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.
Quiz: Are you facing potentially serious brain damage?
“Yes, Jim. The Queen of Europe. It was one really giant oligarchy…”
I submit to you more proof, if you need it, that it is the children in my life who have caused me brain damage and the inability to function like a contributing member of society. (Actually, shoot… since I came first, maybe I’ve caused them brain damage.) This conversation took place between Lizzie and my son’s friend, Jim, as I drove Liz to an evening event at school. (Note: Jim’s name has been changed to protect the “innocent,” youth. But Jim, you know who you are. You are not blameless in this situation, even though you often empty the dishwasher for me.) Continue reading
When I wrote the other day that I’m not actually a grown-up, I was surprised (and delighted) that so many of you claimed to have the same problem, and I felt a little better. Then I found this draft of a blog post I wrote a year or so ago, and felt a lot better, because I realized there’s a reason I have a hard time behaving like an adult: it’s because my family has given me brain damage. Continue reading
Quiz: which woman is the adult?
After I began writing this, I clicked away from the page to read a text. When I clicked back to the word doc, it was blank. My well-thought-out opening paragraphs were not there. Why? Because I hadn’t actually written them. I’d composed them only in my head, though I kind of remembered writing them… Now, as a mature (hah!) woman of 49, I find myself increasingly concerned with what it means to be a grownup, and I wonder if spending so much time living life in my head proves I’ve never achieved adulthood. Have you? Cause I think I’m missing some adult section of my brain that most of you possess. Continue reading