Category: My issues

No time like the present…

Having not emptied my brain for several weeks, I feel the need to purge the thoughts that have been invading the little space I have left in my head to make room for new ones. For some strange reason I’ve yet to understand, my clearest thinking occurs at the most inopportune times.

Soaking in the bathtub, for example, is not the best place to bring a pen and paper – it’s impossible to write with wet, soapy, wrinkled fingers. Drying my hair also seems to provoke contemplation on various topics, perhaps because of the lengthy time it takes to complete the process. Left with the option of moving the computer into the bathroom or washing and drying my hair several times a day, I’m tempted to plug the hair dryer next to the computer and listen to the rush of hot air for inspiration.

The need to share EVERYTHING, but consumed with the fear of being too vulnerable, too transparent, leaves me in limbo. Trying to convince myself that caring what others think doesn’t matter, but I’m only able to believe it until someone judges me and I feel wounded. I have grown accustomed to judgment by now, but not to the human side of me that still hurts when it happens. If there was a guarantee that read “no family members were harmed during the process of blogging” I would be able to remove these chains that bind me and WRITE.

Perhaps I underestimate the broadness and strength of their shoulders. My children are adults, my husband loves me, and maybe I’m over analyzing. My commitment to being the real me and living in truth is important. Mistakes, choices, and all that is a part of me is potentially not as big as I make it.

When I was 5 or 6 or 7 years old – too much time has passed to know exactly – my dad taught school but during the summer he managed the city swimming pool. I remember it as HUGE, but having seen it as an adult, it was not nearly as large as my memory of it. It was oval in shape, shallow around the entire edge, growing deeper towards the center where two diving boards stood facing each other. One was low; the line to jump from it was always long. The other was high, disappearing into the clouds… (I was a kid, ok? My perception at that time is my reality, so get over it already) and though the wait was shorter, the climb up the hundreds of stairs took forever. Getting to the top was the easy part, walking out onto that platform TO THE EDGE made the urge to empty my bladder overwhelming and still makes my legs tremble just thinking about it.

My dad had a rule – what goes up must come down. In other words, if I chose to ascend the steps of the “high dive” the only way down was to stand at the end – not the side – the end of the board and JUMP. With only seconds to pray for a painless entry into the water, tuning out the “hurry up’s” being voiced behind me, I would ever so carefully ease myself into the air. Eyes squeezed tightly closed, my body waiting for the inevitable slap of the water, plunging deep and then forcing myself to the surface, reaching it at the precise time my lungs were close to bursting was…amazing.

My head holds me back while my heart is exploding with the need to share my life experiences. It’s time to start the journey. I will never know “amazing” until I walk to the edge and jump.

Do you Spanx?

It’s an age old problem most women struggle with daily. Body image. And as I get older, image is not just about looking as good as we can, it’s about the ability to wear cute clothes without having to tuck in the extra fat.

Gravity is bad enough…my bust line and waist line are one and the same, therefore I refer to it as my BAISTLINE.

Gone are the days of flat stomachs, perky boobs and anything whatsoever in my “trunk” let alone junk. Hail damaged legs are not attractive. Now that it’s taboo to have a pantie line, I refuse to wear something resembling a swatch of fabric sewn to elastic – I just don’t see the point.

Thank goodness for Spanx. At least, thank goodness once you get them on.

Before Spanx came out, I did try to fit into other body shapers, but that didn’t work out so well. Maybe my logic is the problem, but when I decided it was time to suck in and smooth out all these lumps, bumps and extra weight, regardless of what I weighed or what size I was, I figured the smaller the body shaper, the smaller I would appear.

I’ll attempt to paint the picture. Poor Courtney was with me. She must have been 12 or 13 at the time, so the very thought of shopping with me for any undergarment was mortifying. But I made her come into the dressing room with me anyway. The first problem arose when I attempted to pull the darn thing up over my thighs. Never did I consider where the extra fat was supposed to go once it was on – but let’s just say, it “overflowed.”

Now I’ve got it halfway up my thighs, but I needed Courtney’s help to pull it over the pounds of excess blubber. Together we managed to get it about mid hip level, but then it was stuck. Obviously it wasn’t going to work, and it was cutting off circulation to my lower extremities, so it had to come off. By now the two of us are laughing hysterically, thus losing any strength we may have had. After several attempts, including me standing on the chair in the dressing room and having her attach herself to the girdle, literally suspended in air, the silly thing came off. I don’t think Courtney has ever been the same since that day and suffers from emotional scars, vowing never again to enter a changing room with me.

Years pass and Spanx arrives on the scene. Oprah brags about wearing them, so, as usual, if Oprah says something is necessary we mortal beings succumb to pressure. As though wearing something Oprah wears will make us HER.

I started with the kind that cover the stomach down to the mid-thigh. And though my stomach was flatter and the potholes on my legs appeared smooth, it kept rolling down when I moved, which meant I could look okay, but movement was out of the question. And where in the world was the extra flesh now but grotesquely oozing out from under my arms and the middle of my back. Not attractive. Trust me.

Out comes the perfect all-in-one bodysuit version of Spanx. Without it, I would have no clothes I could wear since I’ve gained a bit of weight since I took the spill down the stairs. The fall resulted in several broken bones in my arm and elbow, so I’m basically only able to use my good arm. Getting into the bodysuit takes 3 arms. My good one, and the two very strong arms of my husband.

I can manage to get it halfway up, but again, the fat spillage is overwhelming so I need someone, namely my husband, to tuck the excess and to pull upward HARD. Once we get it over my thighs and successfully push and tuck the mounds of fat that have spilled out, then comes the final transformation. I put my good arm in the armhole and pull the strap over my shoulder, then Tom maneuvers my hand through the other strap. It’s probably quite comical if anyone were ever to see us. The process takes a good 5-10 minutes, and by the time it’s on, not only am I sweating, but now I have to use the bathroom.

Why didn’t I go before I put it on? Because I didn’t need to. But since the fat is now tucked and shoved and forced into this “body armor” (as my husband calls it), it’s putting pressure on my bladder. But the makers of Spanx knew nature would call, so they include a very small opening so we can answer that call without completely undressing.

The only problem is getting one’s self into the correct position so as not to miss the opening. The odds are not in one’s favor. As for me, I’m in the 30% range.

But it’s on, and things are smooth. Losing weight is easier because eating is out of the question, which makes me think I should wear it all the time because then I eventually wouldn’t need it…but Tom would miss out on the joy he gets from laughing at my expense. I’m fortunate to have a wonderful husband who faces the humility I impose on him with dignity. In between bouts of laughter that is.

But one night after he had to pry it off my body for me, since taking it off is almost as tough as getting it on, he brought up a good point. What about the guy who has been fooled into thinking that the woman he loves is a petite size 2, only to discover that without Spanx, she’s…not? He says it’s wrong, deceptive, and misleading. I on the other hand, think of it as being no different than wearing make-up, covering the gray roots of your hair, or wearing 3″ heels.

Those, however, do not impede your ability to use the toilet. And in spite of that fact, I will continue my loyalty and devotion to smoother tummies and firmer thighs. Besides, after 25 years of marriage, the Spanx process adds a little spark to our lives, and remember, it only take a spark to get a fire going.

Note: No pictures were used in this topic of me wearing Spanx, or the processes used to get into or out of my Spanx. Some things are better left to the imagination.

Mother


Over the course of the past several weeks, it has occurred to me that my mother took the easy way out. She quit. She left me when I was 9, then she turned around 21 years later and did the same thing to my sister. And although I never gave up the frustrating pursuit of being mothered by her, it was to no avail. It was too late. Cancer took over her body. She left me for the final time within a matter of months. I was only 32. Forever gone, her death only reopened the wounds of abandonment.

I missed her. I needed her. But I came to realize I didn’t miss the relationship, or lack thereof, of mother and child. I missed what she never was, and now, never would be. I missed the memories we didn’t create, and I missed the memories that would never be created.

She took the easy way out. Not once, not twice, but three times. She just quit.

I became a mother in my early 20’s. My expectant condition became my identity. Questions. Choices. Feel pain while giving birth or no thanks, I’ll take the drugs. Boy or Girl? Not my decision…that had been decided before I knew my body was carrying precious cargo. Before stretchmarks and hemorrhoids. No one told me how much contractions HURT. That bladder control would no longer exist when sneezing, laughing, crying, walking or talking.

No one told me those things because the good not only outweighs the bad, it overshadows it. Childbirth was painful, but somehow, when it was over, it was quickly forgotten and replaced by love I never knew existed. Only a mother can gaze at her newborn baby and see beauty through the sticky remains of placenta.

In a matter of seconds, I had become a mother. A flood of passion and pride and feelings that could not be contained were released through my tears. But now a new ache. Heartache. Loving my baby so much my heart hurt, I wondered how my mother could seemingly stop loving me. How could my mother leave me? Why was it so easy for her to walk away?

My mother may have taken the easy way out, but I wasn’t the only one who was denied memories – she was. Because being a mother is a job that sometimes just makes you want to turn in your “mommy badge.” Not just when they’re toddlers, preteens, or even teenagers. Choosing to remain committed, be committed, and LOVE your child, even when it hurts so bad you can’t breathe.

During those times, it can only be God who breathes for us.