Humpty Dumpty Had a Great Fall ...

If you are spending this Valentine's Day cuddled up close to the one you love, exchanging chocolates, flowers, jewelry, sweet nothings and kisses ... then this blog is not for you.  Move on.  Skip It.  Revisit it on a day when you are feeling less than amorous.  But by all means ... do not continue ... it's going to spoil your good mood. 

We are all familiar with the fairytale of Humpty Dumpty ...

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men,

Couldn't put Humpty together Again."

And that, my friends, is where the Divine Mrs. M. finds herself on Valentine's Day 2012. 

Despite the fact that I have been able to maintain a positive attitude throughout this past year and all of its developments, I'm finding this particular holiday a little bit challenging. 

Valentine's Day in the Divine Mrs. M's household was never about Mr. & Mrs. M celebrating their personal love and affection for each other  ... it was about celebrating the family that was created through that love.  Valentine's Day was a family affair.  The Divine Mrs. M would spend the day preparing a gourmet meal with a heart shaped cake for dessert.  I would serve the dinner to my family in the formal dining room where we would eat on our finest china and drink sparkling juice from crystal wine glasses.  We would all exchange Valentine's cards, flowers, candy and silly little presents like stuffed animals that sang love songs.  After clearing the table, we would gather, just the four of us, around the TV and finish the evening cuddling together on the couch as a family watching a movie.  As the kids grew older, they knew that Valentine's Day was a family holiday.  No significant others allowed.  It was a tradition I cherished and now that tradition has been changed forever. 

Here's something that no one ever told me.  Divorce isn't just about mourning the loss of your husband/wife, marriage and relationship.  No.  It's so much more than that.  It's mourning the loss of  life as you knew it.  The loss of your family. 

We will never be a family again the way we used to be.  A close-knit foursome with inside jokes and hundreds of little traditions that meant nothing to anyone other than us that were created over a period of 18 years together.  That's a tough pill to swallow. 

The five stages of grief are real.  First is shock and denial ... and I admit that I stayed in this stage a little longer than was healthy.  Then comes the anger ... and you need to be careful with this one ... it's important to express your anger in a way that's not harmful to you or others ... writing all of your deep, nasty thoughts in a journal does wonders for the soul.  You can't hang on to the anger for too long or you will wind up being bitter.  Then comes bargaining.  The period where you say "if only I had done this" or "if only I had done that."  "I will do this if you will do that."  It is imperative that you have good friends around you during this phase or you will find yourself losing your dignity and self-respect.  Not good.  Fourth comes the depression.  Lord.  I would so much rather be angry than depressed.  But according to the "experts," you have to allow yourself to feel your feelings ... no matter how horrible those feelings may be.  And last but not least ... acceptance. 

The problem with these steps is that they really don't occur in that particular order ... and just like an alcoholic ... you can relapse back into a previous step if you aren't careful.  It's a process.  Not a science. 

For example ... Valentine's Day kind of snuck up on me.  Obviously I know how to read a calendar.  I knew it was February and I knew it was approaching ... but I chose to DENY that it was really going to happen this year.  Yesterday I got ANGRY because I knew I wasn't going to be able to carry on the tradition that has been occurring in this household for as long as any of us can remember.  Yes, we can still have a gourmet meal.  Yes we can still drink out of crystal wine glasses.  Yes we can still exchange cards and gifts.  Yes we can still have a family movie night.  What we cannot have is the fourth member of our family join us.  He's moved on.  He has another Valentine to celebrate with this year.  And this makes me ANGRY (and I'm being polite).  Forget the bargaining ... that's soooo not going to happen and slide right into depression. 

That's where I am at.  Depressed.  Too much information?  Well, if you have read any of my previous blogs you will know that I have never been shy.  I am not just depressed because it's Valentine's Day.  That would just be silly.  It's a day.  24 hours. 

No, I have done my time in the first 3 stages of Hell and have landed smack dab in the middle of depression.  And that's where we find Humpty Dumpty.  When you are walking along that brick wall leading through the first three stages of grief, it isn't until you hit depression that you lose your footing and you fall.  And you shatter.  Into a million little pieces.  Pieces of your shattered heart, shattered dreams and shattered life are all around you.  And all the king's horses and all the king's men (a/k/a the peeps and other close friends) cannot put you back together again. 

That's my job.  And I work at gluing the bits and pieces of myself back together again each and every day.  While I have mentioned before that I am not a wallower, I admit that I have allowed myself to wallow in self-pity from time to time.  It doesn't last long.  It's counterproductive.  Nope.  I just get up and pick a piece of myself up off of the floor and glue it to a piece that's strong enough to hold on to it. 

What I have come to realize through this process of piecing myself back together again is that while the pieces of the puzzle haven't changed ... the shape they are taking on as they are put back together again have.  I am not the same person that I was when I started this journey ... I have lost my husband, the dreams we had together and the idea of what our family once was.  But I have a whole new puzzle to build now.  Piece by piece I am learning to have new dreams and a new idea of what my family can be.  And that is the greatest gift of all ... to know that you may be broken but you don't have to choose to stay that way.  You can choose to get up and put yourself back together again.  No one is going to do it for you ... you have to do it for yourself. 

So let's change the fairytale: 

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,

 Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,

And all the king's horses and all the king's men

Watched in awe as Humpty put himself together again.

With that being said, let me leave you with a little bit of wisdom from one of my favorite singers, Adele ... "Next time I'll be braver, I'll be my own savior, standing on my own two feet."   So if you happen to be where I'm at this Valentine's Day ... do yourself a favor.  Get up.  Stand on your own two feet.  Pick yourself up piece by piece, hour by hour, day by day ... eventually you will reach stage five ... acceptance.  I, for one, cannot wait to get there and be new and whole again.  God Bless!

© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

A Year in Review ...

What a year!  Who knew that when I started this itty bitty blog that my life would take such a U-turn.  But it did.  I have taken time to mourn.  I have taken time to reflect.  And this is my year in review ...

Well ... the whole purpose of this blog was to share my weight loss experience with you.  So ... I am pleased to report that in the past year I have shed a total of 242.9 pounds.  That's right ... you read correctly.  242.9 pounds.  42.9 pounds from my frame and 200 pounds of husband. 

Okay ... so that wasn't very nice ... but I said that one night when having a "girls night in" with the peeps and they thought it was hysterical ... maybe it's just us and you had to be there ... but, whatever, I thought I'd throw it in.

2011 was a year of changes ... some good ... some not so great.  One thing I can say, however, is that change, while not always welcome, is sometimes necessary. 

My body has changed.  And that's a good thing.  But no matter how much it changes, it also stays the same.  Why is it that while I have dropped almost 43 pounds (that darn .1 keeping me from 43 is the universe's sick sense of humor), I still have a pot belly, bread basket, rump in front, whatever you want to call it?  Yes, I no longer wear a size W ... but the secretary spread remains firmly in place making me look wider than I think I should.  But if you are a loyal reader ... you realize that this is the least of my problems. 

Actually this isn't so much a problem as an annoyance.  Humor me and close your eyes for a moment.  Put a picture in your mind of what you would/will look like when you reach your fantasy goal weight.  What do you look like?  Me?  I look 18.  See ... that's the annoyance.  I know it's not possible to look 18 when you are 41.  Unless you are married to a very rich man and have the resources to enlist the employment of nutritionists, personal trainers and plastic surgeons.  I know that.  But I still am surprised when the clothes come off and the much thinner version of myself isn't 18. 

My sister-in-law says that losing weight makes you look good in clothes.  Exercise makes you look good naked.  I guess I am just going to have to always be clothed.  Preferably in layers. It's one of the reasons I actually like living in a cold climate.  Turtlenecks are always an option.  Although my path is paved with good intentions ... I still hate to exercise.  Hate.  Loathe.  Despise.  That's one change I can't seem to make. 

I quit my job and started college full-time.  That's one change I don't regret.  I like school.  Always have.  And I am forever grateful that going back to pursue my degree is a viable option.  Not everyone is so lucky. 

But college, along with the secretary spread, is another constant reminder that I am not 18.  Pulling all-nighters studying and trying to comprehend linear algebra being taught to you by a professor who is 26 and has a name like a leprechaun (Kory Kilburne) is not for the faint of heart.  Nothing can humble a 41-year-old mother of two more than having her teenage son and daughter tutor her in said linear algebra and my other arch nemesis ... biology.  On a side note, however, spreading the books out on the kitchen table while everyone does their homework made for a new kind of "family night" in the Divine Mrs. M's household.  Not so unpleasant. 

While the evil leprechaun managed to take a bite out of the 4.0 GPA I was able to hold onto all of the years I had taken evening classes leading up to full-time student status, I managed to finish my first semester with good grades, a great sense of accomplishment and a math book burning ceremony. 

Now that my math and science requirements are fulfilled, I am actually looking forward to semester number two.  With maybe the exception of the PE class.  Did you know that I have to pay a ridiculous amount of money to take a walking class?  Yea.  A walking class.  What in the world am I going to learn in a walking class?  I learned to walk at 9 months.  For free I might add.  I think after 40 years and 3 months I've pretty much got the whole walking thing down.  I guess you will have to stay tuned ...

The above changes can definitely be filed in the positive column but I cannot, however, round out my year in review without including the two changes that can be filed in the not so positive column.  Separation.  And the BFF's cancer.  I mention them together because there is no way to distinguish them apart.  Both sucked.  End of story.  Sucked. 

But here's the thing.  And please wait while I climb up onto my soap box. 

As I mentioned above, change, while not always welcome, is sometimes necessary.  And please do not take that the wrong way.  I am in no way implying that my husband and I separating or the fact that my BFF got cancer was necessary.  Absolutely not.  However, both of these game-changers have taught me more about myself than I could have ever learned without them. 

Allow me to let you in on a little secret.  The BFF's cancer diagnosis was more terrifying to me than the thought of losing my marriage.  It's true.  It sounds wrong, I know.  And I don't mean to diminish the love I have for my husband.  I don't.  But the word "cancer" is quite possibly the worst word in the English language.  And the fact that it was now attached to my BFF's name was unthinkable.  The fact that we can now add the word "survivor" to that awful word is a blessing beyond measure.  And while my BFF's life may have been saved through the skillful hands of surgeons and modern medical technology ... my life was saved when I knew that she was going to be okay. 

Cancer puts everything into perspective.  And while I was not the one on the receiving end of the horrible diagnosis ... cancer changed my life forever. 

I could have hidden under the covers and fallen into a great depression when my husband left.  I could have sat on a couch and felt sorry for myself and cried 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.  I could have.  But I didn't.  There wasn't any time for it.  And for that ... I am grateful. 

My separation and the cancer brought out the best in the peeps.  The Sargent is the strong one ... the sensible one ... the rock.  She was the second person I called after my husband left and she pulled me out of my haze and started to go through a list of things I needed to take care of.  One day at a baseball game I was starting to lose it and she pulled me aside, took both of my hands in hers, looked me in the eye and said "buck up buttercup."  Exactly what I needed to hear in order to snap out of it and get back to the business of living.  My rock.  We were all together when the cancer diagnosis came in.  And again, the Sargent took over.  She told us there was nothing we could do to change it and we were going to deal with it.  Together.  Our rock.

The BFF's best qualities are her compassion and her inner strength.  She was the first one I called after my husband left.  She was away with her family on a mini vacation.  She talked to me for hours.  She cried with me.  She answered the phone at 4 a.m. when I was at my most vulnerable and talked to me until the sun came up.  She let me come over and cry on her couch and made sure my coffee cup was never empty and her ears were never closed.  When cancer came along ... I returned the favor to the best of my ability.  Although she is and always will be a better person than I am. 

Throughout the BFF's recovery I found that I became my best self.  While the Sargent is the rock ... I am the comic relief.  I could make the Sargent and BFF laugh when things started to become too serious by regaling them with the adventures of the 41-year old single-mother full-time college student. 

My separation and the BFF's diagnosis of cancer sucked.  No doubt about it.  But in the end, the peeps became closer.  Which I didn't realize was even possible.  Ask anyone that knows us and they will tell you we are a tightly knit group.  But we became closer.  We spend more time together.  We are more considerate of one another.  We laugh a whole lot more.  I have said it before and I will say it again ... some people are lucky if they find their soul mate ... I was lucky enough to find two. 

I recently read a book by Joel Osteen.  My grandmother used to call him the "smiley" preacher.  He smiles all the time (at least on TV).  It's annoying.  Or at least I thought it was until I picked up his book.  In his book he says that God has a plan for your life (which I always knew by the way) and sometimes he brings people into your life for a season.  When that season is over you have to let those people go ... and if you don't let them go ... God can't introduce the people who are meant to be in your life for the next season.  Interesting. 

Now don't get me wrong.  I believe marriage should be forever.  I believe that with my whole heart.  However, just because I believe it doesn't mean that I can make it happen on my own.  Nope.  I can't.  I have come to the conclusion that I will never fully understand why my marriage didn't make it all the way to the finish line.  And I was torturing myself with all of the whys and what ifs when I read the best thing I have ever read in this book.  Quit trying to put a question mark where God has placed a period.  So I did just that.  I quit with all of the questions and let it go.  Easier said than done I might add.  But each day I get a little better at it. 

Through the course of this separation ...  I have had the opportunity to witness God bringing people into my life for the next season.  First and foremost is God, Himself.  I am thankful that my parents gave me a good Christian upbringing.  I may have not always walked the straight and narrow but through this experience, I have been able to lean on my faith and have a closer relationship with God. 

Another is the relationship I have renewed with one of my cousins.  One day in the midst of a particularly hard time, I really just had a feeling that I should contact her.  Her family's faith and strength have been a true example to me throughout my entire life.  And she didn't let me down.  She passed no judgment and became a prayer partner to me.  I am forever grateful to have her back in my life. 

And last but certainly not least is my friend, N (I haven't been able to find a great nickname for her yet but she knows who she is).  N and I have been in and out of each other's lives since grade school.  But this year, God has granted me the true gift of her friendship.  She was actually the third person I called after my husband left.  It was late and I was feeling alone and she just hopped in her car and came to be my side.  She has included me in Friday night Circle of Friends gatherings and football Sunday afternoons at her house.  She sends me random text messages to let me know that I am on her mind.  She often tells me she's proud of me and is a constant source of encouragement and true friendship.  I have no idea what I have done to deserve having her in my life ... but I will be forever thankful that she is. 

So you see ... two tragic events that should be filed in the not so positive column have actually left me a little confused as to where they truly belong.  Because without the hardships, I wouldn't have the appreciation I have for the wonderful people who are now staples in my day-to-day life.  I wouldn't have had the courage to become my best self.  I guess some things just can't be filed. 

So that's it ... my year in review.  Wishing you all a happy and prosperous new year.  I can't wait to see what's in store for me in 2012 ... but one thing is for sure ... I will be taking you all along for the ride. 


© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Observe and Report ...

So my dear readers ... when I left you last ... I was having a nervous breakdown over purchasing pants.  Seriously.  I was.  Go back and look. 

Good news ... more pounds have melted off my forty and fabulous frame and I am now looking at a 30+ pound weight loss ... and counting.  Well ... that's not really true ... the "and counting" part.  Truth be told ... the scale and I haven't been seeing eye-to-eye as of late.  The digits seem to be eternally frozen ... neither moving up nor down.  C'est la vie.  My focus has drastically changed from worrying about what the number on the scale says, to concentrating on something more interesting. 

I have been notably absent from blogging these past several weeks as I have been deeply involved in an in-depth anthropological study.  Much like Dr. Jane Goodall who immersed herself in the jungles of Africa in order to study the behaviors of her beloved chimpanzees in their natural environment; I, the Divine Mrs. M., has dangerously, albeit, cleverly, immersed herself amongst the natives of the jungle that is the college campus. 

Yes, friends, the Divine Mrs. M. is officially a full-time college student.  At 40.  Did you ever watch Captain Kangaroo?  Do you remember the little learning game the Captain (or was it Mr. Green Jeans?) used to play ... One of These Things is Not Like the Other?  You know, the game where there is a square with 4 boxes inside ... 3 boxes containing pictures that are similar (i.e., a snowman, scarf and mittens) and 1 box with something that obviously doesn't belong (i.e., a beach ball)? 

Well ... let's catapult ourselves back in time ... turn the television dial (We are back in time remember?  Remote controls have yet to be invented.  To understand this analogy properly, you have to get up off of the couch and turn the television dial by hand.) to PBS and find ourselves in a modern-day, animated version of the game One of These Things is Not Like the Other. 

The screen is showing a square with the following choices in the 4 boxes:  (a) a young, beautiful girl in 9-inch heels, skinny jeans and a tank top limping her way through a hallway ... pain etching its way across her otherwise lovely face; (b) an extremely thin young man with long, curly brown hair ... tied back in a pony tail ... wearing skinny jeans that hang so far below his waist that they expose his dingy boxer shorts paired with a T-shirt that says something along the lines of "Pimpin' Ain't Easy" ... pencil tucked behind his ear; (c) a young, beautiful girl wearing a mini skirt so incredibly short one can only hope she is wearing underwear ... bedazzled beyond what one would think was possible ... 9-inch heels ... huge jewelry ... and full-on make-up complete with a massive amount of kohl black eyeliner ... sunglasses perched atop her pretty head ... carrying a Coach bag; and (d) a middle-aged woman wearing jeans from Coldwater Creek, a Ralph Lauren long-sleeved T-shirt, Ann Taylor scarf, moccasins, bifocals ... a Vera Bradley tote slung over one shoulder ... looking confused.  Stumped? 

Welcome to my new world. 

I would like to be able to say that I am taking artistic liberty and painting a caricature of the three young people described in the above-mentioned game.  I am not.  They are only but three of the many subjects I have been able to observe during the course of my study.  A study that I may even be able to use to complete a dissertation ... if ever I pursue a doctorate in anthropology.  Which I am not. 

Subject (a) is in my math class and when I asked her if she was feeling okay due to the noticeable limp and wince on her face, admitted to me that her shoes were killing her but she loved them and was unwilling to take them off; subject (b) is in both my English Lit and Shakespeare classes and is doing his senior project on the influence of Medieval literature on the modern day gaming society (genius as far as I am concerned ... speaking as a mother of a son who is an active gamer, I can completely see the relevance); and subject (c) is in my biology class. 

Of the three, subject (c) has become my favorite ... although I am sure it is unethical to show favoritism to one particular subject in the midst of such an important study of human nature ... I cannot help myself.  Because not only is subject (c) shiny and fascinating in her own right ... she has a boyfriend who reminds me of James Spaeder's character in the John Hughes' cinematic classic, Pretty in Pink.  Subject (c)'s boyfriend has the sort of effortless cool that only one born into wealth and privilege can pull off.  You would think that with such a "sparkly" girlfriend ... subject (c)'s boyfriend would blend into the background.  But no.  He doesn't disappoint.  He is all Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Nautica pastel polos which he wears with the collar popped up (yep, collar popped), paired with plaid shorts and Sperry top-siders.  He and subject (c) enter the biology classroom every Tuesday and Thursday as if they are walking the red carpet at the Oscars. 

I have found the experience of going back to college at 40 to be fascinating and educational.  Perhaps not fascinating and educational in the way in which is intended ... but fascinating and educational nonetheless.  Every day I am treated to a variety of different archetypes of which I can freely observe.  As I am of the "middle-aged" variety ... to the natives, I am much like a stealth ninja ... as they never seem to notice my presence ... even when sitting right beside them. 

There is the "artsy" girl whose hair color changes weekly ... and not from blonde to brunette ... no.  Her hair color has gone from neon green to orange to jet black to hot pink and is always adorned with some sort of homemade-looking metal barrette.  "Artsy girl" is very thin with horn-rimmed glasses and wears a variety of skirts cut just above the knee ... all in muted gray, green and khaki tones ... which she pairs with cardigans, camisoles, knee socks and Toms Eco-friendly shoes.  She carries a large art portfolio and her fingers are stained with charcoal.

There is ... and please do not crucify me for this blasphemous reference ... campus "Jesus."  Campus "Jesus" has long, dirty brown hair, a full beard and he wears what can only be described as a sort of caftan, either in oatmeal or white, that hits well below his waist over distressed jeans.  His shoe of choice is the Birkenstock sandal. 

There are the football players ... and other various male athletes ... who seem to have an unending supply of basketball shorts which they pair with their college logo T-shirts ... a majority of which have the sleeves cut off so they can display the overly-developed muscles of their arms.  Not to be outdone, the female athletes also don gym shorts and T-shirts; however, in contrast, they do not seem to be so inclined as to nix the sleeves from their shirts to show off their arms. 

There are the girls who advertise which sorority they belong to on almost everything they wear ... bags, jackets, T-shirts, hoodies, key chains, etc.  The frat boys who were most definitely the big fish in the little pond back in their respective high schools ... now searching to reclaim their former glory days and finding it difficult as they are now a little fish in a much bigger pond. 

There are your garden variety pajama-clad kids who have come to the conclusion that showering is optional; the skateboarders; the "legalize marijuana" crowd with their hemp jewelry and dreadlocks; the goth kids who manage to even make the albino-like Divine Mrs. M. look tan with their jet black hair, powdered pale skin and painted-in black lips and numerous piercings.  And there are groups of the musically inclined who gather in small groups all around campus strumming their acoustic guitars and serenading the passersby. 

Whew ... exhausted yet?  I am ... and I haven't even begun to touch the surface. 

As fascinating as my subjects may appear to the naked eye ... their intellectual integrity is greatly diminished as soon as they open their mouths to speak.  Now ... please don't get me wrong.  I have come across a few highly intelligent subjects who have keen points of view on certain literary works of art (I am an English major ... I spend a lot of time critiquing and listening to others critique great works of literature), who can solve a math problem without the use of a calculator (I can't by the way ... more on that at a later date) and who can explain the difference between mitosis and meiosis (Google it) without the use of index cards (I can do that).  The key word here would be "few." 

Most of the conversations I have been at liberty to observe amongst the natives is of the "I'm so hungover," "my parents are going to (expletive) kill me if I don't get off of academic probation," "how many DUIs do you think you can have on your record before you lose your teaching certificate (an actual conversation I was privy to by the way), "(expletive) (expletive) (expletive) ...", etc.  No one I have come into contact with is going to cure cancer.  That's all I'm saying. 

So where exactly does a 40 and fabulous woman (notice how I have eliminated fat from that equation?) fit into this uniquely diverse and stylish society?  She doesn't.  At all.  I stick out like a sore thumb.  I was told upon applying to this particular institution of higher education that they had a very high rate of non-traditional (a/k/a ... adult) students.  In the five weeks that I have been attending ... I have only seen three ... none of which are enrolled in any of my classes.

Dr. Jane Goodall had to watch her chimpanzees from afar, slowly gaining the trust of her subjects before being granted access to their inner sanctum.  The same is true for myself and my subjects.  As I mentioned before, I have the luxury of observing the natives in their natural environment going almost completely unnoticed.  But I didn't decide to embark on this new chapter of my life to go unnoticed.  So little by little, I am earning the trust of my subjects ... lending pencils and paper to the unprepared; giving Kleenex to the native with the runny nose (I can't stand to hear incessant sniffling) and cough drops to the subject with the hacking cough (although the Kleenex and cough drops are more of a selfish gesture as I would like to go the rest of my life without contracting Tuberculosis); and I am beginning to be sought out for group projects which I assume is because while not overly intelligent, my subjects are smart enough to figure out that the mom in the room is probably the one who stayed up until 3:00 a.m. actually reading the assigned material and translatingChaucer's Canterbury Tales from Middle English to Modern English instead of staying up until 3:00 a.m. playing beer pong. 

While the frat party invites have yet to materialize (I honestly believed I would be more popular seeing as how I am old enough to purchase alcohol legally), I am finding that little by little, one step at a time, I am finding my way into the inner sanctum of the college jungle.  Until I have been fully integrated into the culture, I will continue to observe and report ...



© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Living In a Material World ...

Hello everyone (or no one) ... I am the Divine Mrs. M and I just celebrated my 40th birthday partying with a variety of family, childhood friends and my grown-up BFFs.  My theme was a "Party Like a Rock Star" costume party wherein the Divine Mrs M portrayed Madonna from her Material Girl video.  I was rocking the pink dress, long pink gloves, sparkling jewels ... and a really fat ass.  *sigh* 

Now, I didn't wake up on my 40th birthday with an epiphany that I was fat.  I am quite aware of the fact that I am carrying a lot more baggage around than I did 20 years ago.  The thing is ... when you're in the process of becoming fat ... it's easy to deny, ignore, eat, deny, ignore and eat some more.  I remember Matt Lauer interviewing Kirstie Alley on the Today show once upon a time when she was promoting one of her numerous efforts to lose weight.  His question (or something to this effect) ... "How did you not notice you were getting fat?"  Hmmmmm.....spoken like someone who has never had a weight problem.  (On a side note, I've never really cared for Matt Lauer since this interview aired ... it was his tone.  I took it personally.)

The truth is ... if you are fat you know you are fat.  You don't feel good about being fat.  You lie to yourself and say that you aren't fat ... you say things like "big boned," "curvy," "horizontally challenged" and all the other lies big girls like myself tell ourselves to help us make it through the day.  You tell yourself that you are "healthy" even though you are well past your "sell by" date (BMI) on the scale.  You look at yourself in the mirror only from the neck up and are honestly shocked when you see a picture of yourself that shows the "curves" that even the best Spanx cannot hide. 

If you're like me, you spend an obscene amount of money on designer handbags because they always "fit" and aren't depressing to try on.  You also spend an obscene amount of money at what I refer to as "The Big Girl Store" (aka the plus size clothing store) to try and hide your flaws and still look as fabulous as you felt when you were a size ZERO ... because, believe it or not, I really was once a size ZERO!!!!!!  WTF????  I was one of the skinniest girls in my high school and my goal by the time I reached graduation was to weigh 100 pounds.  You know what?  I didn't accomplish my goal!  I ate and ate and ate and ate and I could NOT hit 100 pounds.  Youth really is wasted on the young. 

So, back to my fabulous 40 self.  I truly do enjoy my life ... I have a lovely husband, two lovely teenagers, one of those great dysfunctional modern families and the kind of friends that you cannot imagine living a day without.  The ONLY thing in my life that I'm not happy with on a daily basis is the roll of fat that hangs over the C-section scar, the bottom that sags and enters a room a full 30-45 seconds after I do and the jiggly thighs, arms, etc.  So, I'm on a quest to change this and I'm hoping you will join me on this journey.  I'm going to look deep within this formerly thin person and figure out what the Hell happened and how to turn this situation around.  Somehow I think it will be more of an internal journey that transpires itself into an outward change.

Will I be thin when this year is over?  Only God knows.  I'm gonna go the self-help group route and say "one day at a time."  Stay tuned and stay in touch ...

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

The Flying W ...

So.  Here we are dear readers.  Three-quarters of the way into the telenovela that has been my 40th year.  What have we learned thus far? 

Well ... here are a few of my favorite (well, perhaps not favorite but definitely memorable) highlights:  (a) I like Madonna; (b) I like to eat and would like to not like it quite so much; (c) that pajama pants are never to be worn outside of the bedroom; (d) that I watch entirely too much TV; (e) I have an endless list of movie quotes hidden in secret compartments of my brain; (f) I secretly wish the Pilgrims had never landed on Plymouth Rock thereby bettering the chances that I would have been born and raised in Jolly Ol' England; (g) that I should be banned from all ski resorts; (h) that my husband is a secret magician who pulled an amazing rabbit out of his hat and disappeared; and (i) that for a better part of the last decade I have been sporting the dreaded size W. 

Whew!  Quite eventful indeed!  And those were just the tip of the iceberg!

For my past few posts I have been in my "Tony Robbins" mode ... up on the soap box ... trying to convince everyone to feel good and get out there and conquer the world.  And that's awesome and everything ... but tonight I'm feeling more Erma Bombeck than Tony and feeling a little bit more like the Divine Mrs. M. 

*** I interrupt this thought with a message from our sponsor (me):  Am I going to have change my name to Ms. in the likelihood that said husband, the secret magician, has truly disappeared never to return to the M's stage?  Because if you don't know where I got my name from ... it is a play on words from the amazing and incomparable Bette Midler ... the one and only "Divine Ms. M."  And no matter how big of a fan of hers I may be and how sometimes I even imagine that we are the best of friends who sing and dance and go shopping with our best gays ... I am quite sure she is not going to take pity on my poor soul and allow me to use her trademark name.  So perhaps when this year is over and I have reached 40+1 years of age (I have decided that using 40+whatever number sounds younger than saying  the actual number) a name change may be in order.  So I'm open to ideas.  Anyone?***

Moving on ... so, yes, tonight I am feeling much more like myself ... the Divine Mrs. M.  And what I hope you have learned by now after joining me on this journey ... is that I like most everything about being the Divine Mrs. M ... minus the fat. 

So I am proud and pleased to announce that the Divine Mrs. M has almost made it to the 30-pound weight loss milestone (I am this close) on this 40, fabulous and fat journey ... and the W's have flown by the wayside. 

Yep ... you heard me correctly ... I no longer require the dreaded letter W followed by it's equally despised two digit number defiling the tags of my clothing.  Go ahead ... take a moment ... I will wait for the applause to die down before I continue. 

This journey to the big 3-0 has been a true learning experience ... some of the weight I worked my ass off for ... some came from stress.  But, hey, you know what they say ... don't look a gift horse in the mouth (what the heck does that even mean anyway ... I really don't know ... but it seemed to fit properly so I'm standing by it). 

Now, here's the thing about losing weight ... a significant amount of weight ... because almost 30 pounds is quite significant for me (see how I am so avoiding telling you I have lost 29.6 pounds ... 29.6 ... that last .4 is like that mean girl in school who makes your life miserable every day).  The thing is ... that losing the weight and watching the flying W disappear into the clouds opens up a whole new plethora of stores that you can spend your money in. 

Now, before you get too excited and the applause get too out of control ... I am still a two-digit curvy girl.  And 30 pounds does not put me at my goal weight.  However, I don't really give a shit.  Because I no longer need a W!!!  And you know how much I hate all things W ... W clothes ... my abusive boyfriend WW (Weight Watchers for those of you just tuning in). 

Now if you are a loyal reader ... you know that every item of clothing from my past sizes leading up to the dreaded 18W were given away to the trendy ladies at the senior citizen apartment complex and a local church charity clothing store. 

I decided that new clothes were now in order because all of the clothing lining the Crabtree & Evelyn scented drawers of my dresser and color coded in my closet are now 3 sizes too big.  Which didn't even occur to me actually until I put on a pair of white capris the other day and realized that they weren't staying up without a belt.  And when I cinched the belt ... I found that I had to poke another hole in it in order for it to stay on as well.  But the result of said fashion statement was a 40 year old, fabulous woman, sporting white capris and seemingly wearing a very soggy Depends undergarment.  Because after cinching the 3 sizes too big capris with the man-made hole in the belt ... I was left with so much extra material that the pants sagged quite unflatteringly below the lady bits and the buttocks.  I looked absolutely ridiculous but I had no choice but to leave the house in such a state because I needed to get to my new job (more on that at a later date) and every pair of pants I owned ... being white, black or khaki ... produced the same fashion faux pas.

So ... off I went ... saggy white pants and all ... armed with a crisp, clean credit card tucked safely away in my Coach bag ready to be used at will after the end of a long work day. 

Imagine my excitement as I logged off of the computer, climbed into the cool air conditioning of my car, singing at the top of my voice to the Adele CD in my car stereo and headed straight to the mall.  I couldn't get there fast enough.  First stop ... a major department store ... where I did my best John Travolta impression and strutted straight past the W section and into the non-W section to go on a buying frenzy.  I was practically foaming at the mouth.  First up ... shirts/blouses.  I did some major damage there.  Gone were the loose fitting size W frocks and empire waisted blouses.  In were tailored blouses and blazers and fitted tees (which by the way ... just the word "fitted tees" used to make me nauseous).  I couldn't get enough.  Every one fit better than the next and I couldn't believe that somewhere along the 40, fabulous and fat journey ... I had found my waist!!!  I had an actual waistline.  I felt like a Nobel Peace Prize winning archaeologist who has made the discovery of a lifetime.  Well, that last part isn't exactly true ... but for the first time in for as long as I can remember I could actually relate to what Stacy and Clinton are talking about on What Not to Wear when they say choose fitted jackets that "show off your waist."  The only thing I had to show off before was a ... well ... hmmmm ... what was it?  A barrel? Well, whatever ... I have a waist!  And it looks flattering in fitted shirts/blouses. 

After leaving my finds at the register I went in search of fabulous bottoms ... jeans ... trousers ... capris ... slacks (okay ... I hate the word "slacks" but that's what my mom calls them and since she reads this I thought I'd humor her) to go with my many fabulous shirts/blouses. 

And that, my friends, is where this tale of euphoria, celebration and excitement ... goes horribly, horribly wrong. 

So ... since I have been confined to shopping in the Lane Bryant corner of the world for quite some time ... can someone who has not been confined to the Lane Bryant and similarly size W stores tell me when the following things came to pass:  (a) that all women not of the size W stature became supermodels with impossibly long legs so that all jeans/trousers have enough extra material at the bottom that a Project Runway contestant could whip together an entire layette for a newborn?  That are so incredibly long that even pairing them with a 9-inch heel would still leave you dragging your jeans/trousers through the slush, snow, mud, rain, dust, etc?; (b) that all women not of the size W stature prefer to wear jeans/trousers in the style of plumbers and teenage wannabe rappers ... sitting so low on the waist that the band of your Hanes underwear is promptly on display for the whole world to see?; and (c) if you do actually find a pair of trousers that sits on your natural waistline ... promptly creates a gap the size of the Grand Canyon in the back??

I mean ... how do you non size W women do it?  I am 5'6 ... not 5'10 like Cindy Crawford (and if you are so young that you don't know who that is ... she was the Gisele Bundchen of my day).  I am 40 ... not 20 ... and I wear underwear daily ... and like to keep the brand name to myself.  And while a belt can be a pertinent style statement/accessory ... I don't like to be pressured to wear one to cover the great divide. 

I don't remember how many pairs of jeans/trousers/capris/slacks (hey Mom) I took into that dressing room ... but other than being able to admire the size displayed on their tags ... every last pair seemed to stare back at me from the mirror ... mocking me.  I was pissed.  WTF?  All of this work to lose this weight and not one pair of the above-mentioned bottoms were flattering on my obviously thinner figure. 

I came out of the dressing room defeated but not broken ... pulled out the shiny card from my bag and purchased all of the shirts/blouses and headed to the next store ... and then another ... and then another.  Once again being mocked by the ill-fitting bottoms. 

After striking out yet again at the last store ... I headed out of the shopping mall in tears.  Yes ... I said it ... in tears.  Is that ridiculous?  Yes ... it is.  I know how ridiculous it is that I allowed myself to be bullied by a pair of pants ... or several 100 pair of pants (well, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit ... it wasn't several 100 ... it just seemed like it) ... but bullied I allowed myself to be. 

After an appropriate amount of crying time in the safety of my air conditioned automobile ... I pulled out of the mall parking lot and headed straight to Starbucks to pay a visit to my old friend, Red Velvet.  That's right ... you heard me ... I went straight to Starbucks and ordered a large black coffee, because I don't know how to order it in Starbucks lingo (Grande?) and two very delicious ... very fattening ... red velvet cupcakes.  Yes, I said two.

Never mind that one of the main reasons I find myself with the word "fat" at the end of this blog title is because of my old friend, Red Velvet.  And speaking of Red Velvet if you ever have the opportunity to be in Boston ... visit Harvard Square and go to a cupcake shop called "Sweet."  Best red velvet cupcakes ever.  But I digress ... So armed with my Kleenex, grande whatever and trusty friend Red Velvet ... I headed home.  Wherein I proceeded to cry some more and share my sad tale of being mocked by pants to Red Velvet who completely understood my pain. 

Somewhere into the second cupcake I snapped into reality and out of my "poor me" phase and came to the realization that my behavior was completely uncalled for.  I have lost almost 30 pounds (darn that .4) ... a feat that should be celebrated ... not ridiculed and drowned in a Red Velvet free-for-all.  I have exceeded my weight loss expectations up to this point ... and the fact of the matter is ... I really couldn't keep parading around town in my 3 sizes too big pants paired with all of my fabulous new shirts/blouses.  I had to bite the bullet and go in search of pants ... and to what I am now referring to as the search for the "Holy Grail."

Awaking with a clear mind and new perspective I called upon my good friend N who recently celebrated a significant weight loss of her own.  She made some crazy good suggestions of where I might have some luck ... and fully backed up my theory that those who design jeans/trousers are the devil and are out to make those of us "real" women who are not 6 feet tall with skinny thighs and non-existent back sides feel bad about themselves.  Armed with her suggestions and the aforementioned credit card ... I managed to strike gold and walked away with a total combination of seven pair of  jeans, trousers and capris (no slacks, sorry Mom). 

All in all ... I learned an important lesson.  Achievements are meant to be celebrated and you shouldn't detract from the celebration of said milestones by allowing a little hiccup in your grand plan to make you lose sight of the big picture.  Another ... I should probably pop a Xanax before I enter another dressing room after the next almost 30 pounds are gone to avoid harming myself or others who enter my path.

While I bid a fond farewell and watch the size W's fly up, up and away and into another stratosphere ... I realize there will always be road blocks along the way trying to steal a little bit of my joy.  While I cannot always avoid the road blocks ... I can change my attitude and turn the road blocks into stepping stones.

And so can you ... but first you have to pack away the Kleenex, step away from Red Velvet and attach whatever your "W" is to a big hot air balloon and blow kisses to it as it floats slowly away ... never allowing it to steal your joy again.  (Ok ... so that was a tad Tony Robbins ... so sue me.)

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved
 

The Next "Big" Thing ...

I have said it before and I will say it again ... to be a successful writer, you have to write what you know.  So, for you unfortunate few who have the pleasure to play an important role in my life ... you are so screwed.  Because I cannot write about my life without including bits and pieces of yours as well ... our lives are intertwined.  With that being said ...

So dear readers ... we last left our heroine (me) flying high above the sky.  But eventually my feet had to land on the ground and they are now firmly planted in the mud and the muck of my new reality. 

Let's take a moment, shall we, to discuss what the word "reality" means in 2011.  Think Real Housewives of ... New York, New Jersey, Atlanta, Beverly Hills, Orange County.  If any of you take time out of your busy lives to feast on this eye candy (and yes, obviously I do or I wouldn't be able to write about it) ... you will find that (a) very few of them are actually married (a lot of them have actually gotten divorced since the debut of their respective shows) ... so they aren't really wives per se (attention Andy Cohen ... I am petitioning you rename the shows Ex Wives of ... Wherever ... just sayin'); (b) they go out every single night of the week without said husbands (which may account for the high divorce rates) ... so they are rarely in their respective houses ; (c) have children but choose to spend most of their time with their fellow Housewive/ frienemies; and (d) are the meanest women on the planet. 

Seriously ... I have my peeps, the BFF and Sargent.  I can guarantee you this ... if I ever and I mean ever spoke to either one of them or treated either one of them the way these Housewives treat each other ... I would kick my own ass.  It's ridiculous ... and marketed as reality. 

Now let's look at another reality phenomenon ... The Jersey Shore.  Don't even pretend you don't know what I'm talking about ... you know who Snookie is ... even if you are too embarrassed to admit it.  As a viewer ... I can't take my eyes off of these morons.  I can't.  As a mother ... OMG.  That's all ... no more to say ... just OMG.  If my children were ever caught acting even remotely like Snookie, JWow, Sammi Sweetheart, the Situation, Ronnie, Vinnie or Pauly D (I told you I can't stop watching them) ... I would call child services myself to have them taken away because whomever is responsible for raising the cast of the Shore should be in jail.  Reality?  Lord help us all if that is the best of what future generations have to offer. 

Another popular example of reality in today's culture ... Survivor.  Now I know you've all seen at least one episode of Survivor.  It has had like 22 seasons or something outrageous like that.  And their theme?  Lie, cheat, manipulate ... compromise all of your morals ... and come out on top as the sole survivor.  Entertaining ... yes.  Reality?  Maybe in some circles. 

Another juicy morsel to chew on when you're bored ... Keeping up with the Kardashians.  No.  I can't even go there.  I just can't. 

A new favorite ... Ice Loves Coco.  If you haven't seen this ... don't do it.  You're going to get sucked in.  You are.  Coco is a real life Jessica Rabbit.  Quite possibly the dumbest most endearing caricature of a person you are ever going to find.  Reality?  I don't know ... that's my point.  What is reality? 

Well, at the moment ... my reality is that I am standing at a fork in the road.  Both roads are muddy ... difficult to maneuver through without the assistance of a GPS, 4-wheel drive, and really good tires.  One road leads to the reconciliation of my marriage ... the other leads toward the Big D ... Divorce.  Unfortunately, I don't have producers in my corner directing my reality, fitting all the drama into a one-hour episode and determining the outcome long before the season finale.  Nope ... it's just me ... my GPS (God), my four-wheel drive (determination) ... and really good tires (my peeps, my family and prayer partner). 

I have made the pit stop at the fork in the road to rest for awhile.  Because I am a firm believer in not making any decisions in the midst of a storm.  You have to let the rolling waves subside until you can hear from God as to what path you are to take. 

My BFF is facing a new reality of her own.  Approximately one week after finding myself staring into the eyes of the Big D ... my BFF had to "one-up" me and go and get herself diagnosed with the Big C ... Cancer.  Now, before you start sending out the hate mail and chastising me for saying she "one-upped" me ... please know that my BFF knows how much I love, love, love her.  But, let's be honest ... how in the world am I supposed to run to the sanctuary of her home and sit on her couch, petting her dog, drinking her coffee, whining about my life when she has cancer.  Well, I can't. 

Nope.  I had to climb off the ME train and board the BFF Big C Express.  This ab fab woman ... without whom my life would not be complete ... has the Big C.  It's a fact.  There is nothing we can do to change it ... so the peeps have rallied and done what we do best ... support her.  My job ... the comic relief.  When things are getting too heavy ... I can step up and compete with Kathy Griffin, Don Rickles, Chris Rock etc and lay down a one-liner that will most definitely lighten the mood.  As witty as I may be ... I'm still a sucker ... a real sentimental baby ... so when the BFF and I start to get emotional ... the Sargent steps in with a "suck it up and put your big girl panties on," to keep our tears in check. 

Over the past several weeks, the BFF has been on quite the Big C roller coaster.  First up ... the biopsy ... wherein she was strapped into some Medieval style torture device and impaled with a big needle which took a sample of the sickness growing inside of her which confirmed what we feared to already be true.  That yes, she did have the Big C. 

Then came a hysterectomy and lumpectomy which fast-forwarded her into menopause and unable to lift her arm for two weeks.  Then came the waiting game for results ... only to be faced with scary medical terminology such as "invasive, mastectomy, radiation, chemotherapy, genetic testing and MRI."  It's complicated ... confusing ... and scary. 

I would do anything for my BFF ... even eat tomatoes ... and she knows how much I hate tomatoes.  So standing beside her and holding her hand, lending an ear and lifting her up in prayer, which is what I can do, doesn't seem to be nearly enough.  But I do what I can. 

Now the BFF hasn't been getting out much since the Big C has entered her life ... so she was apprehensive in attending the recent graduation party for the Sargent's oldest child for fear that people would be stopping her at every turn and asking her about her diagnosis.  So being the good friend that I am ... I made a promise.  That whenever she got cornered by such a person ... I would casually walk up and interrupt and say something along the lines of  "have you heard my husband left me?"  A very fine distraction indeed ... taking the focus off of the Big C ... and placing it on the Big D ... and allowing her to make the great escape.  Alas, the opportunity did not present itself as most people were quite respectful offering only well wishes and not asking for her to complete a HIPPA form so they could access her complete medical history. 

Which brings me to another chapter in our story ... the Big 5-0.  The Sargent will be reaching this milestone sooner rather than later (truth is there are 10 long months leading up to the big day) ... and plans have been made for the BFF and I to whisk her off to Vegas for this blessed event. 

The Sargent not only faces the reality of the Big 5-0 knocking on her door ... but the reality of her oldest child graduating high school and preparing to leave the nest.  Shortly after she reaches the big 5-0, she will face yet another reality as her youngest child will be following in her older brother's footsteps. 

The peeps and I have spent thousands of hours discussing the empty nest syndrome and what we will do with ourselves once our children leave us to pursue their separate passions.  And, truth is, after a countless number of calories consumed, a countless number of tears shed and a countless number of hours of laughter ... we are still no closer to knowing the answer to that burning question than we were when we started ... and we started when they were in the first grade.  So, the Sargent has the distinct honor of letting go of our first baby and we are looking to her to blaze the trail. 

Now ... take three best friends ... one facing the Big D ... one conquering the Big C and the other turning the big 5-0 and you have ... well ... enough material for a whole other blog ... or the makings of the next War and Peace.  Which is an apt title.  For we are all at war in our own way ... one with cancer ... one with marriage ... and one with letting go.  And we are all searching for peace in our own way ... one with being at peace with her diagnosis ... one with being at peace with making the proper decision in regard to her marriage ... and one with being at peace with growing older and starting a new chapter in her life. 

Point of the matter is this ... we all have our crosses to bear in this lifetime.  You have no idea where you are headed ... or where you will end up.  No one person's problems are more or less than yours are.  Yes, the Big C is definitely scarier than the Big D and the Big D may be scarier than the Big 5-0 and being left with an empty nest ... but we don't keep score ... we take each other's problems in stride and support each other 100% of the way. 

It has been said that if you find that great love of your life, you are one of the lucky ones.  Well I must be really lucky then ... because I have been fortunate enough to find two. 

The Big D, The Big C and the Big 5-0 ain't got nothing on us and I'm thinking of giving Bravo a call ... I think I just found the next "big" thing ... Real Housewives of Podunk, PA anyone?

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Born to Fly ...

Quite awhile back I posted a blog wherein I stated that I didn't want my weight to hold me back from trying new things and fulfilling my dreams ...

Well ... I am proud to announce that I can cross one thing off of my bucket list ... after a total weight loss to date of 23 pounds ... I was finally able to make my dream of parasailing a reality. 

My summer family vacation had been planned long before my husband decided to jump ship.  I waffled back and forth as to whether the teenagers and I should still go.  Fear and doubt crept into my mind.  Would I be able to drive the 13 hours to our destination without incident?  Would there be a cloud of sadness hanging over us as we went on our first family vacation with a key member of our family noticeably absent?  Would I be able to show the teenagers a good time ... just like their dad (the adventurous one) had always done?  And the more I thought about it ... I came to the conclusion that I was allowing the fear of "what ifs" paralyze me.  And I couldn't have that now could I?

So off we went ... packed in like sardines ... at 5:00 a.m. ... myself, four teenagers and one senior citizen (my mama) ... heading out for an adventure that would prove to be a great turning point in my life. 

I have to divulge that the stress of this little adventure started long before we ever left the driveway.  First, a nail had found its way into my left rear tire and was discovered one day before we left ...the tire had to be ordered and replaced ... cutting into the vacation budget.  And packing the car with luggage for six, a cooler, snacks, beach bags, etc proved to be a bit more challenging that I had anticipated and resulted in a very tight squeeze for the teenagers and our resident senior citizen. 

As I pulled out of the drive ... in the wee hours of the morning ... I was overcome with a wealth of emotions.  Excitement and anticipation at spending a full week at the beach ... and sadness that I was going it alone.  I almost had a breakdown within the first 45 minutes into the trip ... feeling the tears start to well up behind my eyes ... a tight squeezing in my chest.  But as with all things in life ... I had a choice ... to move forward ... or turn back and flee to the comfort and security of my home.  I chose to keep moving forward. 

We arrived at our destination ... safe and sound ... and were rewarded with a beautifully designed three-bedroom condominium which boasted a spectacular view of the ocean ... four happy teenagers ... one happy senior citizen ... and one exhausted driver. 

Over the next several days ... we enjoyed record high temperatures ... were treated to a spectacular show designed by God's hand as we watched a thunderstorm pass over the ocean ... walked along the beach ... wave boarded in the ocean ... floated slowly along the lazy river ... and had lively conversation around the dinner table at our home away from home. 

Keeping with the theme of vacations past ... it was solely my responsibility to plan the activities and adventures for the week ahead.  After skimming the brochures located in the lobby and searching the internet (because you know I couldn't leave the laptop at home) ... I decided to step out of the box and put a few things on the list that were out of my comfort zone. 

First up ... the aquarium ... not so adventurous or out of the box but a great way to spend a cloudy evening after a rainstorm.  Next up ... the banana boat.  Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with what a banana boat is ... you are not alone.  I didn't know what one was either.  But basically ... it is just what it is advertised to be ... a rubber boat in the shape of a banana.  Now, you can choose to do the "single banana," which is a yellow shaped banana boat built for six ... or you can choose the "double banana," a banana boat with a banana on each side connected like an H ... with a sturdy middle to fall into ... as opposed to being tossed carelessly into the ocean. 

While I may be 23 pounds lighter ... the thought of being tossed into the ocean and trying to haul my now size 14W size ass back onto a boat was not exactly appealing ... I am not exactly known around town as having an extraordinary amount of upper body strength ... so the double banana it was. 

As grandma has two artificial knees ... she decided to forgo this adventure.  So the four teenagers and I suited up in our life jackets and waited patiently for our go round.  When it came time for us to board this unseemly contraption ... we were told that two were to sit on one side of the boat ... and three on the other.  I chose the side with three ... my daughter behind me ... her boyfriend in front of me ... my son on the other side and his friend behind him.  We were then unceremoniously hooked up to a jet ski and told to "hold on for dear life," which I thought was funny ... until I realized they meant it.  The means of which you must sit on this rotten banana is to straddle it with your knees tucked behind you and your hands clutching a strap.  As I had a deep fear of falling into the ocean and forever being stranded because my body would most certainly have no way of climbing back into the boat ... I leaned strongly toward the middle ... and off we went.  On the roughest ride of my life. 

Apparently this banana boat thing is supposed to be fun ... ummmmm ... not so much. ... for me it was like a cardio and strength training workout all in one ... with the added bonus of salt water spraying in your face, filling your mouth and burning your eyes.  I held onto that strap like my life depended on it ... because it did.  The waves were high ... the driver was a lunatic ... twisting and turning and doing his job ... which apparently entailed trying to lose as many passengers as possible. 

But this is where the turning point in my life came.  Did you watch the first Sex and the City movie?  Again ... if you haven't ... you really need to ... because the series and movies are a constant reference point in this blog.  Anyhow ... in the movie Carrie is abandoned at the altar by Mr. Big and the honeymoon she has paid for in Mexico is non-refundable.  So Samantha and the girls decide to take Carrie on her honeymoon wherein Carrie spends the first few days alone in her room with the shades drawn ... depressed and unable to move.  She eventually joins the rest of the group outside and while lounging in the sun turns to her friends and asks, "Will I ever laugh again?"  Miranda responds, "Yes.  When something is really funny."  Well the funny moment that became Carrie's breakthrough came at the expense of Charlotte ... who accidentally drinks the Mexican water while showering and contracts a bad case of diarrhea ... and has an accident ... in her pants. 

My breakthrough came at the expense of my son ... who while on the wild banana boat ride ... got hit on his side of the boat by a huge wave and was tossed overboard ... never letting go of the strap and popping right back up onto the boat ... with his swim trunks dangerously close to being completely torn off.  As I sit here and write this ... I am laughing out loud ... remembering him popping off the side of the boat in what seemed like an instant ... yelling, "and there go my shorts!"  The banana boat captain had the decency to slow down and let my son retrieve his shorts and his dignity ... as the rest of us laughed so hard that no sound would come out ... tears were running down our cheeks and my abs were getting a workout they hadn't received since the early 90's.  The extreme nature of my laughter was hindering my ability to hold on and was perilously increasing the likelihood that I would be the next casualty.  Luckily for my son, our eyesight was greatly impaired due to the steady stream of salt water that had been assaulting them ... so his moon over the Atlantic Ocean was nothing but a white blur. 

While I am certain my son does not have a fond memory of the above-mentioned event ... his unfortunate run-in with the banana boat saved my life ... made me feel alive again for the first time in months ... made me aware that I could laugh again ... really laugh ... and experience a sense of joy that had been hidden underneath the depths of despair that had accompanied me since my husband left our household. 

I am not saying, however, that since my husband's abrupt departure that I haven't enjoyed myself ... that a majority of my time has been spent sitting on my butt and wallowing ... I am not much of a wallower.  Not at all.  But it was this particular event that snapped me out of my funk and allowed me to experience true joy.  That moment granted me permission to wipe the sleep (and salt water) from my eyes and soak in the beauty of my surroundings ... see things in living color ... as opposed to seeing everything bathed in shades of gray. 

This event led me to push aside my apprehensions and schedule the teenagers and I for the parasailing adventure I had wanted to participate in for as long as I can remember.  Over the past several months I have worked hard at shedding those pesky extra pounds ... mustering the strength to get through every day on my own ... relearning who I am as a person ... and this was to be my reward. 

So imagine my surprise when we were once again outfitted in our life jackets ... waiting patiently for our turn to fly above the ocean ... when what should appear before us to escort us toward our next adventure?  A banana boat!  Yes, friends, I had to once again climb aboard the dreaded banana boat and travel out into the ocean.  But this time the driver's mission was not to toss us overboard ... but deliver us safely to our destination.  Where in turn, I had to toss the captain a rope to hold the banana boat steady and with NO ladder, I had to haul all of this 14W fabulousness aboard the parasailing boat.  It wasn't graceful ... and once aboard, I didn't have the strength to stand up as the parasail boat jostled back and forth along with the waves ...  so I crawled across the bow and onto the deck and into a seat with all of the elegance of a drunk elephant. 

Once aboard, the boys were strapped into their harnesses first and went for their ride and then I was up.  A very handsome young man helped me into my harness ... hooked my daughter and I up and away we flew ... soaring across the ocean ... a smooth flight ... quiet and peaceful ... with a bird's eye view of God's great creation.  Our journey was interrupted only by the obligatory drop into the ocean from the air wherein I was treated to a smack in the head by a particularly rude wave ... which made me laugh ... which, in turn, resulted in a mouth full of salt water.  But it was a lovely ... fun ... joyous experience that I will never forget. 

The only hitch in my giddy-up came when we were brought down from the sky and onto the boat and the captain yelled ... stand up when you land ... stay on your feet.  Yea.  That was soooo not happening.  I landed on my feet at first and then promptly landed on my greatest asset ... my big ass.  But even that had it's upside as the cute co-captain had to help me up and hold me steady as I regained my footing ... I can think of worse things that could happen.  And if I had to do it over ... I'd fall again ... just for the attention. 

Then came my equally graceful disembarkment from one boat to the other ... think "beached whale," as I found myself flopping around after half climbing/half falling into the middle of the banana boat ... trying to situate myself into a seat.  And then we were off and I once again found my feet on dry land. 

A lot of changes have taken place in my life over the past several months.  I have gone from married to separated ... gainfully employed to unemployed ... fat to not so fat ... confused to inspired ... sad to joyous. 

Every new day opens a door which offers the possibility for new opportunities.  I have a choice ... to close the door ... to peek through the doorway to see if I can see what lies on the other side ... or I can throw it wide open and walk through.  I choose to walk through ... because the other two choices are choices made out of fear.  If I had chosen to close the door on this vacation ... out of fear and insecurity ... I would have missed out on the opportunity to find my smile ... find my joy... find my sense of adventure once again. 

I encourage you to walk through that door ... kick it down if you have to.  Because I, for one, refuse to be anchored down by fear of the unknown.  This girl was born to fly ...

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved