Tag Archives: middleaged

Celebrate the (Really, Really) Small Victories

 

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)

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So THIS Is Why I Just Can’t Do It…

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

The Solution to Midlife Blahs: Bruises and Other Body Pain (Plus Dancing)

You may remember my decisions to join a roller derby and learn to play ice hockey awhile back. While thrilling to think about, I never followed up – and unfortunately I used my lack of follow-through to beat myself up for being an unmotivated hot mess, especially since I haven’t really exercised on a regular basis since I broke my ankle three years ago. Then I tried pole dancing, and that was great but it made me nauseas and I never went back. Well, I’ve got a new obsession. And it’s the superest invention in all the world. (Superest should definitely be a word if it isn’t already.)
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I Am Way Sexier than College Girls (and Also More Nauseous) 

I want my life to be this.

I’ll jump right in: The three other newbies in yesterday’s Intro to Pole class were, as feared, young, thin and relatively athletic looking. They were college friends, and when the instructor, Tausha, asked why we wanted to learn pole dancing, they said they wanted to “dance against a wall” for their boyfriends. Huh? Tausha asked me what aspects of pole was I most interested in – athletics, strength, dancing, sexiness, acrobatics – and obviously I said acrobatics. Because if I could learn to hang upside down from that pole and do other cool circus kind of stuff, that would be my jam.* Continue reading

Did I Really Just Do That? Oh, Help…

I’ve been looking for a fun new exercise regime. Actually, I have been pretending to be looking, which means for about two years I thought about looking. Finally – yay, me! – I actually bothered to type “fun exercise class” and my city into Google and found an article about a couple of unusual local classes, like one that has a bunch of cowboy gates and all the exercises are somehow done on the gates, like maybe how cowboys climb over rodeo fences to hop onto those cows – wait, bulls? – that jump around and try to throw them off. (I mean, I guess that’s what it like. I don’t actually know. The article wasn’t too clear on that.)
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How Many Consecutive Grown-Up Days Can You Do?

It seems we’re bombarded daily with inspirational quotes and mothering advice columns that encourage us to take time for ourselves by having a bubble bath or a massage. A bubble bath is nice on occasion, but I get bored in about 10 minutes, and personally, I find it comfier to read in bed with my seven pillows than in a slick tub. Also, bubbles make a scummy mess. And massages are great, but I need a LOT more than one hour to recharge. In fact, ever since the kids were born, I have felt guilty about how much time I seem to want (need?) for myself. Those encouraging articles always suggest taking time “every now and then.” But I want a chunk of time to myself DAILY. In fact, I want a regularly repeating bunch of consecutive hours to do what I want without guilt, without questions to answer or obligations to fulfill. And I finally realized why I need so much of this: it appears I have very few consecutive grown-up days in me before I feel myself reverting back to a kid again. I can’t help it. It’s just a fact. Continue reading

9 Shades of Crazy, Deal with It

Lizzie is bopping around the kitchen, singing the phrase “own your own crazy,” a good message for me right now since I am currently feeding my rabbit applesauce from a soup spoon and I could feel embarrassed about it if I let myself. It is one of the cutest things I have ever seen, especially since the applesauce dribbled down her little rabbit chin and her little white chest (just like a baby) and now she is busily cleaning her fur with her adorable little rabbit paws. When I tried to show Liz how cute Beatrix was, Lizzie said, “That’s just great,” (without even looking!) and wandered off. So I think Liz has a double standard: she advocates for owning her own crazy but she’s not willing to celebrate my crazy. What kind of a daughter is that? Anyway, I’m thinking that middleage is a great time to start owning our crazy. We’re old enough to stop giving a f*** (mostly) about what other people think.
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