of the BFF and I as the "little sisters" the Sergeant never had (and some days I'm sure the Sergeant thinks of us as the "little sisters" she's glad she never had). And as such, one of the BFF and I's most favorite activities in the whole wide world is to subject the Sergeant to getting "make-overs."
When we first met the Sergeant she was straightening her natural curly hair and had large eyeglasses ... not so unfashionable at the time ... but too big for her face. So the first order of business was to get this woman to the nearest salon for a fun, young, short, sassy, curly hairstyle that matched her personality and to the eye doctor to find frames that fit her face ... mission accomplished.
I, playing devil's advocate, and having supreme jealousy over the fact that my friend, the Sergeant, has naturally large (not paid for like mine) breasts, like to take the Sergeant shopping for bras ... which is harder than you think for a large-chested lady ... at least finding bras that come in colors other than white, nude and black. Sometimes I also convince her to buy items that she deems to be ridiculous but humors me anyway ... like the day we hit the mall and came back with black thigh high stockings and matching feather boas.
But the most challenging aspect of taking the Sergeant shopping is the fact that she is color blind. Yep ... color blind. As in ... can't distinguish two similar colors from one another. She can tell something is red ... but she doesn't know which shade of red ... orange-red, blood-red, pink-red ... cannot distinguish navy from black or purple, etc.
Now, if you are color blind, the best store for you to shop in when shopping solo is Christopher Banks ... which I call "Garanimals for Grown Ups." Every item of clothing in that store can be paired together ... all color coordinated and it makes for an easy match. However, if shopping anywhere else, you must enlist the help of your friends or it can be disastrous.
Now the Sergeant is stubborn ... if you haven't figured that out for yourself by now. She's a "can-do" gal and she believes she "can-do" anything. And one of the most frustrating times we had shopping with her was at a local department store when we were picking out an Easter outfit and she decided to argue with the BFF and I that the sweater we picked out for her did not match the skirt she had picked. Arguing that the flowers in the skirt were navy and would not match the purple sweater ... even though her non-color blind friends assured her that the flowers in the skirt were, in fact, a deep purple, not navy. No amount of arguing could convince the Sergeant that we were right and she was wrong. We even asked an innocent passerby to confirm what we knew to be true ... that the skirt and sweater matched. We laughed and argued about this for about an hour ... until we all gave up and went in a different direction all together.
Isn't that interesting? The color blind Sergeant arguing with the non-color blind peeps over color???? Which got me to thinking (which is the whole reason behind this lengthy blog) about how we, as women, refuse to believe what other people see when it comes to ourselves.
By a raise of hands ... how many of you out there have a hard time receiving a compliment? Everyone? Why do we do that? If someone tells you that you look really pretty ... do you say thank you ... or do you laugh it off and/or make some kind of joke and put yourself down? When someone says "great sweater" ... do you feel the need to tell them that you got it on sale ... so they don't think you paid full price for it? When someone says "what a great haircut" ... do you go on and on about how you wish it were straighter, curlier, longer, shorter? If someone says "great job" on the event you organized ... do you go into detail about how you felt you could have done a better job?
I am a big movie watcher ... and I tend to watch my favorite movies over and over and over again. Much to they dismay of my husband and children. One of the classics I have watched a million times over is Pretty Woman ... you know, the one where Julia Roberts plays the hooker with the heart of gold to Richard Gere's stuffy rich guy? There is a point in the movie when Julia opens up about her life and how it came to pass that she fell into her current profession ... Richard Gere's character's says ... "but you could be so much more." Julia Roberts responds by saying, "... the bad stuff is easier to believe."
Isn't that the truth? We believe it when people put us down ... when they say things that hurt our feelings. But we choose not to believe or trust in the good stuff that others tell us. We don't believe we are doing the best job as mothers, wives, daughters, etc., even though the people that are closest to us compliment us on a job well done ... we choose to believe the bad things.
We are all a little color blind. Just like the Sergeant who believes she is right when she is so obviously and clearly wrong ... because she chooses not to hear what her best friends are saying ... we all tend to put a little too much credit in the negatives we hear about ourselves and choose to overlook and ignore all of the positives that we each possess.
I have a big ass. So when someone says ... you look really pretty today ... I generally say something like ... yea, except for this fat ass ... or something to that effect ... because I am so hung up on my big ass that I feel like it's not possible for me to be pretty while it rests so prominently behind me. Obviously whomever issued that compliment was not focusing on my big ass ... they just thought I looked pretty. So why do I feel the need to draw attention to it ... to let them know that they are wrong ... that I can't possibly look pretty when my ass is this size? It's ridiculous ... and it needs to stop ... because I am not allowing myself to see what these people actually see ... which in this case is that I look pretty. I, like Julia Roberts, think that the bad stuff is easier to believe. I am color blind.
So I am sending out a challenge to each and every one of you today ... when someone gives you a compliment over the next couple of days, weeks, months ... just smile and say thank you. That's it. Just thank you. No excuses ... no big explanations ... and no self-deprecating remarks. Just take it in ... accept it ... believe it.
And maybe you and I will finally begin to believe in the good stuff ... and start to see ourselves in a new light ... begin to see how bright and beautiful we truly are ... and finally cure ourselves from being color blind.
© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved
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