Show of hands, please: When you have a long list of things to accomplish, who finds it impossible to decide which task to start with because they all seem equally important? Would you rather eat glass than make a phone call to, say, the accountant or pharmacy or doctor’s office or utility company?* Do you sometimes hop out of bed with obscene amounts of optimism and a plan to accomplish a Superman-sized list in a single bound? And by dinner, do you feel like a miserable failure because you have 14 pages of things left to do and you’re as tired as a toddler after her first day of preschool (and just as weepy)? Continue reading
I had nothing to say today. So I was trying to write about how I had nothing to write about when – ta da! – my brain did what it does best. That is, it got distracted and wandered off without supervision and got into trouble. So now I have something to write about after all, which is great even though dinner is ruined.
You know me: I’m the one always encouraging you to ditch work, to take a snow day, to join me at a silks class or climb a tree, to run an obstacle course. Responsibilities are boring, while fun is – well, you can finish that sentence all on your own, I bet.
Tuesday I took a great class at my aerial arts studio called Flight & Flow. The class starts with half an hour of yoga and ends with half an hour “flying” (that is, working out on the sling and silks – doing upside down sit-ups, pull-ups, climbing, sweating, having fun). As we often do, we began the yoga portion with deep breathing, letting our breath go all the way down to our bellies.
Here’s a thing: I never relax my stomach. I grew up being told to suck in my gut because it supports your lower back, blah blah blah. I suspect my mother just didn’t like my belly Continue reading
I have only one word on my mind: fifty. Not, mind you, as in fifty shades of gray or anything that exciting. Rather, fifty as in: holy fuck, I’m five decades old and what have I done with my life and how many hours have I wasted playing word games?
That kind of 50. Continue reading
Let’s talk about mushrooms. And when I say “mushrooms,” what I mean is “motherhood, and the incomprehensible fact that someone is actually letting me be a parent and I haven’t gone to jail yet and maybe I’m not fucking up that badly after all.”
(Side note: don’t those mushrooms look delicious? They probably were, but I don’t know, because it’s not my picture and those aren’t my mushrooms. Photo credit: Lewis Suraz, Flickr Creative Commons)
If you’re a middleaged woman and have teenage children, you may be in serious trouble. Please consider the following scenario, then read the questions carefully and answer to the best of your ability. Try not to panic until you’ve answered them all.